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Heritage Lost: The Temple Town of Kalna

2012-01-19T17:52:00.002Z

The railway line that connects Kolkata to Nabadweep, the birthplace of Chaitanya Mahaprabhu where ISKCON devotees flock to, stops at a quaint station by the name of Ambika Kalna. Located between two popular tourist destinations, the town’s appearance hardly generates excitement. The railway station, packed with aggressive commuters and hawkers, shields the view of a lush green landscape across the rusted windows of the compartment. It is this chaos and the struggle of everyday that mask the splendor of Bengal’s illustrious temple town and relegate it to the yellowed pages of regional history books.

Ambika Kalna is a sub divisional in West Bengal’s Bardhaman district. Its name is derived from Ambika, another name for the Goddess Kali, the guardian deity of the town. However, such naming is but recent, as Ambika historically used to be Ambua. Local historians are yet to ascertain what Ambua actually meant. Some believe it was because of Kalna’s famed mango (aam) orchards, others link it to its land being claimed from the river. Located on the banks of the river Bhagirathi, a distributary of the Ganges, Kalna was productive centre for trade and agriculture. It’s earliest recorded mention takes place in the writings of General Alexander Cunningham, the founder of the Archaeological Survey of India. Cunningham believed that Ambua Kalna was a frontier city of the Tamralipta Kingdom in 7^th Century A.D. The kingdom’s famous port city (now Tamluk in Midnapore District, West Bengal) was visited by the famous Chinese traveler and scholar Fa-Hien who spend two years visiting and writing about the Buddhist monasteries in the region.

Kalna’s final tryst with illustrious kingdoms was with the Maharajas of Bardhaman. They ruled lower Bengal under the royal decree of the Mughal Empire, the Nawabs of Bengal and finally the British. It’s interesting to note that one of the longest serving kingdoms in the heart of Bengal was actually established by a Punjabi nobleman from Lahore, a historical fact which would irk many a staunch Bengali. The political establishment of the Bardhaman (anglicized into Burdwan) kingship led to renewed interest in Kalna. Not only as a centre of trade and commerce, but also for etching the religious beliefs of the royal family into the landscape, through large scale construction of temples.

These temples, some in ruins, some intact and mostly being renovated, form a temple cluster, as commonly seen in other places in West Bengal such as Bardhaman, Bishnupur and also Aihole and Pattadakal in North Karnataka. Reaching the cluster requires dexterous maneuvering through Kalna’s congested and serpentine lanes. Very little respect is reserved for vehicles on four wheels, which are seen as public nuisance. However, no stone in left unturned to make it convenient for huge four legged bulls and cows to amble their way through a sea of bicycles and cycle rickshaws. The latter is the best way to travel through the town, as it is the principal mean of public transport.

Temples in Kalna were largely constructed between 1740 and 1809 A.D. Packed within its history of 69 years are political intrigue and religious developments. The starting point of unraveling the history of ‘temple town’ is to take the narrow road to the Siddeshwari Temple. The resident deity of Kalna, i.e., Siddeshwari or Bamakali is worshipped at a temple that was built in 1740 by King Chitra Sen of Bardhaman. The 15 feet tall deity, made out of neem (Azadirachta indica) wood however is claimed to have been established earlier, approximately in the 16^th century A.D. As one approaches the main entrance, the first thing that one observes is a bizarre assemblage of colours. The vermillion red wall of the entrance is further embellished with dashes of turmeric yellow and bright blue. A long string of shops selling items for worship squeezes the entrance from both sides. Bright yellow and orange marigolds and blood red hibiscus dangle from these makeshift shops. The air, scented with the aroma of flowers and incense sanctifies the temple precinct, and makes it stand out from the surrounding din and squalor.

The temple, draped in an earthy red paint, looks like a typical rural thatched house. The sensuous curves that typify most Bengal temple architecture, though significantly muted, is still present. What are lost are the intricate terracotta panels that once adorned its walls. ‘Terracotta’, literally ‘baked earth’ was the predominant technique available to Indian sculptors to decorate temples in lowland Eastern India. Deprived of stone, they used their ingenuity and harnessed the rich alluvial clay on river banks. By creating panels out of clay, they achieved exquisite detail. Firing them in a kiln helped achieve permanence.

Repeated coats of red paint have made it impossible to visualize the scale of artistry at the Siddeshwari Temple. Beneath the gloomy veneer some bold panels still try to peek out, reminding onlookers of its illustrious past. The deity is highly venerated, and is said to make wishes of ardent worshippers come true. As I prepare to leave the temple premises, a young couple, dressed in wedding finery, walks in to solemnize their marriage vows in front of the goddess.

Within walking distance from the Siddeshwari Temple is the Ananta Vasudeva Temple, established by Maharaja Tilak Chandra 1754 A.D. This large temple was constructed in the double ‘aatchaala’ style. ‘Chaala’ being thatched roof and ‘aat’ meaning eight, the temple has the dimensions of a 16 roofed building, with a height of 48 feet, a significant feat in those times. The scale of the Ananta Vasudeva temple is indicative of the stature of its founder. Maharaja Tilak Chandra, now lost to the pages of history, was an able administrator. In 1755, aware of the corrupt dealings of the British East India Company, he shut down many of the Company’s warehouses within his zamindari. Such achievements are parallel to the Imperial Commissioner Lin Zexu, now celebrated in the Amitava Ghosh classic, The River of Smoke, who attempted to shut down opium smuggling by European traders in Canton in 1838. Later, in 1755 when Lord Clive marched on to Palashi (anglicized as Plassey) to fight Siraj-ud-daullah, the last Nawab of Bengal, he requested assistance of a thousand cavalry from Tilak Chandra. This was flatly refused.

This refusal weighed heavy on Tilak Chandra, as after Siraj-ud-daullah’s defeat, he was taken to task for his stand against the British. This turn of fate led to Tilok Chand’s tryst with spirituality and he devoted much of his time to worship and temple construction. However, pushed against the wall by the Company’s punitive taxation on his zamindari, he finally took up arms against the British in 1860 but was defeated. His reign witnessed the construction of seven large temples and 10-12 smaller temples.

Moving on from the Ananta Vasudeva temple, the road to the busy Chowk Bazaar area automatically leads to Kalna’s main attraction. The temple complex located next to the Rajbari (i.e., palace), with is manicured gardens and lawns has an immediate impact on entry. The first site that greets the eye is the exquisite Pratapeshwar Temple, considered to be one of the best examples of the 19^th Century Orissan “rekh-deul” form of temple architecture. Rekh, a term used to describe temple architecture in Orissa between 11^th and 12^th century, implies a single arched entrance with a curvilinear sikhara (spire). Deul stands for temple. Constructed on a raised platform, the Pratapeshwar temple, named after King Pratap Chand and established in 1849, is unique, as being the newest temple, almost ninety per cent of its terracotta panels are left intact. Though the smallest of all the temples in the complex, it has the most to offer. An entire day can zip past progressing from one panel to the other, reconstructing life and times in 19^th century Bengal. Little is known about the master builder Ramhari Mistry, except that he left behind a jewel in the crown of Bengal temple architecture.

If the Pratapeshwar Temple impresses with its exquisiteness and depth in detail, the other two temples in the complex makes an impact with their grandiosity. Lalji Temple, located at the far end of the entrance to the temple complex, and Krishnachandraji Temple, on the extreme right, have their own architectural claim to fame. Both these temples belong to a list of unique twenty five turret temples, of which only five exist in India. While Pratapeshwar temple was largely influenced by the Orissa style of temple architecture, Lalji, Krishnachandraji and Ananta Vasudeva and Siddeshwari temples are examples of the indigenous turn in Bengal temple building. While the latter were modeled as thatched village huts, i.e., chaala, in the case of Lalji and Krishnachandraji Temples, it was based on the the ‘chuda’ style which involved adding intricately decorated turrets on the roofs.

Lalji Temple, established in 1739 by Braja Kishori Devi, the wife of Maharaja Jagat Ram, has a hall of attendance, or jagmohan, in front of it. A bright yellow Garuda with chilly green wings is sculpted on a high pedestal facing the main deities, Radha and Krishna. Though most of the terracotta panels on Lalji temple are lost to time, those which exist still have the power to amaze. The corner columns outside the temple have detailed sculpture of scenes from hunts while miniature panels which surround the base of the temple depict scenes from the Puranas. Though in terms of architecture, the triple arched Krishnachandriji Temple makes quite an impact, sadly, the terracotta decorations that once adorned it have mostly disappeared. Stripped of it splendor, the forlorn temple hides behind bamboo scaffolds put up by the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI), as they attempt restoration. For the botanically inclined, opposite the main temple entrance is a “panchabat”, a banyan tree (Ficus benghalensis) that has fused in its aerial roots a tamarind (Tamarindus indica), a jackfruit (Artocarpus heterophyllus), a wild date palm (Phoenix sylvestris) and an Asian Palmyra palm (Borassus flabellifer). This synthesis of various trees into one is strangely reflective of the architectural style of the temples in Kalna, which merges traits of Islamic and Hindu architecture to produce a distinctive style of its own.

A few other temples are also located inside the complex and are worth a closer look. However, on stepping outside the complex, one finds an unassuming entrance located across the narrow street. On entry, what opens up is the perhaps one of the most unique Shiva Temples in India. The Navakailasha Temple is popularly known as the 108 Shiv Temple and is an exemplary fusion of Shaivite world view with indigenous Bengal temple architecture. Established in 1809 by the son of Tilak Chand, Maharaja Tej Chandra, it is the second 108 Shiv Temple in India, the first being located in Bardhaman and constructed by Maharani Bishnukumari, Tej Chandra’s mother. While the one in Burdwan has a square layout, the one in Kalna is circular.

Organized into two circles, one inside the other, the number 108 indicates the total number of shiva lingas in the temple, while the actual numbers of temples are 110, with the two additional ones serving as entrance to the outer and inner circle. The outer circle comprises of 75 temples neatly arranged in a single row, while 35 such constitutes the inner circle. The number 108 represents different names of Lord Shiva; likewise, 108 shiva linga’s form one temple, reinforcing unity in divinity. In the outer circle, half of the total shiv linga’s are white in colour while the rest are black. In the inner circle, however, each of the 34 shiva linga’s is white. Siddeshwar Acharyya, an expert on Kalna’s history, explained the significance of such a unique scheme. The outer circle, as he explained, represented the world we live in, where white symbolizes punya (good) and black (evil) in equal measure. However, through meditation and service to Shiva, one slowly gets to see the real world composed only of pure thoughts and deed. Such a world is symbolized by the inner circle of temples. The journey from the outer to the inner circle is reflective of such a spiritual crossing over. At the centre of the inner circle, all the white shiva linga’s are visible, implying that the person has attained truth, hence moksha.

As the sun begins to set, I make one last journey to bring the temple tour of Kalna to a close. It takes me to the banks of the Bhagirathi, to the dilapidated twin Shiv temple of Jagannath bari. Constructed in 1754, one faces the east and other, west, ensuring that deities witness both the rising and the setting sun. The deities have long being replaced with bats, and green leaves have broken through the textured walls. Brown capillary roots of a ficus have slowly started to wrap themselves around the temple. As the sun sets over the muddy waters of the Bhagirathi, it casts its dying rays on the weather eaten terracotta panels. Depicting stories of love and celebration of life, they now wait to merge back into the earth from which they were made.

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Published in Terrascape, Volume 2, Issue 11, December 2011 titled " A jewel in hiding".
http://www.terrascape.in/Dec%2011/Ambika%20Kalna_West%20Bengal.html

Notes on an English Winter

2011-03-16T22:29:00.001Z

England in winters is never a great tourist destination. That’s what most English suggest, as they pack their bags to chase the Sun to whichever parts of the world it still continues to shine. Only a very desperate, choice deprived mass of tourists descend in England in the winters. That’s the category I relegated myself to, when I planned my journey from a freezing Scotland to a slightly warmer South West England. With apparently the worst winter freeze in Northern Europe since 1910, and a journey back to Bangalore unaffordable, the South West of England promised to offer some respite.

If a journey to South West seemed complete madness to some of my friends from England, there was a method in it. Ever since I was a child, the Stonehenge had always been a dream destination. Brought up on literature that attempted to explain its origins, from Daniken’s alien theories to Obelix’s menhirs, the urge to see it helped me brave all odds. Needless to say, the odds were also miraculously evened. A kind invite from musician friends Reinmar Seidler and Margaret Faultless to attend their classical concerts in Devon was further stretched to a weekend stay at Margaret’s house at Wiltshire, the English county where Stonehenge is conveniently located. Suddenly the winter looked promising, full of Baroque music and possible close encounters with aliens making crop circles. The road to Exeter was slightly circuitous, though. It involved a train to London from Edinburgh, and then another from London’s Paddington Station to Exeter St. David’s. The changing landscape was a treat for one’s eyes. While the North to South journey from Edinburgh to London was running parallel to a snow carpeted landscape, South West England was witnessing a picturesque autumn.

Our first stop was at Exeter, the capital of Devon. Named after the river Exe, on which it is located, this historic town, which dates back to 250 B.C, was once occupied by the Romans and was called Isca Dumnoniorum. Their presence is still established through an impressive fortified wall and underground Aqueducts. However, what takes the cake in Exeter is the cathedral. Located at the heart of the town, it embodies both the religious and political history of England. Dedicated to St. Peter, the church was officially founded in 1133 A.D, though the actual foundation dates back to 1050 A.D. The architecture of the Cathedral had undergone several changes, from Norman to Gothic with continual reconstructions stretched across a thousand years. Restoration was still taking place when we landed in Exeter. The Cathedral cafeteria offered a comfortable shelter from the steady drizzle outside, and my wife and I were treated to the eclectic Devon cream tea, which included scones (quick bread of Scottish origin), clotted cream and strawberry jam and milk tea. With the tea came rules of it appropriate consumption. Hence, one is urged to make sure that that they split the scone in two, apply clotted cream on both sides and then top it with the jam. Any other method may be considered an affront to British culture.

Post tea, we sneaked into the cathedral and this gave us a wonderful opportunity to see the remarkable feature of Exeter Cathedral, which is its uninterrupted vaulted ceiling considered to be the longest in the world. The interiors of the Cathedral had ornately carved human or beast's body or head, pagan symbol of fertility that has embedded itself into Christian art. It takes nearly a good two hours to take a detailed tour of the Cathedral. Much of the original structures have been maintained and restored but some have been casualties of war. Sudden air raids during the Second World War claimed many interesting features, including its famous stained glass panels. An entire evening was spent at the Cathedral, exploring its architectural marvels and the next morning kick started with countless clicks of the camera capturing the Cathedral against a crisp blue sky. When the enchantment abated, we moved on to exploring the remnants of the Roman wall and Parliament Street, a 160 ft long street which is only 25 inches wide in places. Claimed to be the narrowest street in the world, it is one of Exeter’s major tourist attractions.

Our time in Exeter, however, had come to an end. Hence, further explorations of Exeter, such as the synagogue (the third oldest in Britain) and the Castle couldn’t take place. We packed our bags and rushed off to a nearby village called Dartington for Margaret and Reinmar’s next concert at Dartington Hall. To be perfectly honest, Dartington Hall had been an unheard of place for not only us but a majority of people living outside Devon in England as well. But as we drove through the main entrance, the first sight itself was breathtaking. It was a swamp cypress, one of the few deciduous conifers found growing in Britain. In autumn, its feathery needles turn a brilliant red. And it was this contrast of colours, the red of the tree against a clear blue sky and a deep green lawn that served as an invitation to explore the other amazing sights Dartington Hall and its adjoining garden had to offer.

The ignorance with which we approached Dartington Hall put us to shame as various facets of its architectural and aesthetic history came to light. Known as the most spectacular mansion in Devon, it is also the largest medieval house built in the West of England, and that too without any protective walls around it. Its earliest citation is in the Royal Charter of 833 A.D and has witnessed ownership by a vast range of historic English families of the Royal Court. Its later restoration and additions involved stalwart architects such as Walter Gropius and William Lescaze. The important trivia, which would be interesting for fans of Indian literature, is the buildings historical relation with Rabindranath Tagore, who visited the Hall on several occasions to meet up with his close friend, and owner of Dartington Hall, Leonard Elmhirst. As the brochure declares, the Dartington Hall Trust possesses an archive of letters and photographs, and more interestingly, paintings which Tagore gifted to the Elmhirst family. The Hall, incidentally, is made totally out of wood. It manages to transport visitors to medieval England the moment he steps in. And it was in this very hall, that we witnessed one of the most fascinating English musical performances, when different performing groups converged, and musical instruments such as the Border pipes and hurdy gurdy reproduced haunting melodies of rural England.

Those haunting tunes served as a perfect backdrop for the next leg of our journey. Margaret drove us approximately 120 miles to her house in Alton Barnes in the town of Marlborough in the neighbouring county of Wiltshire. The name Marlborough is derived from Merlin's Barrow, as the burial mound of Merlin, the mythical druid in King Arthur’s times is considered to be located here. Marlborough’s motto “Ubi nunc sapientis ossa Merlini” – i.e. Where now are the bones of wise Merlin, was a perfect pitch to our journey across the land of the druids. The next day, as we made preparations to visit Stonehenge, located 20 odd miles from Marlborough, weather conditions started to deteriorate. Though we were in a cabbage camouflage, having wrapped ourselves in layers of warm clothing, the cold and stiff wind still managed to cut through. The “open loneliness and black solitude” of Stonehenge that was enveloped in the mist and cold reminded us of Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles. However, though we may not have seen Stonehenge in the ‘touristy’ sense, it was the vivid literary that gave a novel twist to its aesthetic appreciation. With the absence of lush green fields and blue skies, the focus was on the giant black Neolithic structure mottled with luminescent chrome green moss. The sheer size of the vertical blocks capped with lintels, speaks volumes about the effort and the engineering feat that made this possible 2000 years ago. Even the materials used have an element of mystery to them. While Sarsen (sandstone blocks) were locally available, Bluestone (a type of Dolerite) was supposed to have been transported from Pembroke in Wales 200 kms away. How this was done and why is still a mystery, though some believe that Merlin the magician used his skills to do the needful.

Unfortunately, a lot of research is required to understand the historical and cultural significance of Stonehenge; as otherwise, it is often seen as just a pile of stones. Stonehenge needs to be packaged as well as the other significant monuments in England, and in the absence of the same, tourists who land up without guides or research, get bored quickly and hurry off to the drab souvenir shop.

Thankfully, because of Margaret and Reinmar, the magical mystery tour of England’s pre-historicity continued. The next destination, tucked 22 miles away closer to Marlborough was Avebury, a henge (i.e. Neolithic earthwork) which has the largest prehistoric stone circle in the world. As we approached the rather non-descript location, a vast expanse of vertical rocks suddenly loomed into view. It’s this unassuming grandiosity that makes Avebury, a World Heritage Site, such a remarkable cultural landscape. 180 vertical stones, organized in one larger and two outer smaller circles, stand to testify how ceremonial and ritual processes were shaping up in pre historic times. 4 avenues, of which only one is lined with megaliths lead to the central spot, a large circular ditch, the centre of which plays host to an remarkable ensemble of “standing stones”. Reinmar explained that the stones had gendered aspects, as the tall rectangular ones are considered male and the diamond shaped ones representing the female. As we walked up the avenue, it gave an eerie feeling, as if the stones were sentient sentinels, watching us closely. Close looks revealed how lichens had created their own artwork on these stones, doing credence to their hindi translation, “patthar ke phool”, meaning flowers of stones. As one moved away, the stones appeared to take a human form, perhaps the handiwork of agents of erosion or our imagination. History crowded around us in Avebury, never for once letting us feel alone.

The fact that Avebury is not that publicized works in its favour. Unlike the aloofness of Stonehenge, where contact between the visitor and the object is mediated through strict rules, Avebury is intensely personal. It allows an intimate conversation with history.

The biting winter in Wiltshire slowly lost its sharpness, thanks to our warm hosts. They helped familiarize the unfamiliar, giving us a peek into both English history and hospitality. As we moved on from Wiltshire, the place had etched itself in our memories. But at the same time we realized, that its only people that makes places special. Wiltshire gave us the warmest English winter we could have ever hoped for.

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This article was published as "Neolithic Sentinels" in Terrascape Magazine, (www.http://terrascape.in/) in the February 2011 issue.

Saltscapes

2011-01-17T16:35:00.004Z

Kachchh, a district located in the North Eastern part of Gujarat dons colours of a different hue in autumn. Scanty monsoon rainfall alters the barren landscape and induces a “dog nosed wetness in the earth”. The greenery neither overwhelms nor disappoints. It merges smoothly into a bright canvas composed of a crispy blue sky and grey asphalt roads cutting across a warm honey sandstone landscape. Kachchh is a brilliant halfway between a turmeric yellow Rajasthan in the North and emerald green Sahyadris in the South.

The word Kachchh, as legend has it, has a direct linguistic link with Kacchua. The land mass looks like that of an inverted tortoise. Ancient mariners coming into the ports of Kachchh saw the land mass as an outline of the back of a giant tortoise. In the origin of its name, Kachchh offers an upside down version of life. It tells you that seeds of life and civilization are often hidden beneath the sands of time in inhospitable terrains.

One such inaccessible historical gems that Kachchh possesses is Dholavira. The name itself induces memories of yellow dog eared copies of school history books. Considered to be the oldest Indus Valley sites left in India, Dholavira flourished 5000 years ago. Like the more well known Mohenjo Daro and Harappa, Dholavira also silently disappeared from history. After India's independence, both the major Harappan cities together with the Indus became a part of Pakistan. Resultantly, archaeologists intensified the search for Harappan sites in India. The Archaeological Survey of India undertook a new program of exploration, and excavated many sites across Gujarat. The Dholavira site was discovered in 1967-8 by archaeologist J.P. Joshi and is one of eight large Indus Valley Urban centers in the Indian subcontinent. However, Dholavira has been continually excavated only since 1989.

