Sunday, March 26, 2006Updates
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by Deepak Jeswal on 10:45 AM
Saturday, March 25, 2006
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by Deepak Jeswal on 12:06 PM
Sunday, February 05, 2006
The games divided us into four groups – each represented by an animal name. We all had to mimic that animal, describe its traits visually and come up with a ‘theme song’. It was hilarious to see perfectly serious professionals imitate crows, donkeys and cats! My team was ‘dog’ and our theme song ‘Kisne kutte chhode’! Thereafter, a game was played, and proud to say ‘dogs’ came up first. But after all the ‘barking’ my throat was sore!
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by Deepak Jeswal on 11:09 PM
Saturday, February 04, 2006
   Suraj Hua Madham : Sunset Over Backwaters Le Meridien's Tower Block Across Backwaters The boatride to our rooms
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by Deepak Jeswal on 09:06 AM
Wednesday, February 01, 2006Blogger Meet – Mumbai
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by Deepak Jeswal on 09:21 AM
Thursday, January 19, 2006Curfew
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by Deepak Jeswal on 08:37 AM
Saturday, January 07, 2006Dhulikhel    Dont miss the snow capped peaks My most favorite shot from this place Just see the sky designs    The spot we chose to have fun Where lunch was served I just gaped at the scenic beauty For more photographs, click here
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by Deepak Jeswal on 07:07 PM
Tuesday, December 06, 2005Manakamana Mandir    
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by Deepak Jeswal on 08:41 AM
Sunday, December 04, 2005Royal Chitwan National Park     Our cottage River and Mist Inside Cottage Another View We were informed that crocodiles come in the morning; I was not too keen on seeing them; neither were they too inclined to welcome us; we did not see any. Early next morning, we went for the jungle safari atop a she-elephant, Chanchal. Our mission: to spot one rhinoceros at least (this is a major rhino belt). After an exciting one hour inside the jungle as Chanchal forced her way through the thickets we did manage to catch one. The elephant ride was very comfortable, though it did seem a bit tough when we started off, as Chanchal waded through the river to cross towards the jungle - the embankment on opposite end was pretty steep. The jungle is anything but what RGV showed us in his film. It is dense, and often there was no visible path that the mahout took. Again, an experience that words fail to describe. Some more photographs taken there:    Jungle Queen: Chanchal - Our Vehicle for Two Hrs "Elephant Embarking Platform" Nadiya Ke Paar: Crossing Tungre    Dear Deer Say Cheese: We Spot A Rhino The Stork Visits  Jungle Jungle Pata Chala Hai Coming up next : MANAKAMNA MANDIR and a CABLE CAR RIDE More photos here and some jungle videos here
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by Deepak Jeswal on 10:57 AM
On Way To Narayanghat
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by Deepak Jeswal on 10:06 AM
Wednesday, November 30, 2005Janakpur Ram Janaki Temple, Janakpur Clouds and Peaks, taken from air, enroute
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by Deepak Jeswal on 08:55 PM
Tuesday, June 28, 2005Delhi-Goa-Delhi : A Snapshot Since nothing really great happened at Goa or Delhi, skipping the travelogue this time, but giving a few snapshots of the trip: • Jet Airways has suspended operations on the Kathmandu sector for this month, which literally left me stranded in the Himalayan kingdom. IC was full, and RNA was packed; which meant, I had to make do with Cosmic Airways. • Once again, another Monday was spent fretting over the tickets. This time I bettered my record. For a four o clock flight I got my ticket at two thirty p.m. • At the Cosmic counter, with the most angelic expressions, I ask, ‘Can I be upgraded to the business class?’ The man looks at me like Urmila Matondkar looked at the ghost in Bhoot! ‘We only have one class!’ he replies curtly. I look at him like Fardeen Khan looks in the same movie getting caught with the pants down – well, let’s say, I was expressionless. ‘Can I have the window seat please?’ is my next salvo. ‘Only last row available, will you take that?’ he asks. Now he sounds more like Ajay Devgan scolding his wife in that ghostly flick. ‘Yes’ I whimper. • My huge size barely fits through the narrow aisles; was this Fokker 100 meant for svelte people only? And what a name to have – Fokker! I reach my seat, and look at it as the ghost looks in, well, the same film! The seat is a window one, alright, only that the last seat does not have a ‘window’ as such. It’s a closed space. Fuc..fokker! • The plane lands and the accented voice announces the outside temperature as 44 deg celcius. A collective groan rings through. • I switch on the phone. Immediately it rings. It’s from home. ‘Where are you?’ asks my sister. ‘Just landed. The flight was delayed by an hour’ I proffer. ‘Ok, no issues. We have booked your tickets for Parineeta. So, go home, the driver is waiting, leave the bags at the neighbor’s and take the car and reach PVR immediately. It’s the 7:20 show.’ Err… I sneak a look at my neighbor’s watch. It’s already 6:30! Wow, what a welcome! • As the bus trudges on the short distance to the airport terminal, two ladies begin to talk. One is obviously a foreigner; the other looks Indian, but is carrying a vague colored passport with some incomprehensible gibberish. The former complains about the heat. The latter gives the all-knowing look. She explains, ‘It’s actually more than 50 degrees. The government announces only 44-45 degrees so that people do not stop working!’ She ends with a smirk, and the firang lady makes the appropriate clicks of the tongue. I can throw off both of them from any balcony now (Groan, why did the movie Bhoot possess me that day?) • The movie turns out to be okayish; the family banter is fun; my sister from Pune has been here for some time; she is to leave tomorrow, so I spend time with her. • The next day passes at office – presentations, meetings and more presentations. • Evening – I meet Ashish, and catch up on the past couple of months! • Goa – it is raining as we land. For five minutes, the Sahara official makes us wait in the drizzle on the steps, waiting for the bus to arrive. At last, flustered and frustrated, he asks the passengers to walk the short distance to the terminal. • At the welcome party, I am squeezed between two very senior personnels of the company. The topic touches upon airlines. ‘I came by Cosmic’ I announce. ‘What the hell is Cosmic?’ I put on my best martyr-like expression and explain, ‘It’s a Nepalese budget airline’ Point one to me! • The food is horrible. I take a generous serving of ‘red rice’ with ‘prawn curry’. I could have eaten a bottle of Parachute without discerning any difference between the tastes of the two! As I discover in the next couple of days, the food remains of suspect quality. • The next day goes just as expected – meetings that are to start off at nine begin long after the clock has struck ten. And they end around six in the evening – four hours behind schedule. Since I did not catch any of the wives’ complaining, I guess they too had expected this much; or, perhaps, they have given up on their husbands’ long time back when they joined this company. • The third day is the ‘Treasure Hunt’. The teams are divided based on the event organizers giving off ‘colored bands’. I cheat and select the ‘green color band’ as I see a couple of friends there. In all there are four teams; and each one is asked to name their team (with the color to be mentioned) and select an ‘anthem’ for the same. Ours is the rowdiest and noisiest one. ‘We will allow the others to do the hardwork, and then cheat and get the treasure’ chuckles one of our team members. As the emcee turns to us for a name, we announce ‘Green Cheaters’. Hey, that sounds pathetic, I think. As the emcee announces the name, I exclaim, ‘But Hugo, we meant Green Cheetahs, not cheaters, you heard it wrong!’ A loud laughter breaks out. It’s confirmed. The Cheetahs are gonna rock! Next comes the turn of the anthems. While the other teams select inspirational numbers like ‘Baar baar haan bolo yaar haan’ and ‘Hum honge kaamyaab’, the Cheetahs unanimously vote for – hold your breath – ‘Gutar gutar’. It turns out that I am the only one who actually knows the full lyrics of the mukhda! • The Green Cheetahs come last! But, it’s widely acknowledged that the team rocks! So cohesive was our team that at least five members of it were together when we walked to the beach that night at around 2 am, later that same day! • The massage that I have at the resort’s spa is relaxing and soothing. • I catch a couple of flicks on various channels. Style is one of them – suits the insouciance mood all over. Also, I learn that Zee actually has a very large bouquet of channels – Zee Classics, Zee Premiere, Zee Trendz etc. • The evening is a grand gala dinner. There is something called ‘Company Idolz’ organized. I croak out ‘Dheere jalna’ from Paheli for my team (the teams continued in the evening as well). For those who have heard me on Yahoo VBM’s would know this is a song that I sing the maximum there as well. I lose out in the second round of some idiotic question. • The night is intoxicated, or rather, we all are! Till the time the hotel staff came to dismantle the dance floors at around one thirty in the night, we were dancing away. The song of the conference was ‘Kajra Re’ from Bunty Aur Bubli. For last night’s party also, it was the highlight. • In the night, the beach is awesome! • The flight back is awfully boring. An engineer and his colleague talk non-stop on the seats next to me (by the end of the flight I could I have sworn that I could manufacture a bus!). The only plus point is that the flight is less turbulent than the onward one. • Delhi is less boiling; the rains are a welcome relief. Once again, meet Ashish, though honestly I completely overlook his new hairdo. Both the Café Coffee Day and Barista are quite distracting that way! • The flight back on Monday evening is a Royal Nepal Airlines one. As ever, it is delayed by an hour. Thankfully, this time I did manage to upgrade myself to the ‘business class’; as it turns out, I am one of the only two passengers in that class. The flight is marvelously bumpy; I close my eyes and it feels as if I am traveling by train. The air-‘aunties’ (can’t call any of them air-hostessess) give good service!
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by Deepak Jeswal on 04:48 PM
Friday, June 17, 2005Enjoyment! The Second and Final Part of Qatar Trip (The post was written in Doha, Qatar and published now!) Stepping out of the airconditioned environment of the airport, I felt the first blast of heat; even at the late hour, the warmth was all pervading. A few men in important looking suits, with their mobiles and walky-talkies stood next to gigantic cars. They had come to receive some delegates of the G-77 meet happening there. G-77 was all over the place; strategic signages within the airport had also been visible. There were a couple of cars standing on the left side with the logo of the summit emblazoned on their shiny metals. The entire place was open, wide and forbidding. Oddly, I was reminded of a scene from the film Naam, when Sanjay Dutt steps into Dubai for the first time. The Arabs in their traditional white robes added to the discomfort. Taking a few steps, I enquired of a dark looking gentleman, ‘Taxi’ He pointed to a large Toyota coming forward. I hailed it. But immediately regretted the same; there were two other passengers in the back-seat. By the time I could speak, the enterprising taxi driver had placed my travel-bag into the boot, and reluctantly, I sat on the passenger seat. ‘Where?’ ‘Hotel Doha Palace’ I informed, checking the piece of paper on which I had written the name. Minutes before boarding, the travel agent called again to inform that she had managed to book me for one night at least in a three-star hotel, and would try for something the next day. She could not give the complete address, but assured that all the cabs would know of it. Not relying too much on her reassurance, I asked the taxi driver, ‘You know of it?’ He nodded. Looking back, I saw that the two passengers behind me were Nepalese. Strangely, their talk and animated conversation in Nepali was soothing; it felt home. The taxi cruised effortlessly on the wide and smooth roads. Within minutes, we entered the city, and the driver efficiently maneuvered it to the miniscule driveway of the hotel, built on a busy main road. While I struggled to pay the taxi-driver the amount of money (not used to the Qatari Rials that I had bought at the airport’s exchange counter), a porter picked up my luggage and took it inside. I placed the change back in my wallet; and a thought flashed through my mind; at this moment I was carrying at least five different currency notes: The Nepalese Rupees; a couple of Indian hundred Rupee notes that a shopkeeper had returned today afternoon as change; US Dollars; Qatari Rial; and, Bhutanese Ngultrum, a souvenir that I had retained from my visit there in December 2004. Another shock awaited me as I stood near the reception. ‘No booking here’ informed a dour executive there. I could have torn my hair in frustration. Furiously, I started to punch the keys of my mobile to catch hold of the travel agent. But just then, the sour-expressioned executive managed to get hold of the manager, and informed that the booking was not in the main hotel, but in the residences. And where is that? Just pointing to a vague direction, he told it was nearby. I insisted on an escort. It was actually very nearby, crossing the street, into a bylane. The manager at the Doha Palace Residences got a form signed, and retained my passport. I raised a curious eyebrow. Standard rules, he said. The room turned out to be a full apartment: two rooms, two bathrooms, kitchen and a drawing room. Not bad, I said myself; but also realized that being a service apartment, standard hotel services would not be available. The house-keeping boy who had brought my bag was Nepali. Comforting, again! ******************************************* Doha – my first impression is that it is wide, clean, neat, immaculate and largely flat. Perfect. That’s how I like cities – one that should not be claustrophobic. The roads are huge, and the cars more huge. In fact, everything is large here – even the shops and the houses that I observed. And, keeping in mind the locale, the buildings are largely in sandy color or white. The rest are the modern steel-and-glass structures. Public transport is crippled. Finding a taxi has been a bane for the past two days. I haven’t seen any buses. The heat in the afternoon is unbearable; but