Haunting Himachal

I first saw the Himalayas when I visited Jammu Kashmir, before guns overran the scenic valleys, as part of a school group. For most of us that was the first experience of snow, and for quite a few it was the first long journey without the umbrella of parents. All of these firsts coupled with my juvenile ignorance and my blindness meant that the mountains were only a destination for me and the only memories I carried back and have saved to this day have been of the people on the trip.

I finally discovered the mountains and the Himalayas very late in life on my first high-altitude Himalayan trek a few years ago. And since then I have been a complete believer in the notion of love at first sight, or technically speaking love at second sight in my case. But for several reasons that love has simmered beneath the surface, waiting for another passionate meeting. And that happened this year when I visited Himachal Pradesh.

Our journey began in Mumbai and our economy flight to Chandigarh was uneventful, the only excitement was provided by a woman who sampled all the snacks on sale for the first half of the short trip and spent the next half retching them all out and in the process using up half a dozen barf bags.

From the hot, dusty plains we drove along the highway 21 towards Mandi, our first stop, passing the long, busy Kiratput mountain-road, where the truckers rule the road. Only once you pass Swarghat does the afternoon weather become a little pleasant and bearable. This road also passes the massive ACC plant before Sundernagar.

Mandi town, the capital of the current Mandi district, was the capital of the Maharaja of Mandi, part of whose grand, but now rapidly crumbling, palace is converted into a hotel unimaginatively named Rajmahal Palace Hotel. Mandi is a hot, bustling, noisy, over-crowded mountain town, and the gateway and central market into most of Himachal. Mandi today has over 300 temples and is an important destination during Hindu festivals. But for the hospitality of our hosts, especially the aging erstwhile King, who is still sharp and witty, Mandi is completely avoidable. From Mandi we did short day trips to Rewalsar, where there is a large monastery, and Jhatindri, where the royal family has property amidst dense pine forests, which is currently used only for drying expensive Rhododendron flowers to make chutney.

From Mandi we took a state transport bus to Dharamsala, a fairly long but surprisingly untiring drive. Dharamsala, the seat of the exiled Dalai Lama, lies below Mcleodganj, where he actually resides, became famous recently in the cricketing fraternity for the beautiful stadium set in between mountains all around played host to an IPL match.

Mcleodganj, is a bustling tourist town, that may soon be overrun uncontrolled concrete construction happening on every available and excavate-able piece of land, shadowed by the mighty Dauladhar range. It is still charming and quaint with its numerous shops selling everything from curious to outdoor gear run by people of Tibetan, Nepalese and local origin, its several cafes and restaurants serving Indian, Chinese, Tibetan, Italian, Japanese and even Korean food run by people from all over India and other parts of the world who have made this town their home. The weather here is excellent, pleasant in the middle of the Indian summer afternoons, and the evenings can be cool or even cold after a periodic but unscheduled shower. But it can get very crowded and noisy over weekends, when droves of families come in big overcrowded cars from the plains of Punjab. But travelers who want to get away from it all have found residence in the several colonies and ‘ashrams’ in the upper reaches of the mountains. Mcleodganj offers several options for backpack trekkers and the surrounding areas house numerous Buddhist and Tibetan sites of interest, the Norbulingka Institute being the primary.

From Mcleodganj we moved higher up to Dalhousie. Dalhousie has a large army camp and a couple of very charming old colonial time’s properties converted into hotels that overlook the Dauladhar and Pir Panjal ranges. The sun is bright and the temperature is cool all through summer. Winters often have snow, the last snowfall, two years ago, snowed in the town. There is little to do here but take long walks and admire the beautiful mountains. One place worth a visit is Khajjiar - a massive bowl shaped grassland with mountains all around and a pond in the middle, which apparently is deeper than five hundred meters. Short rides in zorb-balls at Rs. 150 a roll bring in a lot of tourists.

From Dalhousie we moved to Manali, delayed a couple of times by traffic jams and then delayed by bad weather. By the time we reached Manali it was almost thirteen hours that we had spent on road, and we were wet and cold. But our hosts had lovely cottages, a warm fire and smooth whisky arranged for our welcome. We actually stayed a little outside Manali town, which today is a overcrowded and noisy, but has some excellent cafes and restaurants run by people from all over who have made this their summer home. A lot of these people carry their trade and their business to Goa in the winter months. Manali is the gateway for a lot of activities in the mountains – trekking, skiing, fishing and other adventure sports.
It’s the mornings that I spent in the bathroom with large glass windows which framed snow clad mountains that I know, I had found my love. I realized I had to keep coming back to these mountains year after year for increasing periods, and always desiring another look at those peaks clad in the evergreens where clouds, sun and snow all reside in abundance.

Expanding my horizons

Well I have been silent for a while, contemplating life in general and other such similar time wasting activities and have little time for anything else, leave along apparently stronger pursuits like writing.