Our journey to Dholavira begins from Bhuj, district headquarters to Kachchh. However, Bhuj was not a stopover city. It played a grand host to a curious traveller. The city’s central attraction is the 450 years old Hamir Sar (lake). This lake is an engineering marvel made possible through use of ancient wisdom in hydraulics and local geology. It draws in a regular crowd of migratory birds such as pelicans, flamingos and ducks like widgeon, mallards and pintails in winters. The famous Rann Utsav of Gujarat takes place every December around the lake. Adjoining Hamir Sar are lake systems such as Chattri Talao and Prag Sar. All around the lake system are vestiges of Bhuj's royal era, such as the Prag Mahal. This unique building was commissioned by erstwhile ruler, Rao Pragmalji. It owes its design to the famous architect Colonel Henry Saint Wilkins, who is also credited with the architecture of Pune's Deccan College and the Secretariat at Mumbai. The other mesmerising building is the Aina Mahal. Its hall of mirrors, apart from other attractions, was designed by an artist from the forgotten pages of Indian history. Ramsinh Malm had stayed 17 years in Holland and learnt architecture and clock making apart from a host of other trades. At the end he had returned to Kachchh to complete his life's masterpiece.

As our tour of the “walled city”, as Bhuj is popularly known as, came to an end, plans for Dholavira started to take shape. However, the mysteries of Dholavira would have forever eluded us, had it not been for Dr. Yogesh Jadeja. Dr. Jadeja is one of Gujarat’s most well known geo hydrologist. But his varied interest also led him to write a book titled “Biodiversity of Dholavira – Beyond Archaeology”. He had also worked with the Gujarat Forest Department in conserving a unique Jurassic age wood fossil site located north-western edge Khadir Island and 8 km’s North east of Dholavira. While discussing Dholavira with him, he offered to join us as a fellow traveller. It was an opportunity of a lifetime and we weren’t willing to miss out. So on an early smoky grey morning we headed off towards a lost civilization.

Kachchh is India’s second largest district, next only to Ladakh in terms of total area. Hence distance between two points in the district can be substantial. The total distance from Bhuj to Dholavira is 240 km and takes 4.30 hour to complete. However, this stretch goes beyond connecting the traveller to his destination. It also opens one’s eyes to the amazing natural history of Kachchh.

From Bhuj to Rapar, muslin roads make the journey less strenuous. We stop on the way at Samakhiyali for breakfast. Freshly prepared orange jalebi’s and yellow ganthia’s greet us on Gujrathi newsprint. Though not a wholesome meal, this is the best one can get early mornings. Our conversation with Dr. Jadeja compensates. We listen in rapt attention as he explains to us the characteristics of surrounding landscape and vegetation.

In another one hour we reach Rapar. We get off our vehicle and dash off for another round of quick snacks and tea. Grapevine is, there are no more eating joints ahead so it’s good to stock in advance. Coming out of the tea house, we get our first glimpse of a blue signboard pointing towards Dholavira. It reads, “The Metropolis of Harappan Civilization” and tells us that its 87 kilometres away. But the distance between us and Dholavira doesn’t bother us anymore. For what separates us from our destination is a long drive across the salt desert of the Great Rann of Kachchh.

A sudden burst of brilliant white envelopes us. It’s an indication that we have entered the extensive saltscape of the Great Rann. The region is a gift from the retreating sea, which resulted due to tectonic movement that took place in the Holocene period of Earth’s geological history 10000 years ago. The car increasingly seems like a ship navigating a sea of salt. Crippled power transmission towers and rusty water supply pipelines run parallel to the road. Shelf life considerably reduced by the salty air, their desolate existence shows the power of the Rann over all elements that inhabit its vast expanse. Life forms are almost non-existent. And yet, there is a beauty in this white cruelty. Where ever the pipes have leaked, pools of colourful watery patches have emerged. The white canvas is polka dotted with pink and blue pools of water. And somewhere close to these limpid pools, one can find a dog or a juvenile greater flamingo resting. We get off from our vehicles and walk over the salt surface. A crunchy noise follows every step. However, the hot and dry air soon starts to farm my body for goose pimples. We head back, desperate to get under the hood of our Tata Sumo.

At 11:30 AM, we leave the Great Rann behind and enter the khadir bet, one of India’s larger “inland” islands. During the monsoon the seawater comes in, cutting off Khadir from the Indian mainland. The summer heat then evaporates the water, leaving behind the salt on the Great Rann. Dholavira is located at the north western tip of khadir bet.

The approach to Dholavira is discreet. Unlike Hampi or any other such historic ruins, a mundane barrenness surrounds the location. The approach road is riddled with potholes and is surrounded by a dense cover of the invasive shrub “prosopis juliflora” locally called “vilayati or Gando babool”. Suddenly, it opens up to a vast expanse. The first site one gets to identify is the newly constructed Dholavira Archaeological Museum and office. Generally the office sells tickets for visitors, but the day we arrived the gates were open and there was nobody around to guide us either.

We walked in and headed towards the nearest landmark, two gigantic humps surrounded by deep chambers. As we approached closer, Dr. Jadeja took over and an amazing hydraulic history of Dholavira started to emerge. 5000 years ago, the city managers in Dholavira realized that the best way to establish their civilization was by managing water wisely.

This drove them to develop a complex water system to service the city. In the first step they constructed 16 giant water reservoirs, the largest of them being 79 metres long and 7 metres deep, to surround the city on the western and eastern sides. This allowed storage of a staggering 2.5 million cubic metres of water. This water allowed the people of Dholavira to grow crops throughout the year. Copious amounts of wheat and barley was produced which was traded via sea routes as far Mesopotamia, located 3500 kms away.

The Eastern Reservoirs greet us as we enter the main the city complex. The inner walls are made of both fired and unfired bricks, typical of Indus Civilization sites. Standing at the bottom of these reservoirs, one tries to imagine how painstakingly each may have been constructed. The high walls leave only a blue sky for an open gaze.

Dholavira was segmented into the upper and lower city. The Eastern Reservoir entrance takes one directly to the upper one through brick lanes and mud walled streets. Dr. Jadeja tells us that in Dholavira stone and timber was used as building material, unlike any other Indus site. It therefore boasts of being the first rock cut architecture site of the Harappans. The Eastern Reservoirs filled up first. Then owing to the upper city being located 13 metres above the lower, the reservoirs in the latter got filled up last. Interestingly, long before the Romans, the Harappans had constructed aquaducts to take the water from the reservoirs to the heart of the city using the natural gradient.

Dr. Jadeja’s vibrant narrative helps us to grasp this engineering marvel. We consider ourselves remarkably fortunate, for visualizing Dholavira’s layout is a daunting task. Government apathy has ensured that there are no maps or models on site to explain how each and every part of the city is organically connected to each other. Without a narrative or a visual description, Dholavira may seem like a meaningless walk through the ruins.

And yet, one gets goose pimples walking on bricks fired 5000 years ago in ancient kilns. Hazy black and white photos in school textbooks suddenly seem surreal in 3D. As my fingers brush against the mud plastered walls, I find an eerie reconnect with the past. Deep in my heart, I wished that the empty streets would come alive again with the noise of cart wheels, raucous markets and children laughing.

Sitting on top of the Northern Gate we watch the sun set over the upper city. In 1999 Dr Bisht’s team discovered 30 Harappan symbols at the foot of this very gate. It led to national headlines and became the leitmotif of Dholavira, just the way we saw them on the blue signboard at Rapar. However, the Harappan script is yet to be deciphered, so the secret of these 30 symbols remain unlocked.

By 1800 BC, Dholavira disappeared from historic records, indicating that the civilization may have come to an end. Experts believe that Dholavira’s survival was based on tapping the waters of the Ghaggar River which was dammed to fill the reservoirs. A powerful earthquake pushed the course of the river more towards the Ganges basin, leaving Dholavira high and dry. The area around became arid and the vegetation changed. The giant reservoirs slowly got filled with earth.

It was time to bid the yellow sun kissed ruins a final farewell. A city which covers 40 hectares and once supported a population of 20,000 had only the three of us, and our shadows, as visitors. It’s loneliness a stark statement on the fragility of human civilization.

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Published in Terrascape, November 2010, http://terrascape.in/archive/november-2010-issue.html

Notes on Longing and Leaving....

2010-09-23T00:25:00.004+01:00

Poems written by Haripriya Soibam....

You brought
your journeys
in pieces of silver
Moments of departure
obscured
with beads of blue
picked for me
Dome
of forgotten tombs
and ruins
came back seeking
scents of streets
Amaltas tinted
Verses written
Metals burnt
to leave
a branded footprint
on my head
Nameless you come
and leave
Our territories
were
not of blood
but nameless
and empty
Until
another journey

Dated: 19th July 2010

My wayward sibling
Sudden in arrivals
Abrupt in departure
Promptly came
On days hard as stone
Unwrapped
fistful of woes
I survived lovers’
goodbyes
To eternity
He took me
for rainwashed walks
He opened the day
to the scent of frangipani

Now he leaves
His goodbye
gnaws the evening

Dated : 31st August 2010

Departure

2010-09-12T20:26:00.001+01:00

3 A.M in the morning is perhaps not the best time to leave behind a city. The light drizzle, reflecting off the incandescent street lamps, had acquired a golden sheen. The rain washed city seemed picture perfect in nostalgia rich sepia. It was an image too heavy to bear. As the taxi navigated familiar twists and turns, I was waking up to an unchartered future. There was nothing of which I was sure anymore. And all that I was confident about would be left behind in a couple of hours.

I am heartless with cities. Migrants do not have the luxury of romancing them. But something about Bangalore was different. I had come here looking for love and dreading the change from a rude yet familiar Delhi. And the city gave it to me, with arms wide open. I learnt that the city had colours. It was tabibuia pink at the onset of winter and jacaranda violet in spring. The flame of the forest red and the african tulip orange added exuberance to a pacific blue canvas of a sky. We walked on busy and empty streets capturing colours and spent hours looking at the rain. Evenings were resplendent with the dipping sun casting its magic on edges of wispy grey clouds. With steaming cups of tea we stood on the terrace, buffeted by a breeze that blew in from the North. And life never seemed better.

For a full one week before my departure, we had dismantled our world, piece by piece. Memories departed with every piece of furniture. Small things, bought out of affection or plain whimsy were weighed on a priority scale and discarded. It all left its mark on us. We were exhausted of memories. The material world had barged its way into our nest and left us devastated.

I hoped that all things lost will be forgotten. New worlds will be built with images and recollections of places we have dreamt of seeing together. But somehow, that future wasn’t appealing as compared to the past. Somehow, we both couldn’t console ourselves with rosy pictures.

I couldn’t look at her in the eye when the final time for departure came. I was Judas, who for his 30 pieces of silver had betrayed everything. I saw her tear drenched face on the other side of the glass pane. Brave as always, she smiled. It was assurance, that all will be well, again. My bruised conscience wouldn’t allow me smile back. I turned and walked away.

I cried when the wheels took off the runway. Tears streamed down as all that I could remember was her face, against the glass. Smiling and crying. I would see her again, in a month’s time. But memories of a collapse will have etched itself. I feared that nothing would help mend the torn fabric of emotions.

Then I remembered that she had held my hand in hers and for that moment, the world had stood still. Her touch had that healing power. It carried the promise of forgiveness.

And she reminded me that we lived only to love.

...........................................................................................................................

Standard Oil Co.

2010-08-20T19:04:00.000+01:00

Somehow the recent Gulf of Mexico spillage led me back to this Pablo Neruda poem. It's taken from Canto General. Simply put, such poetry will elude this mediocre generation of ours. We can only use twitter to register our protest.

Standard Oil Co

When the drill bored down

toward the stony fissures
and plunged its implacable intestine
into the subterranean estates,

and dead years, eyes
of the ages, imprisoned
plants’ roots
and scaly systems
became strata of water,
fire shot up through the tubes
transformed into cold liquid,
in the customs house of the heights,
issuing from its world of sinister depth,
it encountered a pale engineer
and a title deed.

However entangled the petroleum’s
arteries may be, however the layers
may change their silent site
and move their sovereignty
amid the earth’s bowels,
when the fountain gushes
its paraffin foliage,

Standard Oil arrived beforehand
with its checks and its guns,
with its governments and its prisoners.

Their obese emperors

from New York are suave

smiling assassins
who buy silk, nylon, cigars,
petty tyrants and dictators.

They buy countries, people, seas,
police, county councils,
distant regions where
the poor hoard their corn
like misers their gold:

Standard Oil awakens them,
clothes them in uniforms, designates
which brother is the enemy.
The Paraguayan fights its war,
And the Bolivian wastes away
in the jungle with its machine gun.

A President assassinated
for a drop of petroleum,
a million-acre
mortgage, a swift
execution on a morning
mortal with light, petrified,
a new prison camp for
subversives, in Patagonia,
a betrayal, scattered shots
beneath a petroliferous moon,
a subtle change of ministers
in the capital, a whisper
like an oil tide,
and zap, you’ll see

Now Standard Oil’s letters
shine above the clouds,
above the seas, in your home,
illuminating their dominions.

------Pablo Neruda

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Groundwater Challenge

2010-04-30T16:22:00.002+01:00

In 2009, reports from NASA based on data from its Gravity Recovery and Climate Experiment (Grace) caused much alarm in India. It showed that groundwater levels in Northern India have been declining at the rate of 33 centimetres (1 foot) per year over the past decade. It also estimated that a staggering 108 cubic kilometres (26 cubic miles) of groundwater had disappeared from aquifers in areas of Haryana, Punjab, Rajasthan and the nation's capitol territory of Delhi, between 2002 and 2008.

Such empirical evidence of groundwater over extraction was a follow up on a large number of studies which had highlighted the same issue earlier. It was clear that within 3-4 decades India was witnessing both its groundwater “boom” and “bust” phase. From being the largest users of groundwater in the world (approximately more than 25% of the global average), it was heading towards groundwater deficit.

The story of groundwater development in India is a unique one. This “democratic” resource generated rapid agricultural growth in areas which had little hope of irrigation from surface water sources. Resultantly, 2.48 million hectares in India is now being irrigated with groundwater extracted through 16 million wells. However, there were no scientific management systems in place to guide users towards sustainable extraction. The impact of unregulated use, low crop water efficiency and poor demand management now stands documented by NASA. But even before NASA arrived on the scene, the Central Ground Water Board (CGWB) had been demarcating administrative blocks as semi critical, critical or overexploited. It was 4% in 1995. In 2005 it stood at 28%.

Scarcity is just one side of the coin. Quality is emerging is another concern. Nearly 85% of rural drinking water schemes in India are dependent on groundwater. In 2009 the Planning Commission acknowledged that almost 60,000 rural habitations were affected by arsenic, salinity, fluoride and nitrate.

Regulatory approaches to sustainable extraction and management of groundwater for quality and quantity issues doesn’t seem tenable. The context specific nature of the resource itself increases the cost of monitoring and regulation. Monitoring 20 million wells is not an easy task. However, if these states of affairs continue, then according to the World Bank 60% of India’s administrative blocks will be in a critical condition by 2025.

However, there is a silver lining to this cloud. Over the last two decades, several civil society initiatives have taken place to build a case for people centred groundwater management. Needless to say such initiatives have their roots in regions witnessing acute groundwater scarcity.

The earliest took place in Maharashtra, in Naigaon Village in Purandhar Taluk, Pune District. Vilasrao Salunkhe, having witnessed the plight of farmers in Maharashtra during a severe drought in 1972 instituted village level water management institutions called Pani Panchayat’s for improved water availability and wise use. This was a revolutionary institutional model which recognized water as a common property resource which had to be equitably shared between stakeholders. It helped delink land rights from water rights by extending irrigation rights to the landless. Most importantly, it ensured that cropping patterns match annual water availability. He also started an NGO known as Gram Gaurav Pratisthan (GGP), to facilitate the formation of Pani Panchayats. GGP, now headed by late Vilasrao’s wife, Kalpana Salunkhe, has forged an interesting collaboration with Advanced Centre for Water Resources Development and Management (ACWADAM), a groundwater research institution based in Pune. ACWADAM is generating accurate hydro geological data for 12 villages in Purandar Taluk. While earlier calculations on water availability were based largely on rainfall and local weather data, ACWADAM has provided true estimates of groundwater availability. This has provided Pani Panchayat’s a clearer picture of water availability in their area and they are adjusting their cropping patterns accordingly. GGP’s work remains exemplary as it a perfect marriage between equity and efficiency, the two most critical goals of sustainable and participatory groundwater management.

Another path breaking endeavour has taken place in Andhra Pradesh, the hotspots for groundwater over extraction and resultant agrarian crises in India. Numbers helps illustrate the crises. 300 out of the 1227 groundwater blocks in the state were declared as critical or overexploited. 208 were deemed semi-critical. Response to this problem was attempted through the Andhra Pradesh Farmer Managed Groundwater systems (APFAMGS), a project that has been implemented by the Food and Agricultural Organisation (FAO) from 2004 to 2009 through 10 NGOs. This project, within a span of 5 years has managed to create 555 groundwater management committees in 303 Panchayats in 7 drought prone districts. The uniqueness of this approach is that it has concentrated on non formal education tools to demystify hydrology and geo hydrology. Once the complex processes were made simple, farmers took to it with gusto. Improved understanding of groundwater processes has led to its wise use. Approximately 4800 farmers have adopted water saving methods and technologies (such as drip irrigation) to reduce groundwater pumping. In some cases, villages have restricted drilling of new bore wells and also prevented tankers from tapping water from existing wells. The scale of APFAMGS’ success has led to renewed interest in Government circles on community based ground water management. Recently the World Bank has published a detailed study of the programme and a number of visits from the States of Orissa, Tamil Nadu, Gujarat and Maharashtra have taken place.

Though not as high profile as APFAMGS or well recognized as GGP, Arid Communities and Technologies (ACT), an NGO based in Bhuj, the headquarters of Kachchh district, Gujarat has managed to carve out its own niche. ACT is an organization that specializes in geo hydrological studies and resultantly, ground water management. Given the semi arid landscape of Kachchh which receives 312 mm of average annual rainfall, the criticality of groundwater management was more in the area of drinking water. ACT, to its credit mapped out aquifers in 135 villages in Abdasa Taluka in Kachcch District and developed a drinking water resource management plan for each. When Water and Sanitation Management Organisation (WASMO), a Government institution in Gujarat came forward to use these maps and develop decentralized water resources in the area, ACT took another step forward. It developed a team of rural youth called “Parabs” (meaning a local water point in Kachchhi) who would work with village institutions to help them to demystify ground water management and also develop technical plans. These plans were then submitted to WASMO for approval. To their credit, 30 technical plans prepared jointly by Parabs and village based Pani Samiti’s won approval and were implemented. This is a major feat for a group of individuals most of whom haven’t even completed their schooling. Yet, they have acquired understanding of not only complex geo hydrology but also mapping with the use GPS and presenting and interpreting data on GIS platforms. Bolstered by this success, ACT has now initiated a training programme on geo hydrology for rural youth, the first batch of which received their certificates. The topper was immediately recruited with a relatively high salary by a reputed NGO to work in their watershed projects.

All these initiatives are testimony to the creative and inspiring role played by Civil Society Organisations in sustainable groundwater management in India. However, they are islands of success in an ocean of disappointments. With limited financial resources (except perhaps for APFAMGS) these NGO’s are engaging with a challenging task. These initiatives are building a case for collective action for resource management at the grassroots. Though there is visible interest from State and other financing institutions in up scaling some of these models, there is concern about processes and principles getting compromised. Hence it is important that such upscaling endeavours recognize civil society as legitimate partners and offer them the role of watch dogs. The key concern in participatory groundwater management is equity and civil society needs to concentrate on strengthening the stakes of the marginalized. This is the last step that will make participatory groundwater management a success.

----------------------------------------------------
An edited version of this article was published in Civil Society Magazine, Volume 7, No.6 April 2010 (available at http://www.civilsocietyonline.com/apr10/apr17.html)

The author would like to thanks Dr. K.A.S Mani (APFAMGS), Dr. Himanshu Kulkarni (ACWADAM) and Dr. Yogesh Jadeja (ACT) for sharing information on their projects.

Vanishing Wisdom: Endangered Landscapes

2010-01-29T16:20:00.000Z

In July 2009, Uttarakhand was reeling under the impact of severe climatic reversals. In the months of January and February, the much required rainfall for wheat cultivation had been 90 per cent less than the average in previous years. In April, average temperature had reached a scorching 41 degrees Celsius, breaking a 39 year record. Sudden surge in summer heat led to severe forest fires. By May, 2426 hectares of forest has been charred barren. In Garhwal region of Uttarakhand, there were 665 incidents of forest fire alone, out of a total of 1084.

The grand tragedy of drought and forest fire made headlines in national and regional media. However, what largely went unreported was acute scarcity of drinking water that plagued both urban and rural. However, while private tankers and State water supplies rushed in to cater to cities, villages suffered.

Heat and ash had altered the sequestered life of the villagers of Thandi, in Uttarkashi District. Sitting on the earthen porch of his house, an eighty year old Maulya Singh stoically looks at the burnt stumps of pine a few metres away. “Sansar mein nami nahin hain isliye zameen bhi sukha hain”. (Since our society is bereft of kindness, the land is also without moisture). His daughter in law however, cannot indulge in the luxury of philosophy. Most of the springs (known as dhara’s) in her village had dried up this year, causing excess drudgery. As she narrates her difficulties in collecting drinking water, Maulya Singh interrupts, “chaal nahin hain to dhara mein paani kahanse aayega?” (If there are no chaals, where will the water in the springs come from?).

This simple statement has wider relevance. The same has been articulated by elders in villages across Uttarkashi and Tehri Garhwal. But then, what exactly is a chaal?

As the story goes, many years ago, shepherds had taken the cattle out for grazing at the onset of summer, high up in the mountains of Uttarakhand. The snow had melted away revealing a vast and beautiful landscape. However, though food for livestock was in plenty, drinking water was still scarce. While desperately looking for a source, they discovered small ponds along mountain ridge tops, in the saddle between two adjacent crests. The soil bed being relatively thick, the glacial or snow melt had been retained, much to the relief of the shepherds. In an effort to harvest the water, an earthen wall was constructed around it, and they came to be known as chaals.