naturally, siesta closure becomes a necessity than choice. The Qatari Rial is quiet powerful – nearly 3.5 QR to a single dollar. Adjusting to the small amounts printed on the shops or restaurant menus took me a while; but then I realized its because the small amount also makes up for a large one when coverted to the Nepalese or Indian rupees. I hope I can survive the crossing of the roads is a recurring thought. Following the reverse traffic norms as compared to the South Asian countries, I always end up looking at the wrong direction. And cars are fast here! Although by a seaside, it does not have beaches as we know of them. Yet, the seaside, done with a neat sand-colored parapet, was an interesting long walkable lane. I enjoyed the walk there with the salty and warm wind. The City Center is the large malls – join Ansals Plaza with all the Gurgaon malls into one big amalgamation, you will get the idea of the size. It is a combination of shops, exhibition areas, restaurants etc. It is also a glass and steel construction – very neat, very polished, very cold! Starbucks has spread its tentacles here; if I was expecting something great, I was hugely disappointed. The Souq area is the shopper’s delight. Several mall-kind of shops in a clutter, but size here definitely does matter; nothing is cramped or contained. There is an old fashioned bazaar also, with hut-like mud covered and white painted buildings. It looks straight out of an Arabian Nights scene. Don’t get belied by the exteriors; some of the buildings house extra-modern banks as well! Mcdonalds also has presence; obviously, they are very smart in adapting to the local ethos. If India, they scream hoarse about ‘100% vegetarian’, here the signages shouted about ‘100% beef’! Vegetarianism is an alien concept. Finding vegetarian food is a bit of a tough job. The same problem was experienced by me on the flight also. The entire menu was a non-vegetarian’s delight. While in Kathmandu, we use fans like air-conditioners, in Qatar, the AC are used like fans. Indians, Bangladeshis, Pakistanis are in abundance, apart from approx a 100,000 population of Nepalese there. In fact, on the streets it did not seem a foreign country at all as Hindi could be widely heard. Plus, I was told that there is an entire generation of Qatari Arabs who know Hindi pretty well, due to their trade with Bombay, when the country was a British Protectorate. The international airport, though a bit cramped, is world class in service. I believe there is a fresh one coming up soon. Apart from hosting the G-77 and China Summit this year, Qatar will also see the 15th Asian Games unfold there next year! *********************************** As the first evening drew to a close, I realized that I had nothing to do in the evening. I played with the idea of calling up the number written in a bold but neat handwriting on a tissue paper. It was given to me on the Qatar Airways flight from Kathmandu. I was not sure; I did not want to be a pile-on, unnecessarily. What the hell! He seemed genuine enough, I said to myself, and dialed the number. As the bell rang on the other end, I thought of my first introduction with him. ‘My name is R, and I am your in-flight executive’ he informed, sitting down in a half-seated way, reverential but graceful. ‘Indian?’ I asked incredulously. The name was so! ‘Yeah’ I said. ‘Great. How come here in Qatar Airways?’ ‘Lots of Indians here’ he informed. ‘Largely from Jet Airways’ Thereafter, the flight had been wonderful. R was efficient, composed and in-control; obviously, he knew his job extremely well. Full marks to him for even managing to find me some vegetarian fare that was not mentioned in the menu card. For me, my service standard notch for Qatar Airways has been set at an impossibly high, thanks to him! We did chat up on –and –off during the long four-hour-forty minute flight. And while disembarking the plane, he had handed over his number. There was no response on the phone. I left it at that, and turned to Dan Brown and his pacy saga of demons and angels. The phone rang approximately an hour later. Hello, Mr. Deepak, is that you? What followed was an evening that I will always cherish. R had rounded up an entire gang – most of them his colleagues and others his friends here. He has been here for the past three years now. We went to the posh Movenpick Hotel, and started off the evening with beer. Since I don’t drink on Tuesdays, I waited for the midnight to pass before starting off. As the beer flowed, the camaraderie increased. Hats off to them for making me most comfortable; it hardly seemed that I was meeting them for the first time. Plus, the fact that they were all Indians helped. The party continued till about two in the night, and we were joined in by a couple of more friends, and literally had to be told by the restaurant staff to leave. Next step- the thirst for beer was not yet quenched. Another place, another venue, they all said. Fine with me! As we parked the car, goodness knows where, as I was already in the throes of a lovely mild intoxication, a few stern looking gentlemen came on. The CID. I stood quietly by the side of the Land Rover, as R and his friends tackled them. It was scary. The CID/police here know exactly what the term ‘strict’ means. And they are not given to the ‘side-mein-aajao’ syndrome of Delhi/Indian cops! ‘Come over to my place’ offered R. I had a meeting at ten in the morning. My logical brain said no. But the unruly heart, said yes. Fuck it! It was ages since I had done this sort of night-outs. And probably would not get another chance in the near future. Also, it was advisable too; at this time, I did not want to risk going back to the hotel. At R’s lovely house, began another round of party. No booze, unfortunately. It was another lovely round; silly jokes and acts that seemed to be from my past in the college days came back with a bang. Music, dance, pranks, dispirin-in-coke, smoking … the works! Somehow, R had managed to call in for some food. Time rushed on. Exhaustion was taking over. The music had changed to Jagjit Singh’s mellow ghazals. Finally, we sat down to eat. The time – five in the morning. By six, the friends departed, and I lay down there and closed my eyes. Sleep came on immediately. I left R’s place around nine, after waking up with a jerk at eight. A round of tea later, R was kind enough to arrange for a taxi for me to go back to the hotel. On the way back, I was happy and satiated. Whatever stupid result the official result would bring in, this visit was overall a success. It had been a perfect all-boy’s night out; it was after ages and years that I had so thoroughly enjoyed; I felt young! Full marks and many thanks to the entire gang there, esp. R, for a memorable evening. (With R, I had another pleasant lunch at Bukhara – yes the same famous Bukhara has an outlet there also- consisting of lip-smacking Raan Kandhari and the absolutely sumptuous Bukhara Daal. More than the lunch, it was another delicious dialogue. I am not sure how many passengers R gives his numbers to, but definitely I felt honored; it gave a very warm and lilting dimension to an otherwise dry and gritty business trip) (For those interested to know, I got an extension at the same hotel and stayed there for the entire tour. The return flight was uneventful; due to the time difference, it reached Kathmandu early in the morning around seven a.m.) For more information on Qatar, please click this link!