But all that thinking and I have realized once again, for the singular benefit of you my esteemed reader, that amongst all the activities that I have pursued over the years with dreams of fame in my eyes and loads of cash in my wallet, there cannot be a bigger time loosing activity than writing. So I back again with renewed vigor and vengeance and this time I shall subject you to my views on economics, politics, travel writing, humanity, technology and everything else I can think of subjecting you to.

So go and prepare yourself for reading more dribble online.

A short dissertation on love

Over dinner a few days ago at a friend’s place one of the guests asked ‘What is the most powerful emotion?’ Of course there were several responses but the most common answer was ‘Love’.

For some of the people who responded with love, love was the not the initial response. Even for those whose first choice was love did not seem completely convinced with their choice. When probed each had quite varied justifications for their vote – love makes people do silly things, do insane things, love makes people violent etc.

Personally I have always shied away from expressing love; both in the quality of the expression and in terms of quantity. As a writer, of limited ability and even more limited experience I have attempted to write about love, in a voice which is both commonplace and bland. But on the other hand I have often got goose bumps when I see films in which love has been captured and portrayed with conviction, strength and form. I have not been able to explain this to myself. And this article is not about trying to seek one either.

Last weekend the world celebrated ‘Valentine’s Day.’ And there was pink, red, chocolate, strawberry and roses all over. A lot of us feel these celebrations are completely over the top and largely a marketing enterprise. While the message of the day of love between individuals across gender and age groups is completely lost, one simply wonders why people who actually want to express their love wait for that one day in the year to do so. As for me, I am strictly of the waiting type, and have a couple of times in the past been faced with situations where I was too late.

But more important than the day of celebrating love, last weekend was also the tragic witness to another indiscriminate bombing, by suspected terrorists and one more well planned merciless attack by Maoists.

I guess that is why love has been voted as the most powerful of emotions. Well both groups – the terrorists and Maoists – would with alacrity claim that their acts are mere expressions of their respective love for their beliefs. They may have remorse and regret, but that will not deter them from carrying out such missions in the future in the name of love.

Against this backdrop I happened to watch Ang Lee’s film ‘Taking Woodstock’, a film inspired by the true story of how youth, music, grass and acid bring about love and peace. And I was touched. It’s amazing how such common place ingredients can come together and diffuse the powerful machinery of government and war. And it makes me wonder, ‘Do we need another Woodstock?’

I’d like to close this piece with a wonderful couplet I read by Rumi.

“Your task is not to seek for love,
But merely to see and find all barriers within yourself that you have built against it”

Ishqiya and 3 idiots

Last week we, Leena and me, saw both of these movies and before I talk about the films themselves I must reveal a little secret. We saw the two at the normal price of one – tickets + snacks. How? Well there is this new multiplex at Kharadi that charges Rs 110 for a Gold ticket! And, the other we saw at a single-screen theater – the venerable Rahul. What fun!

Here is the plot summary for the Ishqiya straight from imdb – 'Ishqiya is a story about love arising in characters, portrayed uniquely according to their own personal traits. The situations in the plot lead the characters to experience the emotion creeping into their lives in the most unexpected manner.'

And for 3 idiots – ''

There is none. There is a complete plot synopsis whilst for Ishqiya there is only a two liner summary. What does this imply?

To me it is quite obvious that ‘3 idiots’ is the much more popular of the two and someone has taken the effort to write up a complete synopsis. And this is completely in sync with what almost everybody around feels. ‘3 idiots’ is a hugely popular film, and an award winning film too.

In my opinion ‘3 idiots’ is a commonplace, cliched and completely overrated. On the other hand ‘Ishqiya’ is unique in its treatment and is an original gem.

Let’s begin with ‘3 idiots.’ What it has going for it, and something that has caught the attention of every urban, literate college educated admirer, and something that I must say could not have been presented in a much more appropriate period of time, is the central message of the complete rut in the education process and the misplaced expectation that most of us have of what learning is all about. For doing this the film wins many accolades and receives the attention that it surely deserves. But what is the percentage of the people who connect with the message? I would not be very wrong by saying very small without quoting figures.

But what else is working for the film? The locations are dull and boring, the music forgettable, the acting relies heavily on histrionics rather than skill and talent, and the humor, would have been condemned by the critics as slapstick if it was not for the heavyweights in the film. Bottom line, nothing!

‘Ishqiya’ on the other hand is passionately made, wonderfully earthy in its setting and locations, yet colorful in the characters and fabric, all of which come across as genuine. The music and vocals are subtle when required and powerful when needed. The performances are excellent, and the humor is timed to perfection.