Perhaps the least celebrated of all other traditional water harvesting structures in Uttarakhand, chaals for long have provided succour to livestock and humans both. However, due to colonial policies, forests in Uttarakhand came under the protective regime of the Forest Department. Graziers found their upland pastures out of bounds and moved to newer locations downstream. This heralded the end of usage of naturally occurring chaals, and the beginning of the human made ones.

Chaals again started getting constructed at new pasture zones developed at the base of State owned forests, closer to villages. During this process, a chance discovery was made. As articulated by elders in Lodhna and Thandi villages in Dunda block, Uttarkashi, they noticed that when a chaal was constructed above a spring, the volume of water in the spring increased. Most importantly, springs located below chaals were yielding more water in summers than expected!

Suddenly, chaals were no longer simple water storage structures for livestock water. They were also recharging groundwater. This was not only increasing spring discharge but also base flows in streams. This in turn was getting tapped by gravity based irrigation channels. Whether this all happened by default or design can be debated, but what cannot is that chaals had become a critical component in maintaining a healthy watershed. They were functioning as artificial pacemakers of the catchment, allowing smooth flow of water in the surface and sub surface veins of the earth.

Around three to four decades ago, construction and management of chaals went through sharp decline. A numbers of factors can be ascribed to it, but the principal cause is that of stress migration. Rural youth in Uttarakhand were moving out of agriculture, desperate to earn a living off urban growth rather than depend on livelihoods from marginal land holdings. The purpose and need of chaals for maintaining a healthy catchment was wisdom left with village elders with nobody to pass it onto.

This knowledge gap has now led to severe existential crises for chaals. Present political leadership and decision making at the village level is unaware of its multiple functions. Mainstream view is that chaals are meant for purely storage. Government programmes on rural development are hence attempting to “modernize” chaals based on this view.

The National Rural Employment Guarantee Scheme (NREGS) is one such programme. The budgetary and bottoms up decision making provisions in NREGS provided great opportunity to revive chaals in Uttarakhand. Unfortunately, it seems to be going the other way.

Constructing a chaal involves zero material and hundred percent labour cost. Given a chaal can get constructed in a single day, it implies very little expense. Hence NREGS funds allocated to a Gram Panchayat would largely go unspent if chaals had to be repaired or constructed the traditional way using local resources such as mud and rocks. This was a veritable impasse for Gram Pradhan’s and BDO’s. Increasing costs would kill two birds with one stone. Funds would get utilized and volume of kickbacks would increase.

Hence a massive “concretization” drive is underway in villages in Tehri Garhwal and Uttarkashi. While the publicly articulated reason for cementing chaals is to strengthen the same, the tacit is to increase materials cost. Use of cement also implies use of skilled masons, and resultant increase in labour costs and person days. Hence a chaal that could have been easily constructed for two – three thousand rupees is now being budgeted for a lakh.

Given that cement doesn’t allow percolation of stored water, the ecological impacts of cementing chaals can be detrimental to catchment health. This in turn may have severe implications on water availability for both drinking water and agriculture in the village catchment.

Gulab Singh, a farmer from the village of Chopriali in Tehri Garhwal, state that while chaals constructed with local raw materials tend to retain water all year around, it was not the case with NREGA chaals, which retained water only during post monsoons. Moreover, chaals when constructed with locally available material are easy to repair. When constructed with brick and cement masonry, breaches in the structure cannot be fixed locally. In such situations, they remain in their state of disrepair. As claimed by Dwarika Prasad, a local NGO activist, most of the chaals constructed under the NREGA scheme in villages in Uttar Kashi are bereft of water. Anupam Mishra, acclaimed chronicler of India’s traditional water harvesting systems, laments at the ham handedness with which chaals are being constructed. Being one of the earliest to document and explain the science behind chaals, he is alarmed at the lack of understanding on this issue and the possible damage that wrongly constructed chaals can unleash on the hills.

The silver lining has been inspiring work carried out by individuals and organisations. The most notable has been taking place in Ufrainkhal region in the district of Pauri Garhwal through the leadership of Sachidanand Bharati for the last 25 years. Solely through his efforts at collective action an astonishing 12,000 chaals has been dug up in 136 villages. His work has helped in bringing long forgotten chaals back into mainstream thinking. Most importantly, simply through chaal construction he has managed to revive a river now being called Gadganga. His work is drawing visitors from across the world to this remote and idyllic location.

Himalaya Seva Sangh (HSS), an umbrella organisation for a number of grassroots NGOs in Western Himalaya also rallied for reviving chaals, especially in the districts of Uttar Kashi and Tehri Garhwal. Since 2007 their efforts have yielded in 200 functional chaals.

But these initiatives have not managed to create any impact on the functioning of the State’s Water Supply and Rural Development departments. Uninformed interventions in the landscape continue unabated. Worst of all, they are playing out in the theatre of increasing water scarcity. Recently, NGO activists presented a written letter with photographic evidence of shoddily constructed chaals to the district collector of Uttarkashi, Mr. B.V.R.C Purushottam. He responded positively, saying that the issue will be brought under the scanner.

However, in the twilight zone between good intentions and actions based on the same, improper and corruption riddled construction of chaals continue. Recently there has been a sharp surge in construction of cemented chaals in dry river beds. Such wasteful acts now stand out as eyesore in the landscape. Unless local political leadership and their constituencies are made aware of how such actions will end up damaging village level water security on the long run, the villages of Uttarakhand will continue to suffer.

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A shorter version of this article was published in Tehelka magazine on Tehelka Magazine, Vol 7, Issue 05, Dated January 29, 2010 and is available at http://www.tehelka.com/story_main43.asp?filename=cr060210vanishing_wisdom.asp

Umiam: Shillong’s ‘wasted’ pride

2009-10-09T18:15:00.001+01:00

The origin of Umiam lake, also known as Barapani, in 1965 because of the Umiam-Umtru Hydroelectric Power Project roughly coincides with the birth of Meghalaya in 1972. Hence, the lake as a reservoir is a symbol of pride and aspiration of people who attained independent statehood. Though located at a similar point in history, there now appears a visible disjuncture between a developing state and a dying lake.

Rapid urbanisation has transformed Umiam into a sink for Shillong’s waste and natural streams and rivers feeding the lake into open drains. Research by the Central Pollution Control Board confirms that the water in the rivers of Umkrah and Umshyrpi is contaminated with sewage. Such polluted river systems enter Umiam and alter its biological character.

According to pollution control board norms, Umiam is polluted and the water is unfit for domestic use.

The deterioration of Umiam lake and the two inflowing rivers, Umkhrah and Umshyrpi, is a symptom of a deeper malaise.

One of Meghalaya’s biggest assets is abundant rainfall, pegged at an astounding 12,000mm per year. However, this taken-for-granted fact doesn’t really translate into water security.

Cherrapunjee, now established as a “wet desert”, is a case in point.

Shillong’s water security depends solely on how it manages its river basins and catchment areas. Telltale signs are ignored because of public apathy.

Shillong lacks a proper sanitation system. Though most households use on-site treatment such as septic tanks and soak pits, these are never constructed properly.

Households save costs by bypassing soak pit construction. The sewage water is allowed to gradually seep out from the walls of the septic tank. This seemingly harmless innovation has serious consequences on Shillong’s potable groundwater, which stands at a risk of being contaminated by nitrates.

Shillong generally lacks in quality groundwater because of the excessive presence of iron. Yet, the public health engineering department provides 7.4 per cent Shillong’s total domestic water supply from groundwater sources.

With the expected impact of climate change on monsoons, the reliability on surface water flow is not guaranteed. Groundwater may become Shillong’s lifeline for future generations, provided it is properly managed now.

The condition of surface water sources is worse. An approximate 2,025 million litres of sewage enters Umkhrah and Umshyrpi every year. A population of almost three lakh living next to the two rivers is the worst-hit.

As consumption increases in Shillong, so does the waste. An estimated total of 20 to 25 tonnes of solid waste finds its way into the rivers and streams everyday. This chokes the river system, raises its bed and causes flooding.

As water quality continues to deteriorate, the impacts are being felt across all classes. For 200 to 250 fishermen, the lake with approximately 19 species of fish is the only source of livelihood.

The tourism industry is perhaps the most vulnerable to market fluctuations and with deteriorating water quality and low water storage, investments in developing Umiam as a tourist destination may go down the drain.

It is said that water is a mirror of society. Shillong is the most celebrated city in the Northeast. Hence, if sustainable development flourishes anywhere in this region, it would be in Meghalaya and Shillong will be at the heart of such growth.

Will Shillong be able to take up this challenge?

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The author, a development analyst based in Bangalore, is currently working with local organisations for the conservation of Umiam lake

This article was published as a Guest Column in The Telegraph, North East on 30th September 2009, available also athttp://www.telegraphindia.com/1090930/jsp/northeast/story_11324617.jsp

Salt Slavery

2009-04-26T16:46:00.000+01:00

On the 4^th of February 2009, villagers of Ulana, Gudha, and Bavli, in Nagaur District, Rajasthan collectively protested against encroachments of village common lands and blocked earth movers from entering their villages. The state machinery was quickly mobilized to stem protests. Local police moved in, threatening locals of dire consequences. However, there was a resoluteness that defied all threats. Realizing that they were beaten, the contractors backed off their claims and pulled out.

Incidents such as these do not generate headlines. Even local newspapers covering the issue became silent after a point. However, it marked the first collective struggle against oppression by the salt mafia operating in and around Sambhar Lake.

Sambhar Salt Lake is located 60 km south west of the city of Jaipur in Rajasthan. Its 5700 sq km catchment spreads across districts of Nagaur, Jaipur, Ajmer and Sikar. Earliest record of salt production from India’s largest inland saline lake dates back to 1500 years. In this span of time, the control on salt production got passed on from local communities to Rajputs to the Mughals to the British and finally to Sambhar Salts Limited, a joint venture between Hindustan Salts Limited and Government of Rajasthan. This public sector undertaking regulates salt production from the Lake.

Mainstream India may choose to believe that Gandhi’s march to the coastal village of Dandi in Gujarat on March 12, 1930, ended all exploitation related to salt production and sale. For the 90 odd villages located in the catchment of Sambhar Lake, desh ka namak has a very bitter taste.

There are two sides to this tale.

The celebrated one boasts of 210,000 tonnes of salt production from Sambhar per year that puts Rajasthan in the list of top three salt producing States in India. It was also declared a wetland of International and National importance in 1990 by the Ramsar Secretariat for being a unique migratory bird habitat and wetland ecosystem. Both Lake and the city from which is gets is name appears in Page 3 for being shoot locales for Drona and recreating the magic of Old Delhi in Delhi-6.

To view the other side one needs to go beyond official reports and straight to villages located in the catchment area of the Lake. Here, salt is a harsh reality that kills and sustains. It has provided income, employment, death and disease to those who chose to work in the salt pans of Sambhar.

It’s a story of simple economics, splattered with greed and a fair bit of corruption thrown in. It hardly costs 30-40 paise to produce 1 kg of salt in Sambhar. By the time it reaches the average consumer in the market, it costs Rs 10. The high profit margin triggers off a salt rush. However, it’s difficult to find operational elbow space for everybody. Hence, unauthorized salt pans and processing centres mushroom in and around the lake. The accommodative administration, politicians, and the police prefer not to stand in the way of inevitable economic growth, especially when it affects them positively. Not all can be painted with the broad brush of corruption. Well meaning officers in Sambhar Salts did attempt at regulating illegal salt pans but had to thrown in the towel. “The nexus is too strong, and the money chain goes a long way”, said a retired official. “We know what is happening but are helpless ourselves. Nobody wants to land in trouble”.

While at a “fairly high level” everyone seems to be gaining, reality is skin deep. Labourers working on the salt pans for 9-10 hours are not provided with any protective clothing or footwear. As a result, most of them develop thick rashes on the soles of their feet by walking bare feet on the pans. Those who carry the salt from the pans on head loads to the trucks get wet salt and brine running down their face. With wrinkled and dry skin salt pan workers rarely look their age. The life expectancy of a salt worker in Sambhar Lake now stands at 45 years. With no employment benefits and zero legal protection, this unorganized lot are at the mercy of an exploitative regime. The men earn Rs 125 to 150 a day, women Rs 100.

There is no regularity in payment and with no mechanism for redress; labourers often work without payment for weeks. With such an income, one has little left to spend on cosmetic concerns such as itchy dry skin and rashes.

The salt industry in Sambhar has a hierarchy in benefit accrual, and locals are at the bottom. The owner’s or seths are mostly from Haryana and Delhi, the labour and vehicle contractors are from Barmer and Jodhpur. Indeed there is fortune at the bottom of the pyramid, which gets sucked upwards just like the regions groundwater.

Internal affairs of the salt industry leave perverse footprints in the villages nearby. The process of extracting salt from in and around the lake has undergone serious transformation. The natural process is monsoon dependant. Sambhar Lake taps water from four seasonal rivers, namely Mendha, Rupangarh, Kharian and Khandel alongside numerous streams and rivulets. This water reacts with lake sediments and becomes brine, which after evaporation leaves behind crystallized salt. This is how salt has been harvested since ages and ideally takes 45-50 days. However, since the last few decades, unsustainable technologies and practices have become rule rather than exception. Most salt production units now use deep bore wells to extract groundwater. Hence salt production now gets completed within 15-20 days. Organizations working in the area estimate around 15-20 bore wells operating in every bigha (0.6 acres) of land. Over extraction has lowered groundwater levels by almost 40 feet in the area. Deprived of recharge and subsurface flow, the lake has been continuously shrinking and the seasonal streams and rivers are now going dry. Water from both upstream and downstream of the lake is being used to produce salt. The water footprint of salt production has now gone beyond the periphery of the lake. Salt production units now hire tankers, which plunder groundwater from areas further away.

Hence most of the villages in the eastern side of the Lake in Nagaur District are now facing acute shortage of drinking water. Water scarcity is a major reason for migration, especially since majority of the population living in villages surrounding the lake are dependant on livestock management for livelihoods. As most of the male members and elder women leave their villages for 5-6 months, the only occupation for younger women left behind is to work in the salt pans. Most of these young women are helpless prey to labour contractors, who use economic pressure and the absence of family to solicit sexual favours. Molestation and sexual exploitation is now rampant in the salt pans. It has almost become a way of life. Such stories do not have names behind them, and fear of victimization and social taboos provide perpetrators with a security blanket.

Satellite imagery shows innumerable evaporation ponds or salt pans, locally called kyaries dotting the lake bed and the buffer region. The official number quotes 400 of such. In reality, even the Sambhar Salt authorities are unaware of exactly how many unauthorized salt pans operate around the lake. Research shows that 74% of the illegal salt pans are located within a range of 0-1 kms from the lake’s core. Since little space is left to capture within the lake area, land grab has now spread to neighbouring villages. Large chunks of village common and grazing lands are being illegally taken on 10- 20 year lease, that too at a throwaway price of Rs 20,000/- per 0.6 acres (1 bigha). This whole transaction skilfully bypasses approval at the Gram Sabha or the Gram Panchayat. Villagers of Ulana, Gudha, and Bavli had seen vast tracts of woodlot and common land getting converted into salt pans in neighbouring areas. This had hardened their resolve of standing up to the might of corruption and brute force. Ramlal Gujjar from Bavli (name changed on request), blames money thrown around by the salt contractors to have subverted collective decision making in the village. However, in time villagers have realised that they have lost more than what has been gained, that too mostly by a few individuals. “gaon ka zameen, pani aur izzat sab kuch loot liya, he laments.

Standing on top of a house in Bavli village, one can easily spot the steady march of salt pans. These pans are now converting both public and village lands into privately owned assets. As the sun sets, light bulbs on thousands of bore wells come to life. A sadistic phantasmagoria that sends chills down one’s spine.

Sambhar Lake has been pushed to its death throes. Though it is supposed to occupy an impressive 230 sq km of area, the lake hasn’t had any water for the last 7-8 years. As of now, it has a water spread of roughly 7 sq kms, mostly ankle deep. Habitat destruction has kept migratory bird populations away for a decade. And yet, not even a whimper of protest has been heard from India’s wetland experts. Bizarre explanations are offered to rationalize regulatory failures. They range between declining rainfall due to climate change and construction of watershed structures under NREGA programmes in upstream villages.

Majority of the numerous watershed structures constructed upstream have faulty design and are actually a colossal waste of public expenditure. They have little ability to hold themselves up, leave alone water. Moreover, NREGA, by providing local employment blocks labour exodus to salt pans, an irritating proposition for salt industry contractors. These explanations are aimed at diverting attention from illegal ground water mining. The reality of Sambhar is now identified through endless columns of white dust hovering over the lifeless landscape like ghosts.

There is a local myth surrounding the origin of the Lake. It tells us that Shakambari Devi, the family deity of Chauhan Rajputs had converted a significant stretch of forests into plain land filled with precious metals meant as blessing to devout locals. However, villagers nearby realized that this gift would only usher in bloodshed and conflict and appealed to the Goddess to revert the same. The maximum the Goddess could do was to convert the silver into salt. Sadly, in the course of history the villagers were left worse off in the bargain than they could have ever imagined.

People around Sambhar Lake are slowly realizing that neither God, nor Government will come to their rescue. Collective action is the only thing that will make a difference. What seemed as a flash in the pan is actually spreading across the landscape.

Another March 12 is perhaps in the offing.

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An edited version of the article was published in Tehelka Magazine, Vol 6, Issue 17, Dated May 02, 2009. It's available online at http://tehelka.com/story_main41.asp?filename=cr020509no_flavour.asp

Hamir Sar: Reviving an Engineering Heritage

2009-03-17T05:28:00.000Z

As the story goes, Hamir, a rabari herdsman, once dug a small lake (talab) for people living in and around the city of Bhuj. As the city prospered, successive rulers from the clan of Jadeja Rajputs realized the lakes water harvesting potential. They increased its size and developed it further. However, history didn't remember those kings, but named the lake after the nomadic herdsman who voluntarily dug the foundation to offer succour to his people during dry summer months of Kachchh. Hamir Sar (Lake) serves to reminds us of a rich tradition of water philanthropy of the common man in this sub continent.

Located at the centre of Bhuj, the district headquarters of Kachchh,Gujarat, Hamir Sar has been the principle source of water for the walled city, as Bhuj is historically known. Around 450 years ago, the rulers of Bhuj realized that water was critical to sustaining urban habitats. Search for sustainable water supply led to the creation of a hydraulic and geo-hydrological marvel in the history of western peninsular India. Water from 3 different catchments was connected and collected through an intricate and innovative network of canals, reservoirs and tunnels and was finally brought to Hamir Sar. Planning was based on deep understanding of local geology and climatic constraints.

Hence canals/tunnels traversed the porous sandstone belts, recharging aquifers all the way. These aquifers were optimally tapped by a set of 306 wells which catered to the domestic water needs of the city. The fall back options, in case water harvested in the channels was insufficient, were five feeder dams, spread across the three catchments. Each was located on impermeable layers of shale, ensuring that very little water escaped through seepage in their respective catchments. Aesthetically designed sliding gates were developed at the head of the channels to control the outflow of water from the feeder dams and its inflow into the lake. Excess water in Hamir Sar was systematically released into adjacent Prag Sar, ensuring flood control and repair and maintenance of the former, whenever required.

The importance of Hamir Sar in the cultural and economic landscape of Bhuj is immense. The lake draws in a regular crowd of migratory birds such as pelicans, flamingoes and ducks like widgeon, mallards and pintails. The lake itself attracts local and international visitors during the Rann Utsav that takes place every December. Beyond events, Hamir Sar brings to the population of Bhuj a sense of identity. With everyday lakeside walks, prayers and other cultural and religious festivals, the bonds grow stronger.

The Bhuj earthquake in 2001 disrupted life and livelihoods in the city on a large scale. The spin offs were a potpourri of the good and the bad. Many citizens feel that post earthquake Bhuj showcased resilience through rapid economic growth within very limited time. However, the ugly part happened with the lake. Post disaster reconstruction was insensitive to Bhuj's water heritage. Prag Sar, adjacent to Hamir Sar with a storage capacity of 2, 90,000m³ was filled up with debris and got converted into a playing ground. Old step wells and ventilation shafts which got damaged remains in a state of disrepair. Debris blocked the drainage channel. Finally the proliferation of Prosopis juliflora, an invasive weed, all across the catchment further affected flow of water into the lake.

Though in time efforts were made to revive the system, a bigger threat emerged. Hamir Sar now had to contend with a economically prosperous and populated Bhuj. The projected population for Bhuj in 2011 was approximately two lakhs fifteen thousand. In 2008 it had already reached two lakh twenty. Simultaneously per capita demand for water shot up and so did the amount of sewage and waster water generated. Shift in demographics was coupled with a consolidation of centralized urban water supply systems. Wells were replaced with systems that operated on assumed efficient economies of scale. Of the total 19 Million Litres per Day (MLD) of water being supplied by Bhuj Municipal Corporation 80% comes from bore wells, the rest from the Narmada. And yet centralized water supply reaches only 42.93% of the entire population. The rest manage with their own bore wells, or from tanker supplies, which again resorts to tapping local aquifers. Hence, while systems to replenish groundwater aquifers have fallen into disuse, ones for extracting it have become ever popular.

Fast paced urban development requires insightful planning and proper regulations on land use. Absence of it has encouraged large scale real estate encroachments on the lake catchment. At the same time, indiscriminate solid waste dumping, especially in an around the lake system has negative ramifications on water quality. As local sources fall into disuse, dependence on unsustainable exogenous sources such as the Narmada will get articulated, rationalized and finally acted upon. And as it happens, further the source, the least the respect for the resource.

Managing Hamir Sar Lake is not an easy task. It requires managing three lakes and their 40 sq.km catchment area. Institutional regulation is not enough and co-management is the only way out. The earthquake led to precipitative action within civil society and a number of actors joined hands to towards conservation of Hamir Sar. A consortium spearheaded by Arid Communities and Technologies (ACT), Hunnarshala and Alchemy Urban is presently engaged in serious research that attempts to provide pointers on lake friendly land use and town planning. Dr. Yogesh Jadeja, ACT played an instrumental role in establishing the importance of catchment management to the life cycle of the lake. Beyond academic analysis, ACT has made concerted attempts to reach out to the citizens of Bhuj by organizing catchment walks for both school children and adults. The district collector of Bhuj, R.R. Varsani has been inspirational in his collaboration with Bhuj Municipality and civil society organizations and sanctioned 50 lakhs in 2007 for renovating a debris infested channel that brings water into Hamirsar.