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by Deepak Jeswal on 09:02 AM
Tuesday, June 14, 2005Disaster! A Post Directly from the State of Qatar I step inside the airconditioned internet cafe from the blazing heat of the outside. A few hours back I had chaffed at the idea of shops closing down for siesta; now, I am a convert. As the sun flashes its hot might over the desert sea port of Doha, I am in a temporary haven and heaven. Haven, because the rusty airconditioner of the cafe is an effective enough shield against the burning breeze outside; heaven, because I am back to writing a post and once again, push off a burden off my heart. The cafe computer is a mess, literally! It has more Arabic written than English on it, but that does not bother me, as I can type without looking at the keyboards. It is the pathetic state of the keys that is stopping the speed every few seconds. The title refers to this entire trip. Right from the word go, it has been an impossibly disastrous and devilish one. The seed for this trip was laid sometime in January. At that time, due to visa delays, I was unable to go. The event passed, and I was stuck in Nepal. My boss seethed through the phone. So, when this month took birth, I also did a Caesarian to bring out my trip here. It was a still born baby, but without giving up hope, I passed it into the incubator for it revive on. I was uncertain of its future. Even if it miraculously survived, what will be the future. I had no clue of what to do once I reached in Doha. As I type this, I have no clue what to do once that I am in Doha. A volley of emails and counter-e-mails later to obtain my visa, the last straw that fell on my already hurt back, was the opposing weekends in the two countries. The visa came on Saturday, by which the India offices were closed. Despite warning my travel agent that it might fall through on Saturday, she made no bookings. On Monday morning, I nearly screamed at the agent, and asked for a ticket and hotel stay and a car pick up. Three agonising hours later, I was informed that a ticket could be done, but the Embassy Registration in Kathmandu would be required. "I have that!" I exclaimed, excited. My mind whirred alongside; there was packing still to be done, and a few phone calls to be made. The flight was eight pm; I had to be at the airport maximum by six. There were some six hours left. Immediately I picked up the diary where the registration letter was. It was not there. My heart skipped a beat. As I rummaged sheet after sheet, paper after paper, document after document, for the next two hours, it became evident that the registration form was missing. Panic took place of any hunger in my stomach. The house looked as if a hurricane had just swept through it. The clock was speeding with an alarming rate. I still had to take the printout of the visa, and also do the ironing to have the packing completed. Abandoning the thought of ever finding the document, I picked up a couple of pair of trousers and shirts, ironed them in dull fury, and dropped them into the travel bag. Immediately, thereafter I rushed to the photostat center to get the visa printout. Hell, the CD did not work at that PC. Buying a new CD, I rushed back home to take another copy. In between, I called up Bombay. " Yes the ticket would be done!" "Good" I replied. "And hotel?" "Well, we do not take care of that; you speak to L" she informed, and transferred the line. As I kept the phone down, I was assured the hotel will be done. Good, I told myself. With the G-77 summit happening there, I was damn lucky to have found a hotel room. Back home, I did a last minute search for the missing document, and then finally called up the Indian Embassy for a duplicate. They asked for an FIR, my passport copy and a few days. I left it at that. At three pm, as advised by my travel agent, I rushed to the Qatar Airways office to pick up my ticket. "Its not come as yet" was the information. Ok, Ok, DJ, relax, I told myself. The bored counter girl gave a loud yawn. I asked for a senior to be seen. I was shown. He smiled, and replied, yes they had received information about my ticket, but not the PTA (or whatever confirmation it is called) as yet. "Please wait" At least he smiled; and he did not yawn. Better, he informed the embassy registration document is not necessary. Minutes swept by. It was four o' clock. Two hours to go. No ticket. System problem at Bombay. Mentally I tried to recite if I was missing on any item to be packed. Dammit, currency! I would need some international currency. More minutes waltz by. It is four twenty five. Confirmation has arrived. "You want tonight's flight?" asks the lady. I look at her with dumb wide eyed; either this woman is crazy or she has a very bad sense of humor. For the past one and hour I have been sitting on her head precisely because I want to catch tonight's flight. And, thereon, she also decided she had to display her best handwriting; so, tediously she wrote out the ticket; checked it five times with the details on the computer; matched my name some more five times with that of my passport, and finally, at around 4:45 , I had my ticket in hand. Before rushing home, en route, I stop at an ATM, withdraw money, and run to the nearest money exchange center. The first one does not have the requisite amout of USD. "Wait for five minutes" he said. I could not trust him, so I rushed out to the next available one. Five o clock, read the watch. One more hour to go. I hail a taxi, throw a fifty rupee note for a twenty rupee ride, and rush home. At five to six, I, semi-satisfied, and still wondering whether I had the geyser turned off, was on the way to Tribhuvan International Airport. At the immigration counter, the clerk stopped me for some ten minutes; an Indian going to Doha from Kathmandu. It seemed as if I had the entire consignment of some Prem Chopra or Amrish Puri to carry. At the same time, I prayed inwardly for him not to ask anything about the embassy registration. Thankfully, the visa was all correct. The counter-clerk's senior was called for to verify; and finally I had the stamp. Phew! I heaved a sigh of relief! All done, all through! At seven fifteen, just minutes before boarding the flight, I receive a call from my boss. I pick it up and nearly smirk, "Yes, I am going to Qatar" ! "That's ok, but speak to travel desk urgently, she cant get through your numbers" Oh hell, I thought, I had promised to call her to tell her that I had the ticket with me. Immediately, I call her up, and with full gratitude exclaim, "Than..." Even before I could complete, she interrupted. "Deepak, there is a big problem, your hotel is not done there. All hotels are full there!" The ground got pulled from under my feet, the waiting room rotated, and I stood paralyzed, holding the phone to my ears! (My apologies for not replying to comments in the previous post; will try to do so tomorrow; else, once I am back)
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by Deepak Jeswal on 06:06 PM