Let’s look at a couple of examples where the realism of ‘Ishqiya’ stands out miles above the cliches of ‘3 idiots’. The bad guy in ‘Ishqiya’ is suave, subtle and loves his woman wholeheartedly. The bad guy in ‘3 idiots’ is eccentric, loud and insensitive. The hero of ‘3 idiots’ is stereotypical; he is good looking, well dressed, apparently moneyed, yet completely grounded, humble and displays an excellent set of values. He excels in everything, lands the most eligible girl, is the funny man and is central to the entire film and does no wrong. Did anyone ever believe that he would not be the recipient of the pen? And how believable is the name of Wangdu? The heroes of ‘Ishqiya’ are scoundrels, often unkempt, curse, grovel, show fear yet fight for love and with each other. The woman in ‘3 idiots’ is submissive and supportive of her overbearing father, but is radically transformed on meeting the hero. The woman in ‘Ishqiya’ is passionate, loves the bad guy jealously, manipulates the heroes with her beauty and yet knows not how to betray her love.

And the kiss! I have never seen a full-mouthed, more hungry and passionate kiss on Hindi cinema ever. Do you think there was a little exchange of tongue?

Now tell me which is the better film?

By the way did you know where ‘Ishqiya’ has been shot? Not in Uttar Pradesh / Bihar but in Wai, Maharashtra.

Who cares for you in the city?

Living in the city is hectic, everyone is in a rush to make a little more money, spend a little more time with family and friends, find a better house or exercise a little. In all this chaos all of us have little time to care for people around us, as we barely get by caring for our immediate family and friends. But once in a while you find such a person in the most surprising of places or situations. I found one such person who went way beyond his call of duty to care for my well being. My barber.

I go to a local barber where I shave my head (yes I shave my head of the little hair that grudgingly grows on my head), shave my stubble and get a head massage with the cooling red 'navratna' oil. For all of this I pay ninety rupees!

And I don't particularly care who shaves me, how choosy can one want to be when all wants is to take off all the hair on ones head and off ones face. But often there is there is this young guy (all of them are young guys incidentally) who does the needful very well without attempting to strike up a conversation. I hate it when the person who should be focusing on the blade that is dancing all over my scalp or my face or my throat wants to talk or watch the television in the background.

But the other day he surprised me. After having finished shaving my stubble clean he said with utmost earnestly 'You are becoming darker.' I almost fell off my chair. Now for all of those who know me, know that I am already dark. And neither do I nor do the people I am associated with care two hoots about skin color. But obviously my barber did.

Now I was completely lost for words and all I managed to do was grin sheepishly and shrug my shoulders. My barber took that as a sign and got to work. He asked me to sit back and relax and quickly lathered up my face with soap and warm water. After getting that off my face he dropped a tablespoon of some pink colored cream and vigorously massaged that into my face. Then he wiped all of that gook with a warm towel and then he was back with soap and water.

After all that scrubbing, to his delight and my embarrassment my face was two shades lighter. I wanted to run from that place. But before I could he said 'Do get a facial once a month. It shall remove all your dead skin and exfoliate it.'

Now that is definitely caring!

Why blog?

Blogging has been like my flirtation with the gym. Every once in a while I look at myself in the mirror and see curves where there should be none and I realize that my body is growing older and fatter. I hook up with a friend, discover a moderately priced gym close by and pay my membership for one whole year, completely convinced that I am going to see this through, defy gravity and have all the fat that has been hanging down worked into well shaped muscle.

I go to the gym for one whole week very religiously at my scheduled time. And then something happens, completely avoidable and insignificant, and I call up my friend telling him (it is always a him, and now I wonder if things would be different if it is a her) that I cannot make it to the gym. This happens a couple of times in week two and by the end of that week I am convinced that the gym and me are not meant for each other.

Blogging, or writing for that matter, has had a similar relationship with me. Every once in a while I see how my career is affected by gravity and realize that I am mentally becoming older and must do something 'different and creative'. And a friend (and this time it is always a her) convinces me that I should write. So I spend some time at my laptop actually writing, but mostly thinking about writing (if there was a device that could convert thought to words I would be an extremely prolific writer). This goes well for a week and then there is a minor interruption, and all through the second week, similar interruptions happen, and by the end of the second week all vain ambitions of winning the next Booker are lost. Maybe I should find a female gym partner and a male friend to encourage me to write!

So here I am again starting off a fresh clean blog. But do I believe it will any different this time? Yes, I do. I have begun to exercise again, no gym for me this time and no friend to exercise with. So what is my motivation? My insomnia. We shall talk about it some other time. My return to writing too has a similar motive - my insomnia. Well I must do something with all those I hours I spend in bed at nights unable to sleep other than toss and turn. So, writing shall be my activity for the nights when my insomnia keeps me awake.

So what I am going to write about? Couple of things actually with no literary ambitions -

1. My views on human society and how humans behave more like their simian ancestors today than ever before

2. My narrow understanding and biased appreciation of art with the hope that erudite people stumble upon my writing, and talk to me about things I do not know and understand

So cheers and drop by!