What is required now is proper socio-economic evaluation of the lake itself and communicating results of the same to citizens and State administration. Hamir Sar's role in providing domestic water to the city of Bhuj remains unknown, the science being complex, the underground resource being invisible. The Lake recharges groundwater and also gets replenished by a high water table. One cannot survive without the other. This is yet to make sense to water supply authorities and citizens alike.

Saving a heritage require small changes. The value of Hamir Sar to the citizens of Bhuj will be measured by their willingness to conserve water through roof top rainwater harvesting and developing decentralized waste water treatment systems in housing colonies. Regulatory authorities can always pitch in and provide incentives on property taxes to encourage such initiatives. This can go a long way in securing a fair share of water for future generations.

Published in Civil Society, Vol 6, No.5, March 2009

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

2008-09-27T16:45:00.000+01:00

Sometimes, you just bump into a poem the memory of which lingers forever. So here it goes, E.E. Cummings' poem titled "nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands"

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility: whose texture

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

Fading Power

2008-07-01T02:26:00.000+01:00

I first saw Umiam Lake in 2006. For long, friends from Shillong had created an idyllic picture of "Bara Paani" (Big Water), as Umiam is popularly known. The first look did not disappoint and I fell in love, like others before, with Shillong's blue-eyed beauty.

Umiam Lake originated as an artificial reservoir for the Umiam Umtru Hydro Electric Power project, the first of its kind in the North East. For a long time, this project had supplied the bulk of its power needs to Meghalaya. So the state's love affair with this lake spans 43 years.

With approximately 12,000 mm of rainfall each year and a catchment area of 221.5 sq km (almost double the size of Chandigarh) Umiam rarely saw any dry days.

Until now, that is. For two years now, Shillong has confronted one of the worst power crises ever. The reason is not hard to imagine: Umiam doesn't have enough water.

Officially, inadequate rainfall has been cited as the sole reason, and a correlation does exist between decreasing water levels (about 39 feet over 3 years) in the lake and lesser rainfall since 2005. And once the water level falls below 3150 feet, there can be no power generation. Still, the role of rainfall is being overplayed while the real issue remains unaddressed.

In 2002, the Central Pollution Control Board brought out a list of polluted lakes and tanks in India. Umiam represented Meghalaya on that list. Deservedly so, since all natural streams that pass through the city and feed the bigger ones, such as Umkhrah and Umshyrpi, have been converted into open drains. Most houses dump their sewage as well as other organic and inorganic waste into these water bodies, which in turn flow into the lake.

Yet, urban growth and deplorable wastewater management is, unfortunately, only one part of the story. Shillong's sprawl has triggered off phenomenal changes in land use further upstream. Stone quarries and mines dot the landscape and road construction has peaked. As more and more community lands slip out of bounds for them, poor farmers modify their jhum cycle (a pattern of shifting cultivation), which is leading to rapid soil erosion. Studies estimate that 40,000 cubic metres of silt gets deposited in the Umiam Lake every year. Such siltation lowers storage capacity and increases water loss through evaporation.

As a result, only an average of 25 MW of electricity was being generated in April 2008, although the current power generation capacity was 185.2 MW. In 2006, the Meghalaya State Electricity Board (MeSEB) incurred a loss of Rs 12.15 crore. In addition to that, the state government had to shell out Rs 923.3 crore in 2006-07 to buy power from external sources and at above par rates.

Political solutions are tipped in favour of tapping the vast coal reserves in South Garo Hills. And in a state that has the potential to produce 9,500 tonnes of uranium, can nuclear power plants be far behind? Along the way, a few inconvenient truths get covered up. For example, is it not true that it's more cost-effective to protect the catchment, dredge the lake properly and generate electricity from that source, rather than set up a string of thermal power plants in an environmentally fragile state?

If the answer to that is "yes", the next question is: who will do this? The reservoir comes under the jurisdiction of the East Khasi Hill District Council; the management is under MeSEB; water quality is supposed to be monitored by the Meghalaya Pollution Control Board; the catchment is managed by the Forest Department, and so on.

Apart from electricity, Umiam Lake also provides a range of ecological, economic and cultural services. The reservoir was created through huge public expenditure and the onus to save it lies with the people. Bethany Society, an NGO, has been involving school children in tracking garbage dumping along streams. A voluntary consortium, "Save the Rivers", has come up. A few organisations have initiated the collection and composting of organic waste. But such initiatives lack both human and financial resources. The inaccessibility of scientific studies commissioned by the state on the lake's water quality is also a big mystery. Such studies could have given future campaigns a shot in the arm.

There are steps that can be taken to help reverse the damage. A Payment for Environmental Services approach would bridge the gap between upstream suppliers and downstream recipients of environmental services; trade-offs could be negotiated to ensue a win-win situation for locals. For example, Shillong's citizens could compensate jhum cultivators upstream for shifting to alternate livelihoods or improved farming systems, to ensure a reliable power supply. Low-cost, community-managed waste water treatment plants could be constructed by the MeSEB to reduce siltation, instead of sourcing electricity at premium rates.

It's time Shillong's citizens made a few hard choices, before Umiam becomes another victim of unplanned growth in India.

From Tehelka Magazine, Vol 5, Issue 26, Dated July 05, 2008

Also available at http://www.tehelka.com/story_main39.asp?filename=Op050708fadingpower.asp

Water on Wheels

2008-01-24T14:11:00.000Z

Early memories of Persian Wheels originate from lost pages of school geography text books. Passing mention of such systems were largely forgotten as larger and more “important” chapters on Dams were more crucial for both National development and exams. The notion of ‘primitive’ and ‘modern’ technology was hammered in at a very early stage.

Those hazy black and white pictures acquired depth, colour and meaning in Kolar, where a few remaining systems are still in use. To view Persian wheels, up, close and personal, was embedded in a larger agenda to look into the challenges and threats to such systems today.

What exactly is a Persian wheel? Also known as Rahat (in Urdu), it’s a simple water lifting device, where a number of small pots are attached to a long chain. Two gear wheels make up the system and as the first one is revolved, the pots each dip and swallow water from the well and soon after pours itself out to a metallic shaft which in turns empties into an intricate network of troughs that distributes water adequately through the cropped area. It is believed that the technology originated in Egypt and as world shrunk through extensive trading, it spread to India and China.

Its origin in India has a contested history. While some historians point its introduction to the early days of the Delhi Sultanate others pin it on Babur’s entry into India. One of the earliest mentions of the Persian Wheel occurs in the Babur’s memoirs, the Babur Nama (1526-30). As Islamic rule slowly began to consolidate its regime, there was a remarkable change in governance. One such example of an early State effort in augmenting and incentivising use of farm assets to increase land revenue was by Ala Ud Din Khalji. However, like many of his grand schemes (the most well known being Alai Minar), it fell apart. Later periods, especially under the Mughals, saw increased interest in unifying land revenue systems and land related investment. Protection of farm assets was required and as a result of such patronage, irrigation canals and systems such as Persian Wheels brought about phenomenal changes in agricultural landscape of North India.

Advent of colonial rule in India was perhaps the first straw. As the British tried figuring out a procedure to exact taxes from all sections without stripping any one off completely, they obviously looked into issues of land revenue and agriculture. Decidedly unimpressed by “primitive” technologies such as the Persian wheel, this attitude was reflected in subsequent apathy towards such systems. It was the beginning of “Persian wheels” acquiring an antique/ historic value, rather than a local use one.

It’s difficult to pinpoint time frame when Persian Wheels migrated to South of India. Whether the source at all was from the North and not from trading routes down south or west needs to be looked into. Needless to say, rainfed areas in the South were quick on the uptake of such technologies. The district of Kolar stands out, as it has the highest number of wells and tanks in Karnataka. Historic records indicate that at one point of time around 60,000 water bodies existed in the district. Out of which 25,000 had Persian wheels attached to them.

Needless to say, Persian wheels no longer dot the landscape of Kolar. The biggest drawback of Persian wheels was its inability to draw water when the level is low. Several factors have contributed to the disappearance of the Persian Wheel from Kolar town. A few still exist in the upper regions, primarily because of the height of water tables.

However, even such systems are now under threat. Sustainability has been replaced with extractive paradigms, and the entry of bore wells has been the last straw. The Green Revolution, boosted by pump subsidies and unregulated ground water use, eliminated the Persian Wheels. The defunct wheels in Udaipur, Rajasthan, now exist as photo ops for foreign tourists, as deep in the semi - arid areas of Jodhpur, a much drier area as compared to Udaipur, bore wells dig deep and waters vegetables and opium.

Kolar is now slowly experiencing the same winds of change. Around the Persian Wheels still in use, we found wells with installed electric pumps. The beginning of the domino effect, as the water level starts receding; one Persian Wheel after the other will fall into disuse and for survival all will have to enter the pump race.

It’s a pity, as Persian Wheels are anchored in source sustainability. A dug well is an excellent health indicator of water table in an area. Simply because one can see the water tables fluctuate, one can adjust cropping patterns accordingly. A Persian wheel in conjunction with well water that it is used to tap, is a holistic system. It prioritizes proper water management to maintain water tables which in turn would run the wheel. Any component malfunctioning, will throw the entire system out of gear. This is unlike a bore well, which never tells how much is available. Its invisibility facilitates rampant extraction, the negative aspects of which have already affected people’s lives in various regions across the country. Granted, it provides freedom to farmers to grow cash crops and better their livelihoods, but its wealth based on damaging ecosystems and other marginalized sections in society.

Keeping in mind climate change concerns, Persian Wheels is a clean water harvesting technology with zero GHG emission. But such esoteric debates rarely work on farmers who are pushed at all ends to adopt technologies that aim to maximize today’s gain at tomorrow’s loss.

What would keep such systems ticking? S. Vishwanath and his Rainwater Club are looking into reviving and conserving such systems. It will be interesting to work out an incentives mechanism that allows local farmers to keep the Persian Wheel going. What can it be? Ecotourism? The scenic landscape of Kolar, which already has tourism attractions like rappelling and active indigenous theatre groups can attach the Persian wheels to an overall package with homestays and local cuisine thrown in.
Wishful thinking? But then it was W.B Yeats who said that in dreams begin responsibilities. Perhaps it’s a good place to start from.

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Published in Civil Society, Vol 5, No 10, August 2008

For more pics, log on to:

http://amitangshu.multiply.com/photos/album/35/Water_on_Wheels#

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Worshipping Nature

2007-06-07T04:14:00.000+01:00

The graceful priestesses dance and lead a motley crew of young men and women. All are dressed in spotless white with a little bit of red and pink thrown in to add on to the charm. The fluidity of movement is breathtaking. Their ability to respond gracefully to the light beating of the drum is not restricted by their starched white phaneks (skirt). The background music is a simplistic mosaic composed of the pena (an indigenous string instrument) small cymbals, and a drum. Lost in the heady brew of a rich and ancient culture, they slowly proceed to enact the entire history of mankind through songs and dance. And through this, the festival of Lai Haraoba unfolds in front of us.

When translated into plain English Lai Haraoba means “merry making of the Gods”. Generally a post harvest summer festival, it’s celebrated through songs, dance and is the most integral part of Maiba/ Maibis’ (priests and priestesses) rituals to honour the deity of the forest known as Umang Lai/Lairenbi. These patches of forests known as ‘Umang Lai Khubams’ are the sacred groves of Manipur. In traditional Meitei belief systems, sacred groves are cultural cornerstones and every village needs to include an ‘Umang Lai Khubam’ which ideally should be bordering the village, becoming abodes of deities who then exerts their divine powers and protects the resident villagers from evil.

The event we are witness to is called Maibi Jagoi. The dance depicts the beginning of creation by supreme God Aditya Shidaba. The narration initially traverses the cosmos and ends up spanning the chronological history of man. A Pre-Hindu dance form untouched by Vaishnavism unlike other Manipuri dance forms, it retains an animistic spirit that’s rooted to this earth. Such animistic belief systems were spread out all across North Eastern states at one point of time. Historical research points towards erosion of such systems with entry of colonialism and Christianity. Rapid shrinkage of sacred groves especially in Meghalaya and Nagaland are well known examples. However, Manipur remained an abode of pantheism. Even conversion of the Manipuri king in the 17th Century to Vaishanivism (an issue that remains contentious even today), didn’t radically alter the cultural milieu. The largely eco centric vaishnavite belief system overlapped with that of the extant animistic one. This resulted in retention of many local customs and practices that forge the Meitei identity.

Biodiversity expert Dr. N. Rajendro Singh informs that close to 364 sacred groves exist in Manipur today. Apart from being treasure troves of local biodiversity they are also an integral part of the cultural and ecological landscape of Manipur. The totems and taboos that administer the worship of sacred groves also ensure protection of all species within. Each of the 7 salai (clan) that make up the Meitei race are governed by a set of rules that bans consumption or use of specific plant and animal species. All clans are banned from felling trees on Friday as it is believed that Gods take rest on them on that day. Similarly in the month of Mera (September-October) eating of fish is taboo for vaishnav meitei’s as Krishna is supposed to take the very form. Numerous practices such as these are excellent examples of humanity’s co existence with nature.

Such practice not only fosters a reciprocal man – nature relationship, but also extends to clans and races. A rich history of cultural events showcases the brotherhood that existed between the valley and hill people, unlike today. N. Shakmacha Singh, an anthropologist, narrates a popular story of two brothers who parted in search of livelihoods, elder went to the hills and younger, the valley. Both discovered what they were looking for and stayed back. The cultural festival of Mera (September) Wayungba is an observance of that very relationship. Meiteis in the valley erects a bamboo pole in the courtyard with a lamp at the top and keeps it there for a month. The belief goes that, the lamp is an indication to the elder brother in the hills that all is well and that the younger sibling is safe and alive.

Things fall apart. The meitei world is no longer an island of autochthonous eco-centric culture. Ganjendra Singh, who manages a troupe of Manipuri cultural performers, feels that the knowledge behind cultural practices is dying out. In this part of the world, as in so many other places, culture is intrinsically linked to biodiversity. When one goes, so will the other. Many think that a monochromatic amorphous North East may help foster unity. But it’s this cultural polychrome that makes the seven sisters so enchanting. And it seems that respect for one’s own culture as well as others may be a way out of conflict.

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Amitangshu Acharya and Soibam Haripriya are Development Professionals working with NGO’s in New Delhi.

This article was published in the North East Telegraph on July 27, 2007. It's available at http://www.telegraphindia.com/1070727/asp/northeast/story_8112398.asp

An End to Nostalgia

2007-02-05T05:51:00.000Z

Rediscovering the past begins at a four point crossing. Cast by incandescent street lamps and glaring headlights, a hundred shadows rush around, ignoring the smell of roadside food stalls and urinals while stepping arrogantly on fresh spit stains. Standing in the middle of that mayhem, it struck me that I was in love with this chaos and that I owe my identity to this essence of survival and adventure that floats in the city air.

From crowded streets the scene shifts to deserted lanes. We walk, under a setting sun, retracing steps to an innocent past. For a moment, we plunge through time and space as sparkling eyes and slight twitch of the lips at the corner promises deliverance. Then darkness and unforgivable memories crept in and we became strangers, again. The lanes which had previously lit up in the glow of our conversations receded into nothingness. But in those precious two hours, I watched, mesmerized, as she played on an invisible flute with her gossamer fingers and broke into divine laughter. Only solace was those stolen glances, each of them an unsaid prayer and we bid farewell in the afterglow of lost love and flickering street lights.

The lump of ganja stuck at the end point of a pair of an old rusty scissor burst into a bright blue green flame. The aroma spread through the room, wafted across the ceiling and finally decided to linger near the black and white Beatles and Louis Armstrong posters. Glazed eyes looked on with anxious impatience as naughty dark and small granules struck the smooth surface of virgin white filter paper. Music from Zabriski Point helps coalesce vaporous illusions. The pain of reminiscence dulled somewhat and after a long time I listened to Neil Diamond at midnight, dry eyed.

Street corners are pregnant with memories. My identity is forged by the metallic gleam of traffic in hurried afternoons, hutments of pavement dwellers outside hospitals and a myriad other colours and sounds. The old locality seemed alien. The usual warmth of homecoming was missing along with the people who provided it. The Tamil family, who introduced me to the magic of vada and uppma, had gone back to their homeland, perhaps realizing that an insulated middle class Bengali neighborhood disapproves proximity to other cultures. Following their footsteps was the Bihari family from Assam. The pretty, bright eyed and pugnacious sisters got married and went off, leaving behind a rusty bicycle which was once a terror to the neighborhood boys. All, except me, as I was the privileged one, and was frequently invited for evening tea and snacks as the rest of the gang watched, emerald hued.

In a brightly lit bookshop in Park Street, friends sign marriage papers over steaming cups of coffee. Carefree glances and jokes veil excited apprehension. Such events rekindle hope in a worn and burnt out heart. Inadvertently, I end up looking at the base of the mug, hoping to see that mystical animal shape that would offer clues to life in an immediate future. It suddenly seems funny that my whole life seems to be encompassed in a coffee cup and I become conscious of my unexciting existence.

One orchestrated bandh and two threatened ones, none of which made a difference to me or the cause they were meant for. I wondered as to whether it was linked to the overall moral bankruptcy of a politically polarized and volatile state where synthesis has been replaced with the synthetic. In dimly lit bars my friends scoff at my concern for farmers losing lands to industries and future of food security. Difference in perceptions seems to have sharpened over the years. Urban Kolkata, addicted to glitzy malls and silvery flyovers, is no longer sensitive to the struggles of an agrarian Bengal. My romanticism ends then and there when I realize that all cities are the same. Heartless, wasteful and arrogant.

Was it Buddha who said that realization of truth and knowledge of self is path to ultimate freedom? My philosophy has become hazy over the last few years. But it didn’t come in the way of enjoying my new found bliss. As the train left the old railway station with its wheels and pistons gyrating over the rusty dew coated tracks, I experienced something new. The burden of heartaches seems to have lifted from my soul.

And it felt good to be free.

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Published in 8th Day, Sunday supplement, The Statesman, Tuesday, 1 December 2009

Trek to Soul Mountain

2006-09-04T11:27:00.000+01:00

9000 feet above sea level, it’s odd to find one self stuck under the weight of a heavy blanket. As I peer through dilapidated wooden window panes, I am greeted by the outline of a blurred landscape. Though I am lucky to have a roof above my head, most of the other backpackers are not, as they desperately try to pitch their tents against a sea of endless trouble, ranging from heavy rains and mist to lashing winds. The roof does not guarantee a peaceful sleep, as I remain tense thinking of the trek to Llaqa tomorrow which may involve taking on these very forces of nature which, as of now, I can safely afford to watch from a distance.

Think of lush green fields, spread out as an exotic carpet covered by a grey layer of mist and when the covers come off, the iridescent countryside reveals itself. The snow sprinkled cliff of Dhauladhar towers above the surrounding white and grey clouds. At Triund, located 2827 metres above sea level, you can sit on a gigantic granite block and enjoy such visual delights as the sun sets in a proximal horizon, clothing drab clouds and mountain tops in shades of lilac and orange. And when it disappears, stars come out in a clear sky and below, McLeodganj lights up in its electric glory.

The road map to Triund via Dharamshala and McLeodganj is quite easy to follow. A bus ticket (with price ranging from Rs. 250-800) from ISBT, New Delhi will take you straight to either, depending on your zeal to deviate from the goal and soak in as much of local colour as possible. If you are lucky enough and in the monsoons the bridges have not been washed away, then the ride will be enjoyable. Otherwise, be warned of detours which consume both bones and time ruthlessly. To erase unpleasant memories of my bumpy ride, I stopped at Dharamshala to taste the momo’s and varieties of plum and apple wine (quite cheap at Rs. 190 a bottle and available at numerous corner shops). I then proceeded to take up quarter at Mcleodganj, the well known residential town of the Dalai Lama, and discovered that accommodation was rarely a problem, with rooms ranging from Rs 200 to 2500 readily available. Since the town was dotted with cafeterias and bakeries, I merrily dug into French croissants, pastries, “lafing” (a Tibetan arrowroot dish), mutton cubes, sausages and a host of other stuff. In between, also managed to raid the local bookshops and picked up a long sought copy of “Tibetan Book of Living and Dying”; few C.D’s of Tibetan music and bought gemstone jewellery for the girls back home.

Finally it was time to bid adieu to the “thanka” draped market lanes and streets smelling of exotic incense sticks and head for the mountains, leaving Mcleodganj to the lost children of the flower power generation as they sought salvation in Buddhist prayers and an occasional joint.

The trek began early morning at 5 A.M from Mcleodganj. Huffed and puffed all the way up to Gallu with the knapsack weighing an already heavy me further down. Thankfully Vijay, the caretaker of a small tourist lodge allowed me to dump my luggage at his place. Considerably lightened, I geared up for the real trek that awaited me.

The long and winding road to Triund is simple to follow but difficult to negotiate. It cuts across pine woods and ravines and I am lucky to have the company of clear blue skies and a refreshing breeze. I hum a Johnny Nash song that fits the occasion perfectly. The arduousness of the trek shouldn’t stop you from soaking in the sun and a fantastic high altitude view of Mcleodganj. And I stopped, not only to smell the conifer filtered breeze but also drink water running down from mountain springs that dot the way.

The relaxing part of the trek extends till Magic View Café, located halfway between Mcleodganj and Triund. Rajinder Sharma, the owner for the last 15 years, speaks impeccable English and knows the terrain like the back of his hand. He offers useful tips for the road ahead. Here I meet a group of German women who brought two shepherd dogs from home and watched amazed, as these magnificent beasts effortlessly guided their owners across the narrow and slippery route.