Tuesday, April 19, 2005A Tale of Four Cities (And Three Blogger Meets) My Trip to India: A Report: Part Four Lal Krishna Advani was followed by a gentleman I did not recognize. Behind them, clad in a spotless white kurta pyjama, was Pramod Mahajan. As Advani saab entered, he greeted (with an artificially overt joviality) the old man with the scowl sitting on the first row ahead of me. My guess was confirmed. The man was indeed the famous lawyer-turned-politician Ram Jethmalani. Advani saab proceeded to sit on the window-seat, first row on the left hand side. Another dour looking man came in, with an air of importance and a look of superiority on his face. He handed over a black bag to Advani. I guess this man was feeling very happy and proud that he got to carry the ex-deputy PM’s bag. He left shortly. Thankfully, despite the heavy-weight VIP presence, the plane left at the scheduled time. Aditi, the airhostess, without the slightest flinch, resumed her duties, offering the important men juice and the menu card. I wanted to see how the staff reacted to other passengers in their presence; a streak of mean and vicious behavior raising its ugly head within me. As she was offering the menu card, I deliberately pressed the ‘airhostess call button’ on the top panel. There was not the tiniest sliver of hesitation, or disturbance, and she came over with the same warm and welcoming smile. The security information was equally well handled by her. It is not easy to mime and act out a theatrics which no one is bothered to see; that too, twice over – once in Hindi, the second in English. She did it gracefully. On landing, while waiting for the doors to open, I got a chance to stand right next to Advani saab. I learnt that he and Mahajan were returning from some function at Goregaon, Mumbai. No, he did not tell this to me. He was explaining this to Jethmalani. Getting off the plane, both Mahajan and Advani were whisked off in a waiting white Ambassador car. Apologetically, one of the ground staff stood at the base of the stairs, holding back the other passengers till the time the car moved on. I was right at the front, and when the car started off, stated jokingly, ‘Can the lesser mortals proceed, please?’ The man blushed and grinned sheepishly, and motioned towards the waiting bus. Delhi – The Third City on the Itinary The drive back home was uneventful except for the small fear that gripped my heart when the pre-paid taxi driver took a dirty obscure route at Delhi Cantt since there is some construction going on at the Airport to Gopinath Bazar stretch. Having heard of untoward incidents, it was not particularly comforting to be sitting in the Omni taxi at night weaving its way through unknown and kachha track. Delhi- the capital of the country and the heart of the nation (its local name, Dilli, seemingly derived from the Hindi word for ‘heart’)- is a city that has been sadly sidelined by top-notch artists and writers (barring for Khushwant Singh’s novel of the same name) and even by the film industry. I do not recall any song or lyric on the city. The gargantuan city-state that we see today is a combination of some seven older towns during various phases of the history. Ravaged and raped multiple times, it has fallen, stood up and brushed aside the dirt off its apparels, and fought back with renewed vigor. For all that I crib about it, Delhi is my hometown; but then, you always complain about and joke with those that are your own and are the near and dear ones. Getting back to the cozy environs of your home is always heartening; it is my comfort zone; of late, having stayed away, I have started developing a crazy sense of possessiveness about it. After a long chat with parents, I was ready to call it a day. Monday broke out brightly Gurgaon – The Fourth City on the Itinary- The Third of the Bloggers on this leg of the journey. The meeting that was to start at ten could not take off till about one pm. In the meantime, I finished off the pending work, replied to the mails and called up friends, of which the first one was to Ashish. I wasn’t sure whether he would be in India, so it was a pleasant surprise when he picked up the phone at the fourth ring. ‘I am leaving tonight,’ he informed. Would it be possible to meet? ‘Sure. Give me some time, I will get back. I have some work near your office,’ he replied enthusiastically. The official meeting was like…well, all official meetings; the only positive outcome was that I was to be back in Delhi in the first week of May as well. I was free early. Ashish was not. Though he was in a building right next to the one that houses my office, he explained that it was a bit difficult to get out immediately. No issues, I said. In any case, I had planned to go to the malls to pick up the Veer Zaara DVD, we could perhaps meet after that. ‘But where are you?’ he asked. ‘Near the gate, walking towards the parking lot. Why?’ I replied. ‘No, just trying to see you from the window here’ he laughed. Even before I could maneuver my Santro out of the tight spot that it was placed in, I saw Ashish’s tall and lean figure walking briskly out of the opposite building’s entrance. We shook hands over the low wall separating the two compounds. He said he had excused himself for a brief while from his meeting. I was extremely overwhelmed; all through out this trip, I have been extended the warmest of gestures; this one was like a perfect dessert after a sumptuous meal. We decided to meet at City Center (DT Cinemas) Mall in about an hour. The Planet M there did not have the DVD of Veer Zaara. I whiled my time browsing through the various cassettes and CD’s but could not find anything deeply interesting to buy. Their system was playing the songs of Kaal. I heard two of them, and immediately concluded that these songs were not my cup of tea. Like many times before, Ashish and I met at Barista, only this instance it was at the mall. It was a brief meeting; it was nearing eight, he had to rush back to pack and leave for the airport to catch his flight. Updated him on the blog world, and he promised that after this trip he has nothing planned, so hopefully he should be back soon. I informed about meeting Manish and Gaurav; and that was when it hit me that I had met the winners of Ashix, and now I was sitting with the brain behind the awards. Once again, I am the carrier of his message – a big hello to all blog-friends. The drive back home in the rush was nothing particularly exciting. Tuesday came out cheerlessly. Last minute packing (had got all the clothes washed and ironed), final good byes, promises to be good - and I was soon seated in the auto-rickshaw. The familiar sights rushed past me, ripping off with their friction, layers of years, the cast of past and the crime of time. Memories intertwined their tonsils with my inner shouts. Epilogue The flight to Kathmandu was on time, though the formalities at immigration were painful due to the inordinately long queue and too few working counters. Worse, the counter for which I was standing in the line for suddenly decided to close off; relocating to another queue which I felt was shorter, I was meted out the same treatment: the counter closed just when I was about to reach it. Apparantly, some VIP delegation was going, and half the immigration staff was required for that purpose. It was my fourth Jet Airways flight in the last six days. The in-flight executive Rajat recognized me; another efficient crew member of Jet, I had traveled with him on the same sector a couple of times back. His efficiency is remarkable; once again, I received a wonderful service. The plane touched the tarmac of Tribhuvan International Airport with finesse and grace. On the whole, I can sum up the trip as wonderful – managed to go to my sister’s place, got sufficient time with parents, the official work went through smoothly, all the flights were on schedule and, of course, got to meet two new bloggers. Lastly, even this travelogue has shaped up pretty decently and I am personally quite satisfied with it. Concluded.