As predicted by Rajinder, the approach to Triund is quite difficult. The climb becomes increasingly steep and out of the blue, a thick blanket of mist descends. It’s difficult to see even a metre ahead. I whistle to trekkers ahead of me to check whether I am on the right track. The stepping stones have become moist and slippery as multiple streams cut their way across the mountain walls and flows down to the gorge below. Thankfully, I am properly equipped and trekking boots keep my feet high and dry, above rushing waters.

Unfortunately that doesn’t occur for rest of the body. My T-shirt is dripping wet with sweat and the hair on my bare arms catches on to water droplets from the rising mist and dangles them at the tip. Getting drenched from both inside and outside is a new experience. Drying sweat drenched faces with ends of shirt sleeves, me and my trekking pals move on. The barking of German shepherds cut through the mist telling us that we are close.

Soon enough the narrow road opens up and I find myself standing on a plateau. Then and there like a fool on the hill “with my head in the clouds”, I stand breathless, waiting for the initial fatigue to get over. And then the endless wait begins, as we sit inside the forest department rest house waiting for the mist and rain to clear. And when both these forces of nature withdraw, we find ourselves standing on a little patch of paradise, face to face with Dhauladhar, our Soul Mountain.

The next 3-4 hours I was just sitting there, surrounded by a luminous green carpet, looking at the grey mountain mottled with pristine white glaciers. A steaming cup of tea arms me against the cold breeze. Slowly, as I and many other trekkers come out of our collective reverie, we rediscover speech; as such pristine beauty puts word wrap on articulation. And when we talk now, it seems that this experience brought us all together and we no longer spoke in different tongues. For that precious one moment in our lives, we realised that we existed beyond politics, race and cultural divisions.

All night, I drink and converse with our newly found friends from Italy and England. Georgio Trumpsi is a biology teacher from Italy who arrived at Mcleodganj to attend Dalai Lama’s sermon and would be going back tomorrow taking his quixotic but extremely durable tent with him. The rest are a bunch of crazy Englishmen who kept themselves awake all night playing Bridge and left at 4 in the morning with their Nepali guide, heading for the glaciers above Llaqa. I dared not to be that adventurous and 2 hours later headed the same way for Llaqa.

The distance may have been only 5 kms from Triund, but the difficulty level was increasing exponentially. The climb was steeper and unlike the Gallu – Triund route, the track was not very clear. Good Samaritan’s had drawn arrows in blue and red that pointed towards Llaqa but the mist was up early to cover them up. I tried following the tracks of the British team which they had left on dew soaked earth. The mist came in the way again. Whistling would be of no help here and so I moved ahead till luck turned out to be a lady from Spain who was returning from Llaqa. She had camped there for the last two days and loved the incessant rainfall. The mist failed to cloak the excitement in her eyes and that chance meeting urged me on.

Though being a snowline area Llaqa doesn’t greet you with snow in August. That’s what I knew. The locals disagreed. Their experience tells them that there used to be snow at Llaqa even in July, years ago. Somehow, things have changed and even the glaciers have receded. Come November, the whole area, where I sit and chat so peacefully, would be covered with snow.

I really didn’t want to go back so soon to Triund and then head back to Mcleodganj. And Llaqa offered me enough incentives to stay back for another couple of hours. It resulted in a visit to the glacier fed blue green stream and a risky yet adrenaline pumping exercise of rock climbing on the way back. Needless to say, with everything around you being wet and slippery, it is almost madness. But then when you are inaccessible to judgemental terminologies of a civilized world, you taste pure, unadulterated freedom. It helps shake off the dust in your veins.

As I now trekked back on the familiar route towards Mcleodganj, the dread of being greeted by crowded streets was creeping in. Mcleodganj has fallen to the merciless vagaries of tourism. It is on its way to becoming another vertical shantytown like Mussorie, Manali, Kullu and Shimla. Slowly most hill stations in India will suffer the same plight. In the name of tourism, serenity has been leased out to heavy vehicles and garbage dumps. I heard people talk of Government plans to make Triund more accessible to tourists. That would mean growing piles of pet bottles and aluminium foils. Loud music and butter splattered aloo ke paranthe at the foothills of Dhauladhar. Seemed like a nightmare which will become reality soon.

And then our children and those after them will have no place to go to save their souls.

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Journey to the Cloud Kissed Land

2006-06-24T12:00:00.000+01:00

As you touch down on Guwahati airport on a cloudy day, you are greeted by odd pastel greenery. As if those rows of areca nut plantations were straight out of a Constable painting. This green greeting would set the tone for your trip to the North East, especially Shillong, the capital of Meghalaya where I am heading to.

Green is the only colour that exists on the long and winding road that leads from Guwahati to Shillong. There is a slight drizzle that adds to the charm. The road, except for a few bottlenecks here and there, is in good shape and a hired private car from the airport can take you to Shillong in 3 hours. This is a costly option. So for those rugged backpackers, which I once used to be, there are more options to count than crows, ranging from shared big yellow taxis to public buses.

To make the long journey a bit more relaxing, I was advised to halt at Nong Poh in Ribhoi district of Meghalaya and dig into the momos, which I did. The momos were accompanied by the bitter pill of life called reality. Things are no longer they used to be and bland tasteless momos accompanied by a lack of better options can simply ruin your day. Fortunately, the weather, the smell of pineapple in the air and the grey coiled roads helps erase that unfortunate experience and you are back to joie de vivre in no time.

As you get closer to Shillong, your approach rendezvous with Bodopaani, one of the biggest lakes in Shillong. It’s a marvellous site, and the clouds gently kiss the water surface in the southern corner. There is an odd mix of red and green on the banks, one side deeply forested and some totally bare with the red top soil exposed.

Leaving Bodopaani behind we head towards Pinewood Hotel. It’s one of the oldest heritage hotels in Shillong. The occidental structure emanates pride of a colonial legacy. The charges are well beyond a backpackers reach; however the wooden floors and the unused fire place lend a charm of their own.

The object of my visit to the ‘Scotland of the East’, as many usually refers to Shillong as such (though in terms of natural resources and hospitality it can give its colonial counterpart a run for its money) is to explore the myths and realities of the Sacred Groves. We are heading straight towards the ones located at Mawphlang village, 25 kms from Shillong. The journey is a pleasant one and since eternal sunshine is for spotless minds, my polka dotted one got its share of unpredictable weather. From sunny days to heavy weather, everything changes within short time periods. Hence the buzzword for the trip, in remembrance of Boy Scout days, is “be prepared”.

What is a sacred grove? The answer dates hundreds of years back, before the advent of Christianity in the north east, where tribal cultures, animistic in spirit, worshipped patches of dense forests, ascribing them the abode of deities with positive and negative powers.

To know the true history of the Mawphlang Sacred Grove, we first met Ba Tambor Lyngdoh (Ba meaning Mr. in Khasi language) the Secretary, Hima Mawphlang, Mawphlang Lyngdohship. Tambor is one of those unique people who has dedicated his life to the protection and preservation of these sacred groves. He turns out to be a human encyclopaedia of history of sacred groves and a repository of the customs and cultures associated with it. He traces the history of the groves to primordial times where a breakaway group came and settled down in these parts and one main criterion was to set up a sacred grove as according to traditional Khasi belief no kingship could function without one.

Why is a sacred grove so important to local culture? Tambor tells me that initially a sacred grove was set out mostly as a sacrificial ground and also as a place of worship for divinity. Religious festivals and rituals were centred on these groves in order to seek divine protection from aggression or disease.

“Maw” means stone and “phlang” means grass. The Mawphlang Sacred Grove is home for two guardian deities, one in the shape of a leopard (khlathapsim) and and it’s the benevolent one. The other takes the form of a snake (bsein) and is deemed the opposite. In local myth, those who have seen the leopard God have led a life of prosperity while those who had encountered the other had been showered with afflictions which would have even made Job feel that his was royal treatment.

Tambor was kind enough to accompany us to the hallowed grounds. It was difficult to see much through the steady drizzle. The aged gatekeeper lifted the bamboo pole the separated us from the road that leads to the sacred grove. Within a few minutes what I saw would remain in memory forever.

Rising up from the surrounding flat landscape stood a thick deep green mass of trees. One feels completely helpless when confronted with such a breathtakingly beautiful sight. Even though viewed through a semi transparent screen the sacred grove (lawkyntang in Khasi) has an eerie internal iridescence. Outside the sacred groves lies a cluster of ancient monoliths. These monoliths (mawbynna) are stone structures that serve as respectful reminders of elders in the community who have passed away. The vertical ones signify men while the ones that are laid down horizontally represents women.

As you enter the evergreen hallowed grounds the light seems to dim considerably. Slowly, as your eyes adjust, a strong leafy smell hits you. However, it’s quite refreshing. Where the canopy cover manages to block the sunlight completely, one finds patches of carpets made out of fallen leaves. The ground beneath your feet is uncannily soft, as if a royal carpet has been laid out for visitors. We stand surrounded by absolute silence, broken gently by the patter of rain falling on leaves, and giant roots, which, after many years, have asserted freedom and spread out their network on open ground. Yet, a sense of awe and fear creeps into me. Tambor told me many stories of what happened to those who in slightest ways, showed disrespect to the grove. One woman, who had broken a twig with leaves to fan herself, came out to find that her ears had bloated to the size of an elephants. Might sound comic to urbanites, but in these parts of the world, these are experiential, witnessed and corroborated by many. The beauty of this strange and surreal world is a heady brew; it numbs your senses, makes you feel that unlike those roaming clouds, you have finally discovered home.

Yet, beauty and poetry cannot shield the sacred groves from the threats of a globalized world. Advent of Christianity was the first major threat. Many such groves were identified as sanctuaries for pagan Gods in the North East and butchered. Blind faith has been replaced by greed. Orchids get stolen from the grove and sold at Shillong. Fiscal valuation of timber has an addictive appeal to many. Much would have been lost had not the kingship and people like Tambor prevailed. The local durbar (equivalent to a panchayat), and concerned citizens have made quite an effort to preserve this grove but they have rarely been compensated or praised for such a unique achievement. As the debate on conservation of protected areas and anthropogenic pressure rages on, with the most contemporary being the Tribal Rights Bill, 2005, the sacred grove of Mawphlang restores faith in my personal belief that human needs and ecosystem survival can be balanced.

------Amitangshu Acharya is a Development Professional working with Winrock International India. The views and opinions expressed in this article are his and not necessarily those of WII.

Special thanks to: Ba Tambor Lyngdoh, Banteilut Lyngdoh Nongbri, Aiban Lyngdoh, Mamta Borgoyary.

Published in The Telegraph, North East Edition on August 02, 2006, also available at

http://www.telegraphindia.com/1060802/asp/northeast/story_6555105.asp

Talking Stones

2006-02-21T09:28:00.000Z

Ray’s last film, Agantuk (The Stranger) was based on the life of a man who after seeing the pictures of bison’s in prehistoric cave paintings decided to leave his middle class comfort zone and surrender to an Odyssey of wanderlust. Growing up on Ray writings, to look at those very cave paintings was an adolescent day holy grail. Never for once did I realize that it would become a reality not in Altamira or Lascaux but in a barren and dusty corner of my own country.

Nobody knows whether the mythical “Bhima” sat on these flat rocks to give it a name that lasts today. Bhimbetka (Bhim–bait-ka) perhaps goes much beyond myth and becomes matter for the creation of many such for the coming ages. For eons ago, imagination was unleashed on these silent stones much before civilizations invented literacy.

Situated 45 kilomtres from Bhopal, the capital city of Madhya Pradesh, Bhimbetka is located at the foothills of the Vindhyan Mountains on the southern edge of the central Indian plateau. Much of this area comes under the Ratapani Wildlife sanctuary. Its chance discovery was made in 1958 by Dr. V.S. Wakankar, who used his sense of intuitiveness and scientific zeal to unearth evidence of primordial cultures inhabiting these rock shelters. Till date 400 painted rock shelters have been discovered in 5 clusters with Paleolithic evidence from excavations within them. The existence of such a vast and ancient habitat was made possible by easy availability of resources such as water and forests. However what at one point of time could have been called a pristine environment now lies degraded and exploited by a new post colonial management regime that retains all malpractices of the “gora sahibs”.

The first thing that strikes you, as you gingerly proceed towards the towering rocks is a sense of synthesis. Unlike the magnificent fortresses of Rajasthan which suddenly jumps out of the surrounding greenery and overwhelms you, the stone shelter of Bhimbetka doesn’t seem alien but blends in with the surroundings. Initially you might just wonder for a brief moment about which way to follow. But the “right path” comes naturally to travellers and as you come closer to this cradle of civilization you also melt, lose that urban “sex and the city” identity and perhaps slowly become aware of being a part of a grand and cosmic scheme.

The journey begins from Rock Shelter No.2. You walk down a narrow passage between two humongous sedimentary rocks on both sides that form a natural wall. My guide Vimal tells me that since all are sedimentary rock formations the whole area was believed to be under the ocean millions of years ago. Nature’s handiwork is so amazing that you almost miss out on a small patch at the end till Vimal points towards it and there you are, face to face with your own past.

The wall paintings are etched out in a strange kind of ominous blood red. It’s eerie. The material used is mostly a mixture of vegetable dye and hematite ochre also known as “lal gera khadiya” by the gond tribals in the local language. These offer a glimpse of the life of hunting gathering societies, more intense that that of Tom Hanks in Castaway.

By the time one moves from Rock Shelter 2 to 8, the process of human evolution from hunting gathering to pre agrarian and finally historic comes to light. While the upper Palaeolithic and Mesolithic depict hunting scenes and animals and bits and pieces of social life, early historic and later medieval shows war between races, kingship and the emergence of Hindu gods. As we get more “civilized” we shed more of each others blood and institutionalize hegemony through monarchy and religion.

The most exciting place for me would be the rocks strategically located to give one a bird’s eye view of the surrounding plains. Perhaps for ages, some have been sitting right on the very spot where I jot down these very lines. I wander what he saw. Definitely not the chimneys belching smoke in the horizon. Right in front of me is an extraordinary shaped rock on whom the winds and the rain have exercised their artistry and turned it into a turtle. Is this nature’s attestation that the rocky plains were once an ocean bed? Perhaps I am thinking too much. Or perhaps in this enchanted grounds where magic is intertwined with every bit of visual history, the impossible seems otherwise.

Just near view point, the rock shelter has paintings that depict the cultural lives of the people in the upper Palaeolithic. The dancers hold each others hands and even within the restrictions of time and immobility respond to the beats emanating from ancient drums. The stationary becomes mobile in the Santhal villages of today where such depicted dance forms acquire passion and grace and makes these illustrations so real and earthly that for a moment the past becomes the present, each inseparable from the other.

Sadly, the ownership of such culture no longer lies who are the true inheritors. The Gonds, the Pradhans and the Korkus, the adivasis in this area show strong links to such ancient cultures. Even today the walls paintings on adivasi houses show a continuity of the artwork in the caves. The base material for most of the paint used remains the same, a form of local knowledge retained through centuries. And yet the discovery of the Bhimbetka caves led to a complete termination of the local communities as they were promptly settled in buffer zones, far away to come in contact with their own historic assets. If we weren’t content stealing cultures, we stole their resources too. The Ratapani sanctuary also turned the true protectors of the forests into thieves and poachers. Many of such forest dependant practises which were documented in colour on the stone walls of Bhimbetka still exist. However, with progress and development, many of such are dying out.

The dumb struck passages between rocks bear testimony to the birth of civilizations. These are paintings not merely on stone but a vast canvas of history of a different kind. It talks of people who lived and died and left a part of their existence behind. Its time to pick up the pieces.

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Published in 8th Day, Sunday supplement, The Statesman, May 29, 2006

Mythical Discoveries

2005-11-20T12:14:00.000Z

My magical mystery tour of rural Rajasthan began a few months ago and within this short period of time, it grew into me like a second skin. In depth coverage of its multiple socio cultural contexts is an impossible dream but one needs to make that attempt to be closer to people, for the picture of real Rajasthan comes from the grassroots. A state mired in caste hierarchies, gender inequity and regional poverty, and yet the charm remains and reflects off the dusty roads and brightly coloured turbans.

The narrow lanes of old Udaipur can be a motorist’s nightmare but a traveller’s paradise. As one crosses one gate after the other, the lanes twist around and break up into offshoots and within those dark and dimly lit corners creativity is set free on wood, leather, metal and hand made paper. The shops outside the City Palace are replete with exotic items, which glitter from afar. Amidst all this colour and smell of sweaty travellers and lavender incense sticks I heard the first plaintive tunes of "Rawanhatta". The performer, bedecked in glittering clothes and brass ghumroos, was playing the instrument and singing "Luma", an ancient and popular folk rendition, oblivious of the myriad gazes from those who had crowded around him. A few weeks later, while aimlessly strolling in "shilpagram" in the outskirts of the city, I came across Kaluram Bhopa.

The Bhopas of Naanri, a small hamlet located in Banar village of Jodhpur, are the traditional knowledge holders and performers of "Rawanhatta". This amazing instrument has goat leather for base material, the body made from bamboo, the support made from buffalo horn and coconut shell. Most of these materials are locally available and it involves phenomenal understanding of tuning to turn such "unconventional" materials into a musical instrument.
Perhaps more interesting than its description is its history. The name Rawanhatta, derives from Hindu mythology, as it is believed that Ravana, in his effort to bring Sita out of her room and the boundary created by Laxmana (Laxmanrekha) played this instrument. Tearing out the nerves from his wrist he made them into strings. The musical abilities of Ravana had been mentioned in mythological stories before. After Hanuman set fire to Lanka, Ravana was supposed to have played the Veena (Rag Hanuman Todi) and brought down the rains to stem the fire. However, not many know of the version of the "Rawanhatta". Such rural folklores are rare gems in the "subaltern" history of Rajasthan.

Kaluram Bhopa comes from the community of Bhopas, whose household deity is Babuji, an avatar of Laxmana. Since it was Laxmana who picked up the demonic instrument he later transferred it to the community in his second reincarnation. Till date only the Bhopas are traditional players of the Rawanhatta. The only physical memories of such myths are the 10 turns on the body of the Rawanhatta, which coincide with the number of heads of Ravana.
Before parting, Kaluram Bhopa plays a special tune for me. He says, instead of him singing he would let his instrument do all. As he launches on to "Kesariya Balam Padharo Maro Des" you feel the glow and warmth of rural Rajasthan rising out of the sandy, pale yellow soil.

Desert Diaries

2005-11-20T12:12:00.000Z

As the bus navigated the treacherous turns on the road that connected Udaipur to Jodhpur, the silvery half moon and the silent trees were the only witnesses to the risks of mechanized existence.

Leaving my backache and me at Jodhpur, it rattled and hummed ahead and I stood there at the empty crossroads and observed the yellow city waking up from its early winter slumber. Auto rickshaws, shaped like parallelograms, were plying the streets and as I walked towards the railway station on the dawn kissed pavements, little by little the charms of Jodhpur were getting unravelled.

The desert car rally began from the city centre early afternoon and soon we hit the dirt tracks that led towards the open desert in an Indian file. Covering selves, and the sparse vegetation around with dust clouds our journey on four wheel drives across the yellow landscape was an attempt to thwart the challenge of humongous sand dunes. Tired, dust coated and yet victorious we reached camp at Manwar in Jodhpur late evening.

Under the shadow of the smoke belching out of the bonfire at the centre Ilimdin Langa and his troupe performs. The light from the burning torches casts eerie shadows on to the concrete stage. The performance began with a rendition of " Chirmi"; a folk song that hails from Barmer about a beautiful young bride who was so fragile that even a leaf could cut through her skin. The instruments used are mostly indigenous. They include, the morchang (jews harp) algoza (double flute), khartal (wooden clappers), and the usual harmonium, dhol and a matka (water pot). The Langas are a muslim caste group that specializes in folk music. As they proceed from one song to the other, the night slowly transforms into a surreal dream sequence.

In Osian, a few days later, I met the troupe managed by Yusuf Khan Langa. This experienced group has travelled across continents and has a more global look and feel to it. That it was market savvy became apparent when they opened their act with feet tapping rendition of "Mast kalandar" an essentially sufi song which has nothing to do with rural Rajasthan. Honest answers came after enquiries, "the people love it". The cultural context has rapidly changed as external influences have steadily increased over the years. The Langas, though being essentially Muslims, sing songs that are connected to hindu rituals such as "shaadi" and "holi". Probably this remains one of the major examples of culture going beyond religious barriers. It becomes apparent that instead of state encouragement the existence of oral traditions passed on through hereditary links have served the purpose of keeping such forms of culture alive.

One such example is the example of Babloo, a Kalbelia, who performs with this Langa troupe. One of the most respected Kalbelias, Babloo is a regular fire-eater and breather in the true sense of the term. As he goes about his bold exploits, turning his mouth into a miniature active volcano, his body glistening with sweat, you realize, that coming from a village where recurrent droughts have made the land completely barren, getting two square meals a day is much more difficult task than his immediate occupation. His only happiness lies in the fact that unlike many of his fellow villagers his skill has enabled him to feed a large family for whom he remains the sole breadwinner.

Subaltern Addictions

2005-11-20T12:11:00.000Z

5 km’s of camel ride across the desert can be quite tiring, especially when it’s after sunset with the camel frequently expressing discontent by turning its neck to give you a murderous stare. However the warm musical welcome at the entrance of a 200 year old Haveli lessens it and keeps your mind away from disconcerting thoughts of possible impotency. Perhaps it’s this very fear that drives young men in western Rajasthan to the arms of "afim" or opium, which is supposed to provide them with greater sexual powers, especially after marriage, when, as it is said in this part of the world, they need it most.

Little did we know that our tryst with opium would begin early next morning. As we got up from the charpois to greet a brand new day, the chilly winds never brought in news of an illegal tryst with substance abuse. Waiting for the village elders to arrive with whom we had planned a meeting, we saw that elaborate preparations were being made, especially with well laid out carpets and a small, exotic wooden object being placed at the centre.

"Khar Ghanni" as it is called is your stairway to ecstasy. This innocuous carved wooden contraption is an indigenous "afim" filter that holds tremendous social and cultural significance in this part of Rajasthan. The wooden frame is called "ghanni" and the filters at the two ends of the frame are called "khar". Little black cubes of afim which are prepared by boiling the raw material with jaggery in an ratio roughly measuring 1:10 are usually taken in a bowl and with a small wooden beater, usually seen in the hands of ayurvedic practitioners, the cubes are dissolved in water till the colour becomes a sinister deep brown. After that its poured into the filters and little by little, drop by drop the heady concoction gathers at the base in a open wooden pot shaped like Alladin’s magic lamp with its lid removed. When the pot gets filled up, the host would pour a little onto his palm and offer it to his guest. This gesture is actually an established form of friendship and rituals such as these are one of the better-known conflict resolution mechanisms in villages. More than court or "kacheri’s", traditional offerings of opium has solved many a family feud and initiated marriage relations between two families. Once one drinks from the palm of the other, both accept each other’s friendship that would possibly last a lifetime. It’s also necessary that the one to whom the liquid is offered take three such "palmfuls", otherwise the whole exercise remains incomplete.

Curiosity may have killed the cat, but with me, it wasn’t that radical. As I took my first three "ghuts" (mouthfuls), it seemed quite nice and syrupy. Emboldened by such beginners luck, I rushed into two more sessions. Still nothing. I was getting a bit suspicious. Perhaps in an attempt to entertain us they had given us really diluted versions that would do us no harm. Hence, I popped 2 to 3 raw opium laced jaggery cubes, just in case. As I was concluding the session with my last desperate mouthful, Shiva must have smiled for soon I was ready to join Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.

Yet, at the end of the day, there was a need to de-link the elite urban infatuation with drugs. Within the rural context, there remains harrowing tales of how women, hard pressed with their daily domestic chores, give opium to their toddlers in an effort to make them sleep. On a daily basis, as the locals say, one man consumes 1 litre of opium. Consumption, in such large quantities, surely will not be beneficial. However, the demand supply chain is strong here, especially with western Rajasthan being close to the Pakistan border. As long as basic developmental inputs fail to reach these water starved, drought prone areas, all things illegal will bloom for the law was never known to fill a hungry stomach.

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All of the above three was published as a single cover story titled Smoky Days, published in 8th Day, Sunday supplement, The Statesman, on 26th December 2005

Re-Discovering Home

2005-09-01T11:40:00.000+01:00

26.8.05
As I write, dried leaves, well targeted, fall right into the gap between my shirt collar and neck and then by breaking up into smaller pieces, induce a strange kind of sensation by rubbing against my sun-burnt skin.

I was sent here, in the rural heartland of Rajasthan for a week, completely on my own in order to understand communities and contexts better. And here I am, sitting on a “charpai” under a “kiker” tree and watching the winds changing the landscape with its magic brushstrokes. The cornfields are quite a few inches taller than me and I automatically recollect the erotic escapades of lovers in such spots from various adolescent - day -read novels. Strangely, you never feel like a voyeur when you look at nature for every little thing that you see is magical and has layers of mysteries that the human gaze will never uncover.

A million houseflies perform their silly symphony around me after valiant efforts a fighting them off, I surrender to this exasperating force of nature. Last night had been horrible. Sleep became a nightmarish reality as a million pinpricks made me feel like a live acupuncture exhibit for a secret Chinese cult. When I woke up in the morning and used my hosts cracked mirror to view the tortured self, I realized that the bedbug-infested cot had given me the look of a man hunted by the law. After I take off my “kurta" I am treated to a blood smeared pointillist masterpiece. The bedbugs had used my scarred and bleeding back as a grotesque canvas to unleash their creativity.

From previous evening onwards I have grasped the fact that communication with the villagers without a translator is an extremely strenuous job. We both remain confused, each not knowing what to say to the other. Finally it would be an unsaid mutual decision to give up and go our respective ways. Such arrangements are beneficial for both parties as it cuts down on unnecessary wastage of time and money.
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27.8.05

A day went by till the end of the last sentence and contexts have changed accordingly. Last night I had a riotous session with the village kids. While I was engaged in showing them various animals through shadow puppetry, they reciprocated with great enthusiasm in taking my trip. On seeing a butterfly, they would shout “haathi”. After few such cases of erroneous labeling I realized that some village elders were also sitting at the back and egging the children on. At the end of the show I was convinced that I would be the talk of the town for the next few months where stories would circulate of the “videshi” from “Bangal” who made strange animal noises and funny hand gestures.

I had gone for a bath in a nearby stream, which was deep enough to cover my ankles. As I sat on the bank formulating an effective strategy that would enable me to cover self with adequate water, the overwhelming beauty of pristine nature unfolded before me. Herons and other unknown species of birds flew overhead and the water was turning bright blue to green at every bend against a glittering bed of silvery sand. In the center were gigantic boulders that towered over the surrounding landscape and reminded me of the insignificance of human existence in such majestic scheme of things.

The children of my host family refer to me as “khaat ke upar baithne wala”. They must be at a lost to fathom how I manage to keep myself occupied with such a singularly boring activity of writing strange things in an alien script all day. However, I did manage to make new friends (unintentionally) by bringing out my compass. After explaining its functions I was given the impression that I was in possession of one of the most amazing inventions in the world. My afternoon siesta was often interrupted with small groups of people paying visits in order to see a live demonstration. Even after centuries, I feel that within the domain of my own country, I am looked as a white wizard with a magic box with a red arrow that always points towards home. From my point of view, it’s kind of depressing.
…………………………….

28.8.05

I will be leaving Tegra today. A part of me will miss the silence and the beauty while the other, more gluttonous half will invariably miss the food. Late nights have been spent answering an endless stream of questions about home, family and food habits. I had explained about rice and fish being our main diet and last night dinner was a plateful of rice cooked in “ghee ”. The host was apologetic and looked depressed for not having been able to procure fish. I was too dumbfounded to say anything. I never realized that as I was trying to settle down in this house on the hill, they, too, were trying to make it my home away from home. It is then that you discover the essence of simplicity of tribal life where it takes only a couple of days for an outsider to become a family member. Somehow a few nights in this village taught me a great many things, the most important of all was that there was a lot to be unlearnt.
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Tales from a Feudal Past

2005-08-08T14:47:00.000+01:00

It was my second day in Udaipur and before I could get a chance to settle down and look around the "city of lakes" a sudden invitation to visit Kumbhalgarh, a fort around 90km’s northwest from the city was kind of a windfall, especially since the logistics had been arranged for. The road, as informed, is hardly treacherous and with rains hitting one of the greenest spots in Rajasthan, there was promise of unique flora and fauna all the way. The ride began in the morning with a brief stop near Gonguda, where a unique culinary discovery was made. It was an introduction to Rajasthani fast food. "Gota " a kind of miniature pakoda eaten with a sweet dal and "faffra" a fried papad like preparation made out of besan. The preparation of "faffra" involves quite a bit of artistic skill and one can only look in wonder as paper-thin "faffras" frizzle and puff up, acquiring cohesive shape and colour in an oily ocean.

Though the roads are in good shape, there are sharp twists and turns that may upset one’s system especially after a heavy dose of fried goodies. The relief arrived half an hour later in the form of "churans" in different varieties in the Rana Pratap Haldighati museum that is situated on the road that leads to our final destination. Which was once barren land years ago (when I was 10 years younger) now stands a hastily built building which instead of doing justice to the heritage of the place derides it with atrocious sound and light shows. The video footage contains a montage of war scenes ranging from Alexander to the Sword of Tipu Sultan. Aekta, my friend and surrogate mother tells me that it’s quite an improvement over the initial days where the presentations were steeped in hardcore religious fundamentalist banter and anti-muslim rhetoric. Rajasthan remains in the midst of violent caste based politics. Finding a place to stay here can be quite difficult as there are strong criteria’s about vegetarianism, religion and caste that one needs to satisfy first.

Chewing on "churan", we listen to renditions by Abeeda Parveen, the landscape turns green to greener, the roads snake around like a giant serpent from an ancient myth. The green has its own varieties - from grazing lands, which spreads itself like velvet to dry deciduous forestlands. Varieties of cactuses spring out from rocky corners. In this season, the greenery triumphs over all odds.

Kumbhalgarh Fort can startle an unsuspecting visitor by its scale and grandeur. Cradled in the cluster of thirteen mountain peaks of the Aravalli ranges, it rises from a prominent ridge, 1914meters high from the sea level and was built in 15th century AD by Maharana Kumbha and is the principal fortification after Chittaurgarh. It served as a physical separation between the erstwhile Mewar and Marwah regions. Encompassed by a 36-Km long wall, has seven majestic gates and seven ramparts, one within the other. Add a large number of watchtowers and you have a Xanadu at your hands. Typical to most other forts in Rajasthan, it’s situated on the mountain top and hence made it easy for invaders to sit around the lower areas and cut off supply of food and water for a considerable long time till the huge doors of the forts opened with resounding creaks and groans and an extremely hungry and thirsty army came out to engage the enemy in an battle of survival. Surrounded on all sides by dense forests, which at point of time were abound with cheetahs and other wild game for the Rana’s and now has been turned into a protected sanctuary. It has tremendous historic significance in Mewar history for being the birthplace of Maharana Pratap that he recaptured years later from Mughal control made his base of operations. The fort is also pregnant with the much-adulated story of Panna Bai and the sacrifice of her own child in order to save the life of the infant Maharana Udai Singh. The hierarchy of royalty has managed to create slaves out subjects, and till this day that very reality escapes the populace, which are fed on the heroism of the rulers and kept in the dark about the extent of exploitation that was economic, social and cultural in nature. The recent fame of Kumbhalgar fort is primarily due to the shooting of Hazaro Khwaishen Aisi within the palace courtyard. Sudhir Mishra chose the very spot to project the demise of the erstwhile feudal states which was replaced by an iron triangle of politicians, bureaucrats and industrialists who, till this day, has survived by creating a power base which has corrupted and subverted the democracy which we take so much pride in. Eklavya, who accompanied me in this trip and knows the political situation in Rajasthan extremely well believes that the feudal structure that was put into place centuries ago still operates with great efficiency. The role of the tribal Bhil community has been seriously underplayed. Such biases are a part of much folklore where history has been corrupted to maintain status quo.

The highest tower of the building, aptly titled " Badal Mahal" commands a phenomenal view of the surrounding forests. Strong winds buffet against the flagpoles and in that serene silence that’s probably the only sound one will hear. A strange melancholy floats in the air and washes the dust off the smooth marble floors. The sounds of silence can, at times, be also very cruel.

The clouds surrounding the fort finally releases a few kind drops and as we head towards the main gate there is this clichéd last look. It only reinforces the grandiosity of history. History, with a slightly twisted moral.
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Between Sartre and Neo Liberal Paanipuris

2005-07-31T17:03:00.000+01:00

Unbelievable as it might seem, the discovery of previously lost diaries of French philosopher and novelist, Jean Paul Sartre brought to light his obsession with writing a cook book containing recipes that would challenge the meaninglessness of existence. To the utter shock and dismay of the French elites of that time and the perhaps the Kapoor’s and Dalal’s of today, Sartre did attempt revolutionary dishes rubbishing the bourgeois lifestyle. After numerous experiments, which included attempts at eating an omelette in the dark, a black forest cake made out of 5 pounds of cherries and a live beaver, he experienced existentialist angst and finally retired to good old cigarettes and black coffee with considerable iron in his soul.
Bharti ‘bhen’ has no such radical urges. Sitting pretty in her little shop on the deadly and chaotic six point Satellite crossing in Ahmedabad just opposite the Swaminaryan temple, she beams at customers who throng her shop everyday in the evening hours. If Sartre was a culinary existentialist Bhartibhen is definitely a more market savvy neo liberal one. To a parochial Bengali with a gluttonous appetite, Bhartibhen has tremendous significance for she is the Anatole of paanipuris in this country, which for the visitors to Vivekananda Park would mean “phuchka”.
A lot many things makes Bhartibhen’s “paanipuris” different as it involves a great deal of “out of the matka” thinking. “Paani” in paanipuri has a multiple context for her. While Calcuttan’s will be comfortable with “tetulgola jal” (tamarind water), Bhartibhen offers six varieties of such preparations. Her list includes Mix (the contents of which remain unknown), Jeera, Ginger-Lemon, Pudina, Hajmahajam and the mouth freshening Garlic. The first “round” will be a magical mystery tour of the abovementioned varieties and after that the customers can choose what they like.

Such mouth”watering” preparations is not the only reason behind Bhartibhen’s claim to fame. There is technicality involved in the maintenance of quality of such eclectic concoctions as they are prepared from mineral water (or perhaps packaged drinking water since many a times people fail to distinguish between the two). This is in sync with this city, which has problems accessing safe drinking water (which a 1000 dams on the Narmada will not solve). Hence the Ahmedabadi’s do not have to worry about health impacts while a phuchka lusty bong will shove aside such trivial issues and watch with baited breath as the Bihari phuchka seller plunges the phuchka and his ghutka-preparing-nose-digging hand right into that delectable fluid.
The other source of pride for Bhartibhen is the fact that her rotund “puris” are made from wheat atta and not from suji, flour, channe ka atta or a mix of a couple of these. Though other paanipuri sellers may believe in such mixtures Bhartibhen remains true to her commitment of health.
The success of “The Right Place” as her shop is called, has triggered off the entrepreneur in Bhartibhen. She has opened a branch near Vastrapur and also a Chinese-Indian restaurant near the highway. Even being busy serving her customers she speaks to us with great familiarity. As the cars pile up on the road near her shop we bid adieu to her and walk back to our wee nook. The sun sets over the burning city and soon the gentle winds make love to us. It has been just another day but it brought with it a whole new discovery.

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We can be Heroes

2005-07-04T18:37:00.000+01:00

Image after image flashes past on the TV screen. Images of hunger, images of disease, images of death. Poverty.
And then the gigantic speakers start humming the strains of “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”.
It is huge. Paul McCartney sharing stage space with U2. Trademark Rickenbacker over his shoulder, Macca launches into “Sgt. Pepper’s”. This is vintage old school. As the whole world stands to watch this revolutionary event we realize that a great movement has finally reached its pinnacle.

It was twenty years ago today…

1969. Woodstock. Summer of love. Flower Power. A new generation looking back in anger to become rebels without a clue. Festivals gave the angry youth a new space. That was where everyone wanted to be.

Then came the Rolling Stones’ Altamont Speedway disaster. A free event, policed by the notorious motorcycle gang of Hell’s Angels, it lives in infamy in rock history as the day a black fan was murdered by whites at a concert by whites singing black songs. It led to a more sober and mature understanding of music in the seventies. Two years later, the Concert for Bangladesh reflected that very feeling and raised certain humanitarian issues, but it was something of a flash in the pan. The next thing in line – the Raceway in Watkins Glen, New York. Watched by 600,000 spectators, it included extended jam sessions and reverted to the older tradition of rock festivals, chill-out joints for marathon drug and sex sessions. However, a message had been sent, though the bottle beached eight years later, in 1979, when the concert for the needy in war-torn Cambodia took place. It was a start. The doors of perception had been opened. A five-night concert series held in Madison Square Garden, New York City, titled Concerts for a Non-Nuclear Future, was organised by MUSE (Musicians United for Safe Energy), but the response was hardly encouraging. Whatever success the concert managed to garner was solely because of the presence of Bruce Springsteen, proving that the man was more important than the issue. Moreover, rock festival chroniclers believe that the overtly politicised agenda of the concert impeded audience interest. MUSE was a little too early for its time.

So, it was twenty years ago today. On July 13, 1985, Bob Geldof, the lead singer of the Boomtown Rats decided to send an SOS to the world. Inspired by a 1984 Michael Buerk documentary for the BBC that brought to light the horrors of famine and droughts that had led to mass starvation deaths in Ethiopia, Geldof rallied his friends in the music world and organized “the greatest show on earth”. The first Live-Aid concert kicked off with Status Quo as 74,000 people at Wembley Stadium geared up for a 12 hour marathon concert featuring the who’s who of the music world. David Bowie was there. As were Elton John, Dire Straits, Queen and the Boomtown Rats. The Who reunited, as did Led Zepellin, with Phil Collins joining them replacing the departed drummer, John Bonham. It was a carnival with a cause. A phenomenal sum of around 10 million pounds was collected in one day.

Live-Aid stood out as a testimony of our times and the power of music that changed value systems to trigger off a process that would perhaps lead to a better world. It seemed as if “another world was possible”.

“Good afternoon. We are REM, and this is what we do.” Michael Stipe, with blue face paint all over, sings “Everybody Hurts” as stills of emaciated children transfix three billion pairs of eyes to the giant screens. Everybody cries, sometimes…

The condition in Africa is grim, and that’s an understatement. As we speak a child dies every three seconds. 30,000 children die of extreme poverty, everyday. 1 million Africans die of malaria every year while 200 million go hungry everyday. 17 million have already died of AIDS and 25 million are infected out of which 1.9 million are children. 70% of the population of Sub-Saharan Africa lives on less than 20 dollars a day while 30 million dollars are paid per day to clear existing foreign debts. Families eat cakes made of sugar, butter, water and clay, because they have nothing else. A mother makes her children lie near a pot that is apparently full of food. In reality, it has stones boiling in water. She can only hope they’ll fall asleep waiting for dinner. That’s poverty.

What’s ironic here is that most of the aid provided is meant to erase the very statistics that we blurted out one after the other. Bob Geldof realised it too. Even after innumerable fund raising ventures, the condition has not improved. The reason is clear – when you give aid as charity you don’t expect the recipient to be empowered. You create dependence on unpredictable externalities, the consequences of which are catastrophic. Geldof has addressed the issue at the more fundamental level. Relief and aid are like patchwork on a beggar’s rag. They are required to boost sectors like health and education since the money that should have been allocated for such activities are diverted to clear foreign debt. The greed of international institutions is such that even if David Bowie sold the world a couple of times, he still wouldn’t be able to satisfy it. It’s a Catch 22 with a twisted end. To promote investment in a neo liberal economy the developing countries open their doors, kill subsidies and local entrepreneurship which results in mass poverty. On the other hand in an attempt to address poverty and its spin offs they are forced to bring out their begging bowls and plead for more aid which means more structural adjustments and more poverty.

Though Live 8 promotes aid, a better understanding of its distribution is required. One need not go very far. The aid and relief received by our very own country has rarely reached those who needed them most. Australian feathered quilts sent for the cyclone affected people in Orissa in 1998 were mostly distributed within the families of bureaucrats and political cadres. Unfair distribution of aid has resulted in strengthening the hands of the rich and ultra marginalization the poor.

Roger Waters, David Gilmour, Richard Wright, Nick Mason. Making music together after what has been far too long. This is history being scripted. “Pigs have flown”, reads a banner. The pipers have returned to the gates of a new dawn.

Bob Geldof is a hero of our time. He has single-handedly pulled off a miracle. Live 8 was not about charity. It is about justice. 10 concerts all over the world. More than a hundred musicians, and a lot of hope floating. Live 8 enumerates a three-point plan, meant for the G8 summit at Gleneagles. First, fairer trade laws to regulate trade dumping. Secondly, cancellation of debt. Thirdly, more and better aid. This is where Live 8 was so unique. “We don’t want your money, we want your name”, the scrollers kept saying. Because Live 8 was not only about raising funds. For probably the first time in the history of music concerts, it was an attempt at addressing poverty at its roots. The very basic, the most fundamental of all human problems, the lack of food, was what it sought to redress. Live 8 had overstepped the limitations of Live-Aid. It tackled the issue of multiple levels. It realizes the need for immediate intervention to save a lot many lives and create a world where there would be no such immediate needs in the future. The moment the word “justice” replaced “charity”, a lot was achieved as it recognized the right of every individual to live and the responsibility of one towards the other. Most importantly, the event sought to bring about a change through awareness and sensitise an increasingly apathetic North to a deprived and exploited South.

Rarely in human history has music become a change agent. Live 8 has managed just that. Though concerts for a cause have become a regular event in the west, it has not taken root in the east. Except for a rare Ravi Shankar collaboration with George Harrison for the Bangladesh Concert, the Indian music scene, largely, has never signified protests (excluding Indian Ocean and their contribution to Narmada and a few other honourable exceptions). One need not go as far as Africa. We have our Africa right here. Kalahandi, Bolangir, Purulia, Telengana, its an endless list. Our rock bands, bangla or not, still croon love songs while a large number of indigenous tribals are being displaced from Kossipore, Orissa, due to aluminium mining. Music in India still doesn’t address reality and prefers to look the other way as rights of the people get violated every day.

McCartney is on stage. He’s sitting behind a big black shiny monstrous piano punching the opening bars to “The Long and Winding Road”. On the giant screen, a road appears, snaking its way to a map of Africa. It’s the last song of a 12 hour melody of protest. The orchestra’s getting ready to leave, when Macca jumps into a spine-tingling sha na na na Hey Jude. The crowd erupts into a spontaneous chorus, matching him note for note, bringing back memories of twenty years ago, memories of a slightly younger McCartney playing “Let It Be” to wrap up the show.

The stage is filled in the wink of an eye. Every star is on it, singing the refrain lustily. This is the stuff of legend. For years to come grandparents will be telling their grandchildren why there was magic in the air on July 2nd, 2005. Twenty years ago, Geldof was carried onstage by Paul McCartney and Pete Townshend. This time, he’s hoisted up onto the grand piano. They’re all there, singing. Sha na na na. This is more sixties than the sixties ever were. This is true flower power. This is what music is all about. “Don’t let them tell you this stuff doesn’t work. It works. You work”, Geldof shouts into the microphone, “Make poverty history”.

Thanks Bob. It’ll work.

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This article was jointly scripted by the author and Sudipto Sanyal

From a Culture of Silence to a Culture of Protest

2005-06-17T18:46:00.000+01:00

If there was one thing one could have been proud of Calcutta during their college years, was the fact that a culture of protest was still ingrained and active through various political and cultural processes in the city. While the student community in the rest of India has more or less lost its space for protest and is being slowly gobbled up by the lure of a MNC dominated world, Calcutta according to many had retained that space with fierce devotion.

However, that very space of thinking beyond self and of larger macro issues had disappeared and a new Pizza munching generation had emerged who couldn’t think beyond preparing for CAT and Sex and the City. The Afghanistan invasion, which happened in my college years never created a dent in our daily lives and was never a discourse in our canteen hours. Somehow, the films of Truffaut and Tarkovsky were more important, and for a larger section, the Scorpions concert.