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by Deepak Jeswal on 12:06 AM
Sunday, April 17, 2005A Tale of Four Cities (And Three Blogger Meets) My Trip to India: A Report: Part Three Earlier in the day when my brother in law asked about my blog (he was aware that I write a blog), I started off on an excited recital of the bloggers and the ones I had met. I noticed a faint trace of skepticism in his reaction, though nothing was stated out. The same were convincingly wiped off once Manish Chauhan and his wife left the place. This was Manish’s first meeting with a blogger (hope the first impression was a decent one for him), and I have now become a veteran of sorts in this. For those who have not, my strong suggestion is to read his blog first (Confusing Musings – though they are anything but confusing; and he writes exceedingly well on a number of topics; his knowledge of Hindi and Urdu poetry is mindblowing! ). Also observe the layout he has chosen: neat, white and uncluttered – exactly my impression of him. Add to this: educated (IIT Kanpur, after all), well-settled (a good company, checked up later), learned (has a deep knowledge of myriad topics) and cultured (the Lucknowi adab) and the profile of Manish is complete. He is also extremely soft-spoken. Over a round of tea, and sitting in the back-gardens of my sister’s place, we had a delightful and eclectic conversation featuring (as usual) my pet topic (Lata Mangeshkar), a smattering of politics, about Pune, our backgrounds and of course, our common meeting point, the blogs and the bloggers. Here, let me just stop a while and let you on the way we 'met' on the blogs for the first time. When Ashish and I were having a near-chat and a debate over the music of Veer-Zaara and Swades (each defending his own choice, do I even have to mention which one was mine?), suddenly, there was Manish, who stepped in to say "AGree with Deepak bang on. Madan Mohan is best" (this is a cut-and-paste from that post, complete with the typo error). Not the one to miss a person who has such a lovely view about Madan Mohan, I went over to his blog, and invited him over here. Thus, began our friendship. Back at the lawns of my sister's place in Pune, I brought up this chance meeting of ours, once again. (Incidentally, that was the day when I met Ashish face -to-face in person also). His petite, demure and charming wife smiled on, only letting go of it when our friend Scooby suddenly decided to be a part of the gathering. They have been married for five years ('almost child marriage', as he joked good naturedly) and make a fabulous couple. I did not realize it then, but the fact is that, coincidentally, I met the top two winners of our Ashix Awards! (Manish, your CD will surely come by once Ashish is back from his trip) Last but not the least, many thanks to the Chauhans for coming all the way down to meet me; it was a very touching gesture. After they left, I gave off a smug smile to my brother-in-law as he granted his stamp of approval. I was satisfied that till now my choice of bloggers to meet had been correct; it is imperative that one meets the person one is comfortable with and can form an instant rapport with. We sat on in the garden till late in the evening, and eventually, left for the club to have dinner. Only a city like Pune can afford to have the sprawling campus for a club at a suburb. The effortless architecture was endearing. Sitting besides the swimming pool, and tucking in a sumptuous snack, once again, I marveled at the excellent weather of the city. I dozed off the minute I hit the pillow that night. Sunday dawned relaxedly. I complained to my sister that she had still not taken me around her house completely. Though I had been to this house earlier, but at that time the woodwork and furnishings had not been finished. My sister has a beautiful house with landscaped gardens, designer kitchen and a simple but workable design. We started the tour from the second floor which houses the children’s room – an identical set of twin rooms, in front of which is a large area earmarked for an informal ‘family room’ with television and system and the works. But that would come later, once the kids are through with their studies. ‘Maybe by the time you come next time, it would be ready,’ she remarked, tongue-in-cheek. I winced at the remark, and promised myself to be regular in my visits. The mezannine floor houses the master bedroom, and the ground floor has the drawing and dining rooms, off which is the kitchen, beyond which is the puja and the guest room. In the main drawing room, tastefully decorated, she pointed out to some of the artefacts there. ‘Remember those?’ she said, her hand motioning towards a pair of brass pelicans and a couple of other items. Of course I did. All of them were bought at Janpath in Delhi, with me being the official guide at that time. Time passes with a click when the going is good, and before I could realize it, it was lunch hour. Packing the delicious idli and sambhar as much as I could, I wished that she could pass off the recipe to some of the restaurants in Kathmandu. The packing was quick; I had not taken out much stuff, but I had the added packets of bhakar-wadi and Laxminarayan chidwa to put in. My brother-in-law dropped me to the taxi-stand; the wait was small, and before long, Pune was rushing behind me; another leg of the journey was awaiting me now. I sat back and relaxed and closed my eyes; the breeze tickled my face playfully; it was fresh and cool, despite the sun. When I opened the eyes, I realized we were not on the Expressway, but on the old Mumbai-Pune highway. I enquired this of the driver. ‘Will pick up passengers at Lonavla’ he remarked. Dreadfully, I looked at the watch. ‘How long will it take to reach Mumbai?’ ‘Two and a half hours’ he replied, casually. Better! I told him, I had a flight to catch and did not want to get stranded in Mumbai. He did not get any passengers, and we reached Mumbai just in time. Getting off at Sion, I jumped into the next waiting Premier Padmini yellow-and-black cab and urged the driver, an ageing and cheerful person, to drive as fast as he could. It was an immaterial command; even if he wanted to, he could not have. The traffic was maddening. Check-in, security and boarding- all happened fast, one after the other. The first thing that caught my eyes was her smile – it was warm and congenial, unlike the professionally practiced plastic smiles of other air-hostesses- as she presented the cold towel. The next thing I observed was the grace with which she went about her job – just the right unobtrusive demeanor, a slight affectionate bend, a small flicker of twinkle in the eyes and a delicate movement of the hands. Aditi, I read the name on her tag. The third thing I perceived was the voice – mellow and husky, like a smooth roll over a polished surface. An old and round man with a deep scowl entered the cabin, accompanied by a younger one. They took the first row seat on the right hand side. I stretched myself to have a look at them from my fourth row, on the same side. The face was familiar; could it be really him? Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity. The purser moved about importantly. The airhostesses stood in a tense attention mode. The ground-staff entered the plane and barked a few hasty orders in their ubiquitous walky-talkies. My jaw dropped in awe as I saw the entrance of the passengers. To Be Continued.
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by Deepak Jeswal on 07:55 PM
Friday, April 15, 2005A Tale of Four Cities (And Three Blogger Meets) My Trip to India: A Report: Part Two Gaurav Rathore and his roomie (I am sorry, forgetting his name) entered, after an enthusiastic but paradoxically, tentative ‘hello’. Offering them the two sofa chairs, I plonked myself, cross legged on the bed, and started a wonderful conversation. As I stated earlier, after ‘knowing’ someone through his or her words on the blog, the feeling of meeting the person in flesh-and-blood is exihilirating. Over masala peanuts and Coke (he doesn’t drink, he doesn’t smoke), we talked dime-a-dozen covering a wide gamut of topics ranging from Lata Mangeshkar to music in general to personal details to professional woes to other bloggers (we have a list of readers that overlaps quite a lot). Gaurav came across exactly like his blog – a genial, warm, open, optimistic, happy-go-lucky and energetic youngster; I noticed his laughter had an unsullied and unpretensious candor to it, which is very assuring. When I had mentioned him as a splendid human being, I had based my opinion on our conversation and not only on his blog. (So all those still indecisive about the MPBM, rest assured he will be a great organizer and is a superb person to meet and chat up with). The dialogue went on till late in the night. My gratitude to Gaurav for coming all that way ( he lives far off from the place I was staying; far, as in some 2 hour drive); I do not know about him, but I really enjoyed the meet, and hope to see him again the next time I am in Mumbai. Closing the door behind him, I sauntered over to the wide window of the room, and looked out into the dark Mumbai night. It was quiet, very quiet; the mind raced to the official meetings of the next day. The sea, not far off, gurgled ominously, and my thoughts melted into the night in a dark plasticine-like soft mass. Friday dawned tiredly. I am not very comfortable in the spoken word, especially at formal gatherings, which is a peculiar anomaly since I have been in the sales and marketing side for the past ten years now. All the way to the office in, mentally I rehearsed what I needed to say at the meeting. The light breakfast that I had before starting off grumbled within its abdominal confines. As the autorickshaw pulled over in front of the gates of the building that housed my company’s head office, it settled down with a deep resonating thud; its booming echo reverberated through the heart and mind. Curiously, I looked at the meter; it read Rupees five and some paise. I was flummoxed; the distance traveled was quite a bit. ‘How much?’ I asked the driver. ‘Fifty three’ he replied. It sensed on me that the Mumbai meters were quite adept at their guile. The driver took off; the clutter of the rickety engine rushed somewhere behind me, from right to left, like hearing it on an efficient Dolby sound system. I looked up at the menacingly tall steel and glass building, sighed and entered past the security gates. The receptionist greeted me with a cheerful smile. ‘Tomorrow’s program is cancelled,’ she announced, gleefully. My heart somersaulted in delight. There were some team-building exercises and a luncheon penciled in the agenda for Saturday but apparently these were now striken off. This meant I now had the full weekend for myself, which in turn meant, I could rush off to Pune. I resisted the temptation to call up my sister in Pune knowing my company’s penchant for some more last-minute changes. Still, I asked the travel desk to find out the cheapest and the quickest way of reaching Pune. As ever, the over-burdened travel agent grimaced; she did not have the grace to hide it even. The greetings from fellow employees of Mumbai office were warm and comforting- they ranged from genuine concerns about the situation and my safety to amiable jokes on the same. Another piece of good information landed on my lap – I was to stay back on Monday at Delhi to attend office for some urgent work. Again, I went rushing after the travel agent to change my Delhi-Kathmandu bookings. The meeting passed off well; rather, it passed off exceedingly well. I was surprised that I could pull it off with élan and elegance despite an enervating ennui gnashing within me. Thereafter, we proceeded for lunch organized at one of the restaurants at the same hotel where I was staying. Thankfully, the waiters were explaining the dishes – they had outlandish names, and even more exotic looks! On the way, out of the airconditioned environs, I felt the full impact of the hot and humid Mumbai weather. After the cool breezes of Kathmandu, it felt certainly horrible! The beer was chilled and refreshing. Post-lunch, we drove back to the office, finished off a couple of routine discussions, and I was free around six pm. It was confirmed now; there was nothing planned for Saturday. I walked out of the building feeling much like a bird freed from the cage. I looked up again at the beautiful steel and glass building; it smiled benignly. I pestered the travel agent to find me a way of reaching there; she came up with a solution that was far beyond my budget. Though I did not tell her, lest I be stranded in Mumbai without any other option of going, mentally I resolved to shirk off the heart’s inclination towards easy luxury, and decided that taking a cab or bus from Dadar was by far an economical and as efficient option. I made fast calls to everyone concerned – parents, sister and one more. Once again, I had another long chat with Priyangini. With the evening free, I checked out her information. Sure enough, ‘Mannat’ the famed residence of Shahrukh Khan was just a few meters away from the hotel. Though not expecting to ‘see’ the star, I still lingered around the place, a dull sanguine hope working somewhere at the back of the mind. Since the beer and the lunch sat heavily, I skipped dinner, and walked on the sea shore of Bandstand. Despite a late hour, there was a crowd that was enjoying the view; truly, this city never sleeps. Couples clung to each other passionately; families fussed over the youngsters who skipped about; and, friends fraternized, joking and laughing at the day’s oddities. It was a splendid calm night. Thankfully, a small but warm breeze was playing naughtily, its impish fingers circling the nape of my neck in a soft message. The waves came with their juggernaut force but whimpered as they skidded onto the supple sand, submitting their strength in a loving defeat to the infinite beach as they embraced in a warm hug. Satisfied and relaxed, I turned back to the hotel. The lobby was full and lively as ever. The echoes of my steps of the polished marble floor welded into the mellow murmurs all over. After packing off, I slid into the yielding double bed and slept off. Saturday emerged excitedly. I can swear that the chores of the morning were exactly the same as the previous day, save for the shave that I had opted to skip. Yet, I felt the time move interminably slowly as I got dressed up, and gave a searching look at the room- a spacious one with the double bed (covered by spotless white and fluffy quilts and sheets) occupying majority of the space majestically. At the study table provided, near the window, I did a quick rummaging around to see that I had not left anything – there was the hotel’s service manual, the writing pad, and a white, complicated telephone; nothing of mine there. The day’s Times of India was the only other occupant, lying carelessly in haphazard folds, besides the ornamental study lamp with a beautiful dull beige shade. After a gap, there were the two large maroon sofa chairs. Nothing on them, either. I stepped for a brief second at the parted curtains – double layered – a thick maroon one over slim white muslins; I took one last view of the sea. Stepping back, I went over the bedside table – cluttered with a cup of half-drunk tea, another telephone – similar kind- and the bed side operating system (a remote control device that operated the lights, the airconditoning and even the curtains). Picking up my passport, my pen and the few visiting cards (lying there), I dialed the front desk and informed them of my intended check-out. Walking past the bed, between its base and the cabinet that housed the minibar and the television, I bent down at the small rack where my baggage was, and secured the lock. Striding towards the ante-room area, which had one dressing desk, and the cupboard facing the bathroom, I dialed home from my mobile. Yes, I am leaving for Pune in a short while. No, I am not splurging money and taking the difficult but inexpensive option, I assured parents. A quick peek into the large bathroom (nothing left there either) and I picked up the key-card from its slot near the doorway, and walked out to the heavily carpeted lobby. A short breakfast and check out was followed by a drive to Dadar. My package included a free airport drop, which I had got converted to a Dadar-drop. Sitting at the back seat of the Tata Indigo, I viewed the stately building of the hotel- suave and sedate in style; languid and luxurious in looks; and, prompt and punctilious in performance. I bade farewell to Taj Lands End, Bandra, Mumbai! Pune – The Second City on the Itinary- The Second of the Bloggers on this leg of the journey. The black Indica taxi, hired after some negotiations from Dadar, whizzed over the spacious Expressway. While boarding, I had told the cab-driver to take me there ‘real quick’. He was following the exact instructions; I spied the speedometer often crossing 110 kmph . Being Gudi Padwa, the Marathi New Year and a holiday, getting out of Mumbai was also easy as the traffic was negligible. Till now I had believed that Gurgaon-Jaipur Highway was the best that I had traveled on (in India) ( I still have to go on the Faridabad-Agra one); I grudgingly conceded that the Mumbai-Pune Expressway was equally good, if not better. I was dismayed to notice several worn out patches at certain points; though the repair had been done, the patchwork only showed the slackness of the quality of the original material used. On the way, Radio Mirchi regaled us with an amusing contest – think of a quick recipe that one can cook up during the short time that Sourabh Ganguli was on the crease. (It was the day of the disastrous Indo-Pak match) As Lonavla swept by, and the breeze cooled off, my excitement raised itself a notch upwards. I was visiting my sister’s place after nearly six years. Since then, I had tried often, but the plan had never materialized (though we had been meeting each other during her trips to Delhi). Since my sister lives in the suburbs, much before the main city, I pointed the exact turn to the cab driver to take from the highway (as explained by my jijaji on the phone). A few wrong turns later, I was at their house; even before my sister could greet me, or I could touch her feet (she is much elder to me), I was swamped by the wet licks of Scooby, their lovable but large dog. (Thankfully, he took a liking towards me; my sister explained that he has strong dislikes, and often takes a strange aversion to some of the guests. Maybe he does remember me, I thought. After all, there was a time when the then young Scooby had sat at my feet every morning while I read the newspaper, when I had gone to stay there for a ten-day holiday). Over hot cup of tea, we chatted including but not limited to the Nepal situation, how I cope up there alone, the forthcoming trip of theirs to Delhi during the summer break, and of course, the ever delightful, and the ever-spicy family gossip. Lunch was delicious; I can say with confidence and finality that my sister is one of the finest cooks – by the time we ended I was ready to burst, but pet bhar gaya, par neeyat nahin bhari. I had another bowl of the amazing channas. A short nap later, I was ready to make the phone call. The conversation had an uncanny feeling of déjà vu – again, I was far off; again, I expressed my inability to come; again, the caller showed immense magnamity in offering to drive down. Since I had myself reached the house with some difficulty, explaining him the way was next to impossible; so, I told him to call from the market place, which I had noticed was quite closeby. An hour or so later, he called to inform that he was there, standing next to a well known bank. I left the house to receive him. Since my sister stays at an area that is not overtly crowded, it was easy to spot him. Plus, the number plate on his car was a dead give away. My first reaction (and I blurted it out rather tactlessly) was that he did not look like his photograph at all (the one on his blog). His wife smiled. We sat in his car and moved towards my sister’s place. To Be Continued. From The Archives I had written this small piece on the view seen from a similar room of the same hotel some time back : - A Black And White Mumbai Morning The Countdown Continues- One day left for the MPBM
posted
by Deepak Jeswal on 01:55 PM
Thursday, April 14, 2005A Tale of Four Cities (And Three Blogger Meets) My Trip to India: A Report: Part One Prelude The Jet Airways 9W 4108 flight took off with a shaky start again. As I settled in my seat, and looked out of the oval window at the sprawling valley below, covered intermittently with tufts of bashful clouds, a muddle of thoughts and emotions tumbled within my belly; a dull sense of the foreboding meetings with a sharp pleasure of the few bloggers that I will meet and an acutely exciting prospect of visiting my sister’s place; all three, shifting in tectonic upheaving motions, contrasting and annihilating each other, while the plane lunged further upwards into the curtain of snow-white clouds. The earth below lost its individuality and became a mass of faded green and brown with occasional dots and lines. I submitted myself to the impeccable services of the Jet Airways crew, and opened the Agatha Cristie that I was carrying, brushing aside all thoughts till the next day. The landing at the Indira Gandhi International Airport was smooth; even though the in-flight executive’s plea to remain seated and not to switch on the mobile phones echoed through the announcement system, a cackle of voices could be heard in various languages announcing their arrival at the airport. Where else did they expect the plane to land? Picking up my single piece of luggage from the conveyor belt, after the short immigration formalities and a quick call to parents, I moved towards the inter-terminal transfer coach provided by the airlines (I had to take the connecting flight to Mumbai). The first thing that hit me was that Delhi was boiling. The second was stranger – on getting off at the Domestic Terminal, the attendant refused to handover my luggage stating that it was a ‘Transfer’ one and will automatically reach the destination. I eyed him skeptically. He pointed to the ‘Transfer’ tag on the handle, and I could have sworn that I had not seen it ever before that moment. Still, not given to undue tensions, I allowed him to take the piece, mentally noting his name displayed on his uniform, and moved towards the check-in counter. At the counter, I requested for my favorite window seat; the lady looked up, smiled genially, and almost with a teacher-like tone informed that the same had already been done when I had given my initial choice at the Kathmandu airport. I told her about my baggage. Again, the condescendingly patronizing smile, almost a laugh – ‘Don’t worry; it will reach Mumbai’ she said. ‘Have a look at your baggage tag given (affixed on the ticket); it states the final destination and the flight no.’ I did not realize this, but a wave of relief swept my body. The Mumbai flight was smoother, and as ever, filled to the last seat. Sure enough my travel bag did reach its destination, and I walked out of Chhatrapati Shivaji Airport’s domestic terminal, searching for my hotel pick up car. The placard for me had misspelled my name horribly to ‘Jaspal’ but thankfully, the company’s name was also mentioned or else I might have given it a complete miss. Mumbai – The First City on the Itinary- The First of the Bloggers on this leg of the journey. Great lyricists and writers have written on this city – the commercial capital of India, the true cosmopolitan town that has the softness to embrace everyone and anyone but the harshness to squeeze in its unforgiving clasp those who cannot be fit to survive. Of all things I have read, Mumbai appeals me through its independent outlook and the nature to ‘live and let live’. Structurally and weather-wise, I simply hate it. The humidity sticks like a devil’s curse, gnawing irritatingly and sapping the energy. The thick rock like buildings over narrow roads is claustrophobic. I have always maintained, given a wish, I would go in for the openness and vastness of Delhi landscape and the openness and vastness of Mumbai attitude. The first thing to do on landing was a phone call – a brief one; meeting fixed, venue decided, and I sat back in the comfortable cushions of the hotel’s Tata Indigo that