After the Iraq invasion and subsequent re-election drive by George W Bush, an article reached via email written by a Yale student (Enter Right: Exit Left) who discovered that while the campus at one point of time was reactive to various issues such as the Vietnam War and the invasion of Nicaragua were now espousing an aggressive foreign policy and wholeheartedly supported the invasion of Iraq. That’s Yale. Our very own ivy leagues perhaps had been reduced to the same status.

The college that I have studied in was out of the reach of party politics. Yes, undoubtedly it had its own advantages and we exchanged knowing smiles when we heard the conflict that used to occur between opposing political factions in Presidency and Jadavpur. We were content that we were above and beyond that. As a students union member myself I often doubted that whether the Unions in a majority of colleges had any functions beyond organizing fests and engaging in petty politics. What else could you have asked for? My friends would have barked. You want people to manufacture bombs in the Green Benches? That point of time I had no answers but deep inside, there was a feeling that something was going wrong. In our college student’s union elections only class representatives and secretaries of various societies were allowed voting privileges (it’s ethically wrong to call them rights) denying a majority of the population of the college to choose their representatives. Many a times we needed to put up a united front against a draconian administration that pushed their agendas down our throat. Such a thing never happened and we remained meek lambs who needed to be commanded and guided by chosen shepherds.

The recent incident in Jadavpur University took me as well as many of you by surprise. Honestly, I had never expected the student populace of Calcutta, drugged by film and theatre festivals to rise in protest against a system that itself had emerged as an aftermath of a student’s movement. I have grown up listening to tales of the 70’s and the process by which numerous young minds have been butchered. Yet the cycle of the oppressed becoming the oppressor continues though in subtler shades of red.

Honestly speaking, it’s not about whose side you are on. It’s about what’s right and what’s wrong. It’s a basic human right for people in a democratic society to organise a sit in for a cause. It’s a violation of that very right when they are physically assaulted. That my friend, lets agree, is wrong.

It takes courage in these trying times to think beyond ones self interests. Hence when I see students from Presidency College coming together to join hands with their friends in JU, they are moving towards a creation of that space and revival of that culture of protest.

It’s an opportune moment to create a more participatory and democratic forum enabling us to voice our opinions and views. Such forums do not require the mandatory sanction of political parties and stands to remind the state that its existence depends in the protection of our rights and not in their violation.

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The author has recently completed his post graduation from Tata Institute of Social Sciences and is working on the issue of ecological restoration with an NGO in Rajasthan.

Last Days in Kaza

2005-05-03T21:11:00.000+01:00

Though we lack in progress here
We have happy peace of mind
Though we have no technologies
We have way of deeper Dharma
- Tashi Rabgyas, reputed Ladakhi Poet

A full moon night in Kaza will turn any visitor into a poet. In a perfectly deep blue sky, the moon, with its pure radiance swathes the landscape in pearly white. The snow clad valley, surrounded by towering peaks, seeps in every beam and the Spiti river, like quicksilver, cuts across, leaving behind a musical trail of rushing waters that echoes throughout. We watch, breathless, as nature spreads itself out on a giant canvas. Spiti valley is finally revealing itself in full glory.

After a depressing Siberian week, the Sun finally announced its arrival by melting the frost on our windowpanes. It was time that the two would be social actors got on their job and out of their multiple heavy blankets.

Spitian society is unique in more ways than one. Geographically, it is located at the meeting point of Tibeto- Buddhist and Pan -Hinduistic cultures. However, Buddhism remains the dominant belief system. A large number of monasteries of the Sakya order (offshoot of Vadjrayana Buddhism) dot the landscape right from TABO to KEE. Demonology is an inherent part of the local customs and manifests itself through black magic and other such practices. Yet the idea of simplicity and humility which are basic tenets of such a religion makes the harsh terrain more hospitable as smiling faces and steaming cups of tea greet us in every village we visit. Spitian society, though relatively cut off from the outside world is and has been exceptionally progressive. Women enjoy a greater degree of freedom here unlike their counterparts in the plains of the North. Widow remarriage, love marriage and live-in relationships have been and are in vogue here while the rest of the country has been persecuting those who practice or espouse such beliefs.

Sunil Chauhan, our friend from MUSE, a NGO that’s working on sustainable livelihoods in the region informed us about the dying practice of “Shung” where young unmarried men, bolstered by passion and “arack” used to congregate in groups and armed with ladders conducted midnight raids into unsuspecting young maidens rooms. Consenting pairs would indulge in nightlong passionate lovemaking and the tired but jubilant lover would gently sneak out in the early morning hours.

Talking about “arack”, alcoholism is a part of life here and has at times resulted in more harm than good. Rangrik is an unfortunate example and bears the epithet of “widows village”. Locals proclaim it to be an effective defense mechanism against extreme cold. Every household I have been to offer me arack during or after meals and by the time I was through touring one village, the heady concoction exercised its potency. As a result, one fine midsummer afternoon, I walked 6 km’s from Shego to Kaza in a dreamy trance, completely oblivious of dreaded shooting stones, which were landing all around me. My loyalty belongs, however to Chang, the local barley beer. Spitians swear by its effectiveness during the hot summer days where it is consumed in large quantities, which speaks volumes for its cooling capacity.

The royal family of Spiti made our visit all the more worthwhile with their graceful hospitality. Nono Sonam Angdui, the traditional head and his sister Dickeyit, treated us to a sumptuous dinner and later that week, we sat in the inner room, sipping tea and discussing Spitian customs, social organization patterns and Buddhism with Nono (which means Prince in Spitian). A man, who has done his post graduation in sociology from Delhi University, Nono is truly a people’s person who finds the royal title burdensome. In the eyes of his subjects, he remains the “king” more because of the developmental activities initiated by him rather than, perhaps, of lineage.

Spitian society is close to its Ladakhi counterpart in many ways. One needs to read Helena Norberg Hodge’s “Ancient Futures: Learning from Ladakh” to discover similarities. One major commonality is the existence of “amchis” or traditional medicinal practitioners. They possess knowledge of ancient Tibean forms of medicine that dates back to the eight century and is closely related to Buddhism. It originates from “Rgyut Zi”, an ancient text further broken up into four treatises which is all about holistic medicinal practices that takes the mind, body and soul into account. In Spiti, at one point of time, every village had its own amchi but with the onset of western medicine, specially endorsed by the Government through health centers and free distribution of allopathic medicine, the number has come down drastically. The whole of Spiti valley now has barely 40-50 amchis out of which 4-5 are respected and revered widely. Locating the amchis involved a great deal of legwork, as they are located in remote villages. Prevalent weather conditions prevented us from meeting the famous amchi in HANSA and our visit to the one in KHURIK was a depressing affair as he was terminally ill and couldn’t speak to us. We finally managed to track down the amchi in KIBBER, which at one point of time was Asia’s highest village connected by road. Located 4,700 mts above sea level, KIBBER literally puts you on top of the world. Our object of enquiry was situated another km above the village, working on his small patch of land. Grunting and panting simultaneously we finally reached him as he was in the process of yoking together a pair of gigantic yaks. An extremely humble and honest man, he himself admitted that he had been visiting allopathic doctor on several occasions for quick relief. This is what makes all the difference, he said, as people wanted to get well fast in order to get back to work. The entry of money economy has changed the sustainable agricultural practices here and this dependence on external economic processes has had its impact on all forms of Spitian life. The amchis, by tradition has never asked for a fee and later generations found the practice strictly non-profit and moved on. Due to lack of State support, this form of medicinal practices is slowly dying out in the valley and though amchis have registered themselves into a “sangh”, more needs top be done to conserve and promote such processes.

Our time in Spiti was running out like the last traces of winter. A number of invitations for dinner came our way. Amar Singh and his family made sure that our last dinner in Kaza was prepared at their place especially since it was there where we had our first one. The grand finale was listening to FUZON in Pappu’s place and later sinking my teeth into exquisitely prepared chicken cooked by the man himself. Somehow, the valley was growing into us.

It wasn’t as easy as we thought it would be. As the bus was leaving the gates of Kaza we realized that the valley has been our learning ground. It has redefined life for us. The road ran parallel to the Spiti River and followed us all the way to Chango till it merged with the Sutlej and had slowly turned the landscape green by then. Hopefully, memories of a magical moonlit midnight will bring us back to these enchanted grounds.

Between Eros and Thanatos

2005-04-29T11:45:00.000+01:00

Kaza Diaries

Life’s prolonged and peaceful her, amidst these cold mountains. You get to hear your breathing as your lungs make desperate attempts to cope up with the rarified air. Even after leaving memories of Mumbai behind, me and my friend Harsha are yet to attain freedom as we find ourselves enslaved by a vicious “Cold God”, who after making every conceivable effort to assassinate us, lies in wait for the next available opportunity. Within the boundaries of these snow - clad peaks we learn to live a new life and occasionally curse it to.

Kaza, the capital of Lahaul Spiti District of Himachal Pradesh is located near the Indo- China Border and was our destination for final field block placements, a brief hiatus between the end of a “campus career”, in more ways than one. We were to work with an NGO called MUSE, initiated and run by ex-TISSIANS, which is working, on community livelihoods. Our main objective was to witness developmental processes in harsh geo-climatic terrains. Little did we realize that we had ended up bargaining for more than we were expected to.

Destiny played spoilsport the moment we left Shimla for Kaza. Rain and mudslides forced us to get off in Maling where we trekked along the steep treacherous terrains till soggy and disgruntled we finally managed to hitch a ride to TABO. From TABO another cab to KAZA. Things were looking good till heavy snowfall forced us to get off and expose ourselves to climatic extremes as we tried to extricate the cab from the clutches of demon snow. Ultimately surrendering to the forces of nature we sought shelter in the nearby village of Lingti. Even Hotel California would have seemed a less depressing setting as we tried to locate our luggage and ourselves in a dimly lit room. Dinner was noodles and a few vegetables thrown in boiling water. For two hungry and lost souls, it was nectar of the Gods.

For the next two days Lingti would become our Gulag as steady snowfall brought the temperature down to -25°C. We entertained ourselves by throwing snowballs at goats that, unperturbed, remained engrossed in their psychedelic dreams. Finally, on the morning of day 3, we decided to brave a trek to the village of Lingda, 4-6 km’s away, from where, as local sources vouched, transport was available. We packed light, stiched gunny bags around our shoes and grabbing two flimsy walking sticks headed towards Lingda.

The seemingly small stretch proved arduous. The snow had melted in many places to from slush and even after exercising great caution, the ground beneath our feet would deceive us and an inconspicuous foot would go through crumbling ice straight into freezing waters. The covers had come off by then and my toes were fast becoming numb. By the time we reached the base of Lidang, my lungs were burning and even though Harsha had taken most of the load, body weight and an extra ordinary heavy jacket was wearing me down.

A dysfunctional, broken down H.P tourism greeted us and if this gesture was no sinister enough, the alternative was to go for a 1 km steep uphill climb to the village proper and wait for salvation.

As we started our precarious climb upwards we realized that a lot was at risk. Snowfall had picked up speed and changed direction and was pounding my face with full vigour. A considerably thick icy white moustache had formed by then and my eyelids were caked with snow, making even blinking a painful exercise. The snow was knee deep and I felt that I was moving through a glacial quicksand. Halfway through I collapsed, face down, on the virgin snow. There was will power, no courage left to take one more step. I could hear Harsha’s voice form a distance urging me get up. With a few more desperate steps I reached him and after asking him to move on if he could and get help, I lied down on the snow. My face towards the sky, I looked for the traitor sun as snow kept piling on my face. Three years on Eros and Thanatos in Xavier’s and here I was, swinging between them. Yet there was no pain, no suffering, only a defiant numbness.

I heard conversation somewhere; a little woman with weather beaten features was standing next to us. She motioned with her hands to follow her. Somehow that solitary human presence gave us hope to defy inertia and we followed our fleet footed angel.

She led us to the porch of a stone and mud house and inside, to a room that radiated a much wished for warmth. It allowed free movement of blood and as they began their merry dance through my veins an odd tingling sensation overwhelmed me. Few minutes later a cup of butter tea bolstered the hibernating muscles to wake up and I realizd that there was " divinity that shapes our ends”.

Sitting in our room in Kaza, we wait for the Sun so that visits to the nearby villages can begin. Going through the experience of a lifetime one needs to relook at his belief system. One needs to undergo such processes to wake them up from “infusion” induced hallucinations where “equality” and “distributive justice” rests peacefully in Che’s grave while a large number of McSwirl licking elites sport his sacred visage on Tshirts. There is a possibility to reach the unreachable. To mention the unmentioned. It’s an arduous path but at least we have made a start. Believe me, it was worth it.

Down Memory Lane

2005-04-05T16:14:00.000+01:00

DOWN MEMORY LANE

Finally, its curtains. As the farewell programme was going on, I sneaked out from the men’s hostel and went for a solitary walk down memory lane. It was an effort to drive away the blues, but there they were, in every corner, hiding like a thug straight out of the Scorcese picture and jumping me. I was helpless just like the way CSNY sang it. As much as you try with your Promethean vigour, the shackle of memory refuses to let go.

From the highly subaltern Vijay Punjab where on rare occurrences a kind shoulder had rescued friends from landing up in the nearby sewer or carried them across the moonwashed highway as they talked about patriarchy and hegemony one progressed towards the more elite “OASIS” which did provide a proper ambience and saw subtle shades of erotica as dancing eyes and excited toes met leaving scope for passionate follow ups.

Near Udaygiri, I stop and stare at the main gate, through which I passed in and out for half a year. My rectangular room where length won hands down against breadth had once been a kitchen and the night I turned up with bag and baggage the “kind” proprietor looking at my helpless state decided me to fleece me even more (something that often happens in Mumbai) and till my slavery ended, I had to fight, stones and shawl ends with vicious dogs as I returned late after intense sessions of street play rehearsals.

Finally the journey ends at the Datta Guru Society where it all began, where a lone bong, to pursue academics in an institution of “excellence” had turned up and stayed for two months. It was poignant of memories of initial happiness on Sunday mornings where sipping our quota of apple juice (non-intoxicative, I assure you) Harsha and I talked endlessly and rounded it up with a furious debate on defining development.

It struck me at the railway station later that month that campus life was finally coming to an end. Those last months in TISS had been gruesome where health and happiness had gone for a toss as we peered hopelessly with red eyes onto a computer screen in a desperate attempt to meet assignment submission deadlines. Though some would simply give up and after “breezing” through Cranberry flavoured “sherbets” finish all in no time, for the quality conscious, Calcutta University tortured, “Marksist” bong, sleepless nights had to be endured.

People often complain that my articles do not reflect on what I learnt in TISS. (Thank God! Otherwise I would have no readers left). Campus and hostel life is not only about studies. Greater learning comes from beyond classrooms, from daily interactions with people, from sharing dahi puri with 6 people, from hating someone intensely for being a freebooter and yet working with him in group assignments with a smile on ones face knowing there was too much at stake that petty problems.

In these two years I have a learnt a lot, something which, honestly, would have never happened in an antiseptic and academic Calcutta where one acquires a taste of pseudo intellectualism, no doubt bolstered by an in depth reading of quiz books.

Right now I am waiting for the bus to arrive, which will take me to the Tibetan border. Soon I will be “too” old to contribute to “Campus” and will move on. Life right now is like the ending of “Castaway”; too many roads to choose. Hopefully, I will choose the one least travelled.

Capital gains

2004-12-19T11:46:00.000Z

LEFT Mumbai when the odd winter chill was quietly settling down over the snaky neon-lit highways. Before beco-ming strangers in a strange land, we went down to Café Coffee Day where sipping on the warmth of Irish coffee, one heard Cat Stevens warning us of a wild world that lurked somewhere outside.
Memories of Delhi were fading in and out, however there was this lure of a magical rendezvous with nostalgia, a chance to meet old friends and heal old wounds. Though some profiles had become hazy, imagination filled up the gaps.
Most friends left for Delhi after school, some after graduation. Some-how there were invisible bonds that resurfaced from time to time. Some relationships were undo-ubtedly superficial. But there were also those people, a meeting with whom was looked forward to with great expectations.
The trip to Delhi was part of a mandatory study tour. We decided to choose certain issues and interact with institutions and organisations that dealt with them. In bet-ween one would also realise that campus life was coming to an end and the value system which we developed over the years, would be tried and tested over and over again in the years to come.
Mornings were spent travelling in DTC buses. This is where we tried a hand at ‘x-treme’ sports by hanging on to collars, shoe laces, elbows, bags and dhoti ends for dear life. In the evenings there was this routine journey to North Campus, the hub of Del-hi’s academic life.
Riddhima had been a friend from the time I joined The Statesman Voic-es in school. In between there had been degrees of separation but the lure of momos would bring us back to the happy hunting grounds in Kamalanagar and Dilli Haat. As we dug into momos and guzzled fruit beer with great gusto, memories of Kolkata’s Momo Plaza, Tibetan Delight et al rushed back into my mind. Add to that the shopping spree we indulged in. Items bought ranged from a carved walking stick, wall clocks and pointed woollen caps, and you know what being mad as a hatter in Dilli Haat can be like.
In between there were deep discussions with Deepinder while we glan-ced over books and tried to judge them by the cover. Discussions ranged from Foucault to Post-modernism. Besides there were reflections on the existential angst we en-countered inside an Arch-ies Gallery when faced with giant posters of a topless Salman Khan.
Real revelation came form the subaltern corners of Majnu ka Tilla. Of all the places I have visited till date this would be one that featured on the top of the list of must-sees. With alleys that remind you immediately of north Kol-kata or Benaras, the magical mystery tour of Majnu ka Tilla can begin from any point as long as it is a dark narrow lane. All such lanes interweave with mysterious precision and lead to courtyards, eating joi-nts, monasteries or a market place where grey-hairs match wits and move chess pieces on faded wooden boards, surrounded by grey smoke emanating from stone tobacco pipes and herbal incense sticks.
Just next to Tee Dee’s, the main attraction in momo land, one comes across a string of shops selling Tibetan clothes, books, wall hangings, jewellery. A little walk down the lane brings you to a wall on your right, which has pictures of Tibetan leaders — many of them executed by the Chinese government. Posters dem-anding a free Tibet adorn the walls running parallel to the lane. The funny part is that most of my friends who support this movement would hit the roof if one took the same app-roach on Kashmir. This dichotomy of values lies in the grey zone of hypocrisy and pseudo-nationalism.
Last moments in Delhi were a sober experience. Somehow the city exerts a strange kind of pull on unsuspecting strangers an-d even the worst kind of experiences with abusive blueline bus conductors will not drive it away. Yet those lovely roads and gargantuan buildings will not hide 40,000 street children and 52,765 homeless people.
We had visited a shelter for street children and there a 13-year-old boy from Bangladesh sang a bhatiali song for us. He came from Barishal, the district where some of my own kith and kin lived till partition divided the indivisible. There was a stra-nge simplicity in his smile which years of abuse, scorn and apathy couldn’t take away. If one would look for life he would find it here, in these dusty, dirty roads where a whole generation grows up with their own dreams of a better world.

India Shining

2004-05-26T06:10:00.000+01:00

Another heated dawn. I wake up and for a few precious moments gaze at the multiple geometric sweat stains decorating my bed sheet. The Sun is already up, maliciously waking up the subjects of its tyrant regime. The fan in my room circulates hot air that rises up from the floor, hits the ceiling and gets hotter and settles down on me. I am afraid to look at my chest where numerous red blisters spread themselves evenly. Fortunately I cannot look at my forehead and neck where, as my friends tell me, the scene is even worse. My sophisticated, Mumbaite sports shoes couldn’t take the heat and came apart by the soles. Nowadays, locally made cheap plastic chappals adorn my blistered feet as I walk around the burning city. For me, life has just begun in Angul.

Life would have really been miserable had it not been for certain ex-Tissians who have settled down here to work in the area of ecological restoration. They are a motley crew. Swapna is a fireball in motion (yes, just like the one in The Seven Crystal Balls) and the fact that she is a localite perhaps explains why. Sushmita and Sreetama are home away from home. I raid their wee nook often. Sometimes to soothe my frayed and fried nerves by listening to thumri’s by Girija Devi or Sushmita herself reciting Red Indian poetry. Sometimes with the hidden gastronomic agenda of wolfing down fresh litchi’s, watermelons and mangoes and also being pampered endlessly with “bele’r sherbet”. If I were to give their flat a name I would call it “Utopia”.

I have sustained myself by reading endlessly, within and beyond my dissertation. While going through Bruce Chatwin’s “Songlines” I came across the mention of another book that he had written. Oddly enough, it was titled “What am I doing here?”

I can ask myself the question or perhaps I can throw it at my three guardian angels. Somehow I can sense a collective answer. They have made no attempts to join the select “elite”, that posh club of engineers and doctors. Those “beautiful people” who disappear from this country to find permanent cures for erectile dysfunctions of rich American’s and suddenly reappear years later in matrimonial columns. Unlike them they have not sold their souls and chose to be here, in this heat and dust.

I have a room here. In the “forest rest house”. Needless to say, it’s in a mess. My dear mother, had she seen the exotic “dance of the loose xerox sheets” would have grabbed a broomstick and after having belaboured me with it would have nonchalantly proceeded to clean up the room. Unfortunately there is no such parental care here. I have left home almost a year, Sreetama four while Sushmita has stayed outside for seven years now. However what I have learnt from them is that it’s not important to leave home but to make one wherever you go.

When you come to places like Angul, which remains partially (and in some areas totally) cut off from so called “civilization, you do get to do a lot of new things. This includes sitting down in thatched makeshift hotels in the roadside and gulping down “pokhalo” (the Oriya equivalent of the Bengali ‘Paanta Bhaat’) with onions, chillies and a dash of salt. At 7 rupees, it is the cheapest meal I have ever had. It also includes travelling in a jittery and derelict jeep, which could have comfortably accommodated 10 but chooses to pack in 20. I sit on the roof of with a wet “gaamcha” wrapped around my head. It dries up in no time leaving me to the mercy of a blazing sun and scorching winds. Your sweat dries on your shirt and gets it starched and crispy. You start to wonder as to how the local villagers travel like this almost everyday. There are no systematic transport services here and somehow the people realize that in a country where 320 million remain poverty stricken and the lucky ones among them die of starvation, they shouldn’t expect more.

Anyway all this shouldn’t bother us. After all India is shining.

Perhaps a bit too much.

(Special thanks to Sushmita who helped me locate a copy of this long lost article)

Comfortably numb

2004-05-19T08:56:00.000+01:00

BACK on the steely gray highways. Clear blue skies and red dust. My trusty backpack carries stains of all size and shapes as prize souvenirs from different parts of the country. When I landed up in Hyderabad with exactly a thousand rupees in my pocket and pensive thoughts on how to survive on it for the next one month, I didn’t have a clue as to how to spend the next five-six hours till I boarded the train to Bhubaneshwar. Grunting, sweating and swearing every step of the way and simultaneously swinging between sanity and delirium, I decided to do two things. Firstly to see the Charminar, as my adolescent smoking career had begun (inspired by Feluda) with the same. As a result the image of the structure sketched in red on a gaudy yellow background has always been at the back of my mind and the visit, I thought, would bring back the nostalgia, to a small extent.
Secondly I wanted to taste the famed Hyderabadi biryani in the very city itself, in order to boast about it later in elite gastronomic circles. All this takes time, especially if your backpack weighs a hefty 6 kg and you are trying to move around with it when the average temperature has reached 40 degree Celsius.
If April is the cruellest month, May in Angul, my final destination, located in the heart of Orissa, could be sadistic. Luckily the transit phase was made enjoyable due to the generosity of the Naik family in Cuttack who introduced me to an eclectic elixir called Rabri Sherbet. The mere memory of that stuff in floral-patterned coloured glass tumblers will perhaps make me drool for the rest of my life. The very next day I headed down to Angul in a rickety bus and by the end of my journey was left in a state that can be described best as both shaken and stirred.
From Angul I did the rounds of the industrial belts of Orissa, sitting on the pillion of an 80s Hero Honda. Hot air rose from the dusty road and mixed with coal dust that stuck to one’s skin and got into one’s ears and nose. With the coming of industrialisation much has changed here. A primarily agrarian economy has mutated into an industrial one. As a result environment and people have been affected. Large amounts of forest cover have been gobbled up, resulting in the degradation of soil and lowering of groundwater. The locals have paid for the price of progress. Dislodged from their ancestral homelands, their present occupations are far removed from what they had been traditionally doing. The question is not merely about pollution but development and who pays the price for creating our urban utopia. The mountains with forest cover have been blown up, trees felled, there was dust flying all around. It was evident that development sought to exploit natural resources for greater power and capital generation. How can we enjoy the fruits of such ill-gotten benefits that raise questions about what lies at the root of our comfort zone?
This awareness is like a burden on our soul but somehow we, as student social workers, seek to face the truth rather than hide behind trees and recite poetry to the beloved. Or don our Che Guevera T-shirts and in a conspiratorial group discuss Marxism over steaming cups of “infusion” — in perfect bourgeois style? Can we not be socially conscious and still love listening to Floyd or is it better to be “comfortably numb’? What’s the use of ideology if it cannot be put into action?
The choice is in our hands, it’s up to us to decide whether we ought to act or be fence-hitters forever.
Amitangshu Acharya

Kolkata Goes On

2004-04-05T04:51:00.000+01:00

ANOTHER Sunday, another long walk down Marine Drive. The breeze creates havoc with my receding hairline. My walks are usually planned these days. First I walk towards Oxford Bookstore and then, after endless hours of browsing through those dusty copies, which Mumbai’s corporate elite has rejected and banished from their coffee tables, I proceed towards Colaba. Depending on the number of tourists and the level of indifference from the waiters towards a native like me, I finally get a seat in Leopold Café, the oldest in Mumbai. I may order a Red Bull or a normal cup of coffee, depending on the money I have saved this week by skipping lunch and surviving on vada pav. In case my luck runs out I gingerly proceed to Café Mondegard, where giant cartoons by Mario Miranda on the walls have been miniaturised on cups and saucers. Time zips past as one Sting number follows the other, in quick succession, on the jukebox.

I often ask myself the reason behind these weekly visits to South Mumbai, which leads to great financial difficulties later in the week. Perhaps this is the closest I feel to Kolkata and though the hundred odd roadside bookshops in Churchgate can never match up to the bustling intellectual chaos of College Street, there remains a connection that induces nostalgia. Perhaps I am trying to create a home away from home.The distance is more psychological and it increased during my last trip to Kolkata. The neon lights of Park Street did not seem to glow in full glory. An eerie silence reigned the corridor in front of the college lending library. In search of life, I shifted to Arunda’s canteen, where although I was surrounded by Xaverian chatter all around me, somehow they seemed to speak in an alien tongue. I went up the stairs looking at those portraits, which, for decades, have gazed listlessly at the musty corridors. Somehow, they joined me in my melancholy.I never liked College Street but she took me there. She always made me do things I normally would not. She took me by the hand and showed me the grimy streets and the dust-coated bylanes. Her eyes shone brightly throughout the whole exercise and for a brief moment I felt insanely jealous for she loved this city and nothing else. Now that she too has left, I have nothing to fall back on.I felt awkward as I jostled through the Sunday crowd in New Market. Memories of boyish passion and teenage lust came flooding back. I blush, perhaps unnoticed, when I recall the sound of heavy breathing and the sweet sensation of sweaty palms on quivering flesh. Of yes and nos in hushed whispers. Of being aware of a hundred eyes gazing through the dark and yet being unable to stop. This city made me feel so sinful that for a moment I contemplated going down on my knees, begging for forgiveness.

Arnab was the first to leave and like Ulysses settled down in Ithaca. One followed the other. I remember the Xaverian “gang of four” sitting in that garish Bollywood Café where Bivas’ occasional booming laughter would drown the inane music being played in the background. It is amazing how easily and quickly we switched allegiance to Coffee Pai and made it a centre of our “leg-pulling” sessions while Sinatra very gently began the beguine.Food had mostly remained the central theme of our aimless wanderings. This time when I tried out Michael’s momos they somehow tasted bland. Perhaps this time we did not have enough college gossip to spice it up with. Even the dahi vada vendor at Camac Street had disappeared, taking with him the familiar exotic smell of those enormously fat incense sticks.It’s difficult staying outside Kolkata. Somehow, it has grown on me like a second skin. Everyday is a struggle convincing myself that I am better off. No one “ditches” Kolkata. It makes us restless, fills us with intense wanderlust. Therefore, Arnab and I will always meet over a plate of beefsteak at Oly’s and the “gang of four” will congregate over steaming cups of capuccino, talking about life, the universe and beyond.

The hidden people

2003-11-19T12:44:00.000Z

ONE has got to take a stand at one point of time, unless he wants to become a schizophrenic or a hypocrite. This very thought had been hammered into my brazen skull at the very first class I did in Tata Institute of Social Sciences. Therefore, when the opportunity came through a scholarship which offered students the exposure to social movements, I got the chance to put theory to practice.
I chose Plachimeda in Kerala where people have been agitating for the past two years against a Coca Cola manufacturing plant for depleting the ground water in the area. While my initial impression was that it was another “swadeshi” reaction to MNCs, an engrossing conversation with social activist Maju Varghese in Mumbai hinted at things more serious than a simple tussle of the local versus the global.
Reaching God’s own country, after a gruesome 24-hour journey, I realised much to my horror that the languages spoken by the common man in Kerala did not include Hindi or English. It took a combined effort of hand and facial gestures to get the message through. I reached Plachi-meda in the evening, just when the mosquitoes had begun to sing.
Plachimeda, located in Palalkkad district of Kerala and near the border of Tamil Nadu, raises that eternal question — people or profit? For the two weeks I stayed there, I carried out a survey with some help from two of my new-found local friends, Edwin and Baboo. We met almost 70 adivasi families. They all felt that ever since the plant came up, water in the adjacent wells had become unusable. The locals complained of health problems such as vomiting, stomach aches, fever, headaches and most commonly, itching of skin. The question is not only who or what is responsible but also why no health camps or surveys were set up by the administration to assess the situation. The vicious circle of passing the buck is claiming a large number of victims.
Social activism is not only about pickets, protest marches and rallies. It is also a war of information. Both sides conducted tests of the water and came up with radically opposite results. Political opportunism coupled with bureaucratic inertia has led to a deadlock. I was looking for the truth and according to Shaji Chellakotil, the social activist associated with the movement, it could only be achieved by being close to the people. For a pampered urbanite like me, getting used to open toilets, swimming in dams, eating kanji (rice-water) twice a day and sleeping in huts required adjusting but brought me in touch with a part of real India that I was completely oblivious of.
I am sure my friends back in Kolkata would be wondering why I am indulging in such merry madness while they are busy preparing for their CATs, GREs and TOEFLs. That’s because I am concerned about the fact that after 56 years of Independence and democracy, suppression of facts and people’s voices are still rampant in this country.
My purpose of visit was merely to observe the struggle but somehow, unknowingly, I became a part of it. Barebodied and sweating, we stayed up nights to make posters and joined in when the local adivasis sang their own folk songs and danced to a primitive beat under a toddy-coloured moon. Suddenly culture, education, language et al became meaningless.
I came back with memories of people like Arumukham who fights globalisation through his small herbal soap manufacturing unit, Venugopalji whose life remains rooted in simplicity, Veluchhami and Kannadass who kept us wide awake, narrating the stories about the struggle as we slept on the open highway outside the factory gates. Such an experience liberates me from the pseudo-intellectual gas emanating from Coffee House, from writing about roasted duck and chimney soup and keeps me away from blurb readers blabbering endlessly about opening lines of famous novels.
Finally, it seems, I have taken a stand.

The Confessions of a TISSian

2003-09-16T11:22:00.000+01:00

IF Marshall Mcluhan came to TISS he would have realised how true he was when he said that the world is a global village. Situated in the middle of nowhere (here even a goat might feel like committing suicide due to severe boredom) we, TISSians exist in a secluded Macondo where we paint our world in the colours of our own creation. Life is a continuous and seemingly endless stream of institutional visits and classes where we keep on using words like “chill”, “ten deep breaths” and “relax” to keep us from snapping suddenly. However at the end of the day, as our bonds become stronger, we realise that we are entering a profession where “we” is more important than “I” and as we try to help each other we establish an invisible tie that’s long lasting.We are a community cut off from the so-called mainstream campus culture but we manage pretty well without it. Last week I was in the middle of the basketball court in the middle of the night, gyrating to the music of unknown DJs and trying to appease the rain gods, pleading for the much-missed shower to arrive. The Gods responded. As I was soaking in every drop I realised that after a long time I was enjoying life to the full. For the moment I could afford to forget Ashish Nandy and McIver and Page. I had absolutely no idea as to what had propelled me to fill up the admission form of the Tata Institute of Social Sciences in the month of December. Probably all things at that point of time were done in a hypnotic trance, propelled by the anxiety of an uncertain future. Calcutta had mutated into a frightening replica of Hotel California where it was easy checking in but the idea of leaving was hopeless.Now that I am safely ensconced in aamchi Mumbai, the veil of gloom seems to have lifted somewhat as with slow and sure steps I enter a brave new world where alphas, betas and gammas all forge into one single classification — a TISSian. Initially I had had to field questions on the feasibility of an English literature graduate pursuing a course in social work. For a brief moment I pondered over my own judgment and realised how right I was. TISS not only prepares you for social work but also makes you a better human being, a more caring and sensitive individual, which my friends (whoever remain, that is) say will do a great deal of good to a cynic and misanthrope like me.

Getting through the admission test was an extremely difficult affair. When I arrived on the shores of the Arabian Sea I had no idea what I was letting myself in for. The admission procedure was divided into four steps, each surpassing the previous in being difficult. Initially one is made to sit for an essay test that lasts 45 minutes. A group discussion follows, after which an overall assessment of a candidate is made on the basis of the two tests. Only if he or she is scores above the given cut-off, does the dazed bloke qualify for an interview the following day. Elated at such good news he treats self to a cheese dosa and a cup of coffee, only to get another brutal shock when the bill (roughly 200 bucks) is brought by a smiling waiter. The interview is quite another story and for the sake of my gentle readers (who I am sure would cry buckets on reading the trauma I had to go through) I choose not to narrate it.

Now that I am here, the only thing I can complain of is severe work pressure alternating with hours of extreme boredom. As I keep swinging between hope and despair, vada pau and pav bhaji, I do recall the sights and smell of Park Street. Somehow being cut off from Kolkata feels like a second secession of the umbilical cord. As life transforms from the passive to the active, I only hope that this time I am doing what I truly believe in.

OF BLURB READER'S, GRUNTHOS AND POLKA DOTTED UNDERWEAR

2002-08-20T19:38:00.000+01:00

Unknown to us a quite revolution is taking place. A new trend is sweeping across the city and of all trends that have surfaced till date this seems to be the most obnoxious one. I prefer calling it the invasion of the blurb readers but my friends insist that it be called pseudo- intellectualism. However readers are free to define this new phenomenon in their own terms.

The first question that obviously pops up that is that how do we identify these creatures and what should we do if indeed they confront us in a dark corner. Here I must admit that I am suffering from a handicap. The best indicator of a pseudo- intellectual would undoubtedly be a pair of Joo Junta Peril Sensitive Sunglasses which would turn completely dark if one of such horrendous creatures happens to be nearby thereby preventing you from seeing it and hence blocking an odd shudder going down your spine. Unfortunately such technology remains unavailable. The only thing to do on spotting them is to act as if you have not done anything of that kind. This hurts their over inflated ego and they avoid you thus saving you from an intensely painful session of conversation.

Basically eyeing them is easy. They are found in college campuses sitting under a tree and reciting Ginsberg to a poor soul. They congregate in small numbers in Nandan and British Council but to see them ‘en mass’ one must visit either the Book Fair or the Film Festival. There you are you are bound to come across such specimens but one must try not to overhear their conversation. Not that because I think that you will be capable of committing such unethical acts but since even accidental overhearing has been reported to have given the hearer a severe attack of internal haemorrhage, one need to be on his guard. Their regular conversation is steeped in Lacan, Foucault, Derrida and all those people whose names are very difficult to pronounce. The more unknown the philosopher or writer the more is his or her credit. It’s not important to know what they write about, the name’s enough.

The advent of the pseudo-intellectuals came about when certain people discovered that brains too have the capacity to draw attention apart from raw muscles. All that you needed to prove was that you are an intelligent individual well versed in poetry and drama and then you can easily sit back and relax and wait for the cards to fill up your mailbox on Valentine’s Day. Some were more intelligent. They simply changed their insipid ‘Bengali’ names (like Chandranath and Bhabatosh) into Greek and Roman mythological characters. Not only did that help in rescuing them from a cesspool of ignominy and obscurity but my sources tell me, that they make regular appearances in television, radio talk-shows and run agony columns in newspapers.

The new age supermen have a motto in life. ‘Maximum knowledge, minimum effort’. To achieve their objective they employ ingenious new methods. One of such is ‘Blurb reading’. It’s actually very simple. All that is required is spending alternate days in Oxford or Landmark and sifting through the blurbs. The concept being why read the whole book when the blurb gives you enough to brag about. (It has been reported that a large number of blurb readers make regular appearances in quizzes). If my information is correct the authorities have finally decided to act. One can hardly blame them. Initially they were overwhelmed with joy at the sight of the blurb readers as they could almost hear the perpetual ringing of the cash register but now they have discovered that they are bad business. Not only does these creatures rarely make an appearance in front of the cash counter but they also scare away ordinary people like you and me from getting anywhere near the books. What makes life more difficult is that they even apply the same philosophy for music. So now you know what prevented you from getting access to the nearest play station even after waiting for an hour. One quality that must be appreciated is their potential for memorising. They not only mug up blurbs, but also the names of the artist, albums, and songs and in some acute cases, even the lyrics.

Now comes the most important question. Why? I mean apart from getting a whole article done on them, why? It would seem that certain people suddenly realised that a lot of years have gone by and the only thing that they had ever achieved was an ugly photograph in the school magazine. This unnerved them. Send them to a state of shock, I’d say. So they start doing things they thought they were never capable of before. Some, like a friend I know, started writing poetry. Now these people not only write bad poetry but they even write that badly. However I will advise you not be a tomfool and tell them that. That will get them more depressed and as a result they will write more bad poetry. Recently I had a rather jarring experience. My friend, (undoubtedly a social climber) in a fit of severe depression once wrote a poem titled “Ode to My Moth Eaten Polka Dotted Underwear” which he read out to me over the phone. The fact that I am alive and kicking after such an extremely unpleasant experience should reinstate your faith in the human spirit.

After much deliberation I have finally hit upon a certain method to rid society of such nuisance. The best thing to do is to carry heavy, blunt objects in your person and on spotting the creature immediately proceed to slosh him on the head. Research tells me that many people recover and turn over a new leaf. It may not seem much civilised but the Chinese have been doing it for a long time now and no one seems to have objected. Remember, every time you slosh a blurb-reader you render invaluable service to society. Let that thought be your driving force, Jedi’s, and may the power be with you.

Amitangshu Acharya
This article reeks of malice but does not bear any resemblance to any real-life character living or non living.

Lamentations of a Geriartric Bookworm

2001-12-26T01:45:00.000Z

“People are crazy and times are strange
I’m locked in tight, I’m out of range
I used to care, but things have changed.”
------- Bob Dylan

I don’t know why I quoted this letter but I think it was after going through the mornings best sellers list that comes out in The Statesman. To be very honest, I am afraid to write. In this age of Instant Karma, e-mail and tantra hopping nights, the subject of books may seem horribly clichéd. But then again I have made a ‘commitment’ and though the word ceases to have any value, I will stick by my principles.

Where do I begin? Well, I personally feel that books became an integral part of our lives in our early teens. If I recall correctly those were the times we were a bundle of nerves, misunderstood and confused at the ever changing beliefs in values and morals so dearly taught to us by the system which itself never gave a damn about them anyway. We desperately needed hope and no one provided it better than Richard Bach’s ‘Jonathan Livingstone Seagull’. Thanks to it we managed to survive in those dark hours. Talking of hope, Anne Frank epitomised it. Her beloved ‘Kitty’ was not only an account of the Holocaust but also the triumph of the human spirit.

However if personal association comes into question then the character that stands out is Holden Caulfield, the confused teenager in ‘The Catcher In The Rye’ by J.D Salinger. Holden’s escape was our escape too and as he sat on the bench, getting drenched by the sudden shower, we were with him in his quiet contemplation of coming to age.

The world has been taken by storm by a typical schoolboy nerd possessing amazing magical powers. Undoubtedly Harry Potter has been a literary revolution not only for saving the author from perpetual semi starvation but also for providing children’s literature with a much needed boost. However Harry Potter has been lapped up by children and teenagers alike and a large number of college goers in Kolkata simply swear by him. It’s unfortunate, however, that another such creation – Artemis Fowl has failed to create a similar hype.

It is impossible to negate the positive role played by Sherlock Holmes, Poirot and our very own Feluda along with Professor Shanku who made amazing inventions with simple

ingredients like ‘Galda Chingrir goph’. Leaving behind those ‘seasons in the sun’ days, early college life was rattled by Kerouac, Ginsberg and Amis. For a brief span we were literally ‘On the Road’ with Sal and Dean, cruising down the highway stopping only to refuel or to share a joint. Endless nights of free love under a crazy moon. Along with Ginsberg we were the ones

… who were expelled from the academies for crazy and publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull.
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall
who got busted in their public beards returning through Laredo with a belt of Marijuana for New York.

----------- HOWL

Later, a craze for oriental mysticism led us to the open mountains with Ray Bright and Japhy Rider. Now we were the ‘Dharma Bums’. Forgetting the negro streets and the wild rhythm of Harlem jazz we meditated and called each other Bodhisattva.

Back home the empire was writing back. In the 90’s we dragged R.K. Narayan, Naipaul and Ruskin Bond out of sheltered oblivion and found that there were enough talent left to continue the legacy. Amitava Ghosh with his Calcutta Chromosome, Amit Chaudhuri and his Afternoon Raga and Gita Mehta with her Karma Cola set the trend for a new generation of writers. Then came Arundhati Roy with her God of Small Things and the big bang of Indo-Anglican writing took place. Now the bookshelves were decorated with Lahiris, Ghoshes and Gopinath’s who brought to us a taste of ‘Bengal Boston and Beyond’. The local had become global. Authors were now running amok; you couldn’t miss them even if you tried. In every nook and corner was a writer with his or her manuscript. The world was now a global village full of Indo-Anglican writers.

Due apologies, it seems that I completely forgot the ‘Paperback Writer’s’. In this category the only person worth mentioning is none other than Jeffrey Archer. Though many have cried through the lines of ‘Love Story’ and signed contentedly at the happy endings of Mills & Boon, I seriously doubt that whether they can be recommended for any other purpose but for exercise of the lachrymal glands.

However there have been authors whose primary concern has been to add a bit of sunshine in our lives. Primary among them would be ‘Old Plum’ Wodehouse and his modern avatar of Tom Sharpe. Sharpe’s The Throwback is a must read for college goers. The master of the absurd is undoubtedly Douglas Adams who in his Hitch Hikers Guide to the Galaxy takes us on whirlwind tour from The Restaurant at the End of the Universe to the Big Bang Burger joint warning us about Eccentrica Gallumbit, the triple breasted prostitute whose orgasms could be felt around a radius of six miles. It is also impossible

to forget dear old Yossarian as he desperately tried to escape from his duty in the army in Joseph Heller’s classic Catch 22.

The book which has probably changed my life is Herman Hesse’s ‘Siddhartha’. For all of us looking for an escape route from this dreary circle of life he shows us the real beauty in everything around us. To be very honest, I am worried about the future. Bill Gates said that paper will no longer be required. Probably to justify this Stephen King has started publishing his books on the net. Probably the scent of freshly printed books will be lost forever. A friend of mine once very disparagingly said “Books are not life”.

But then what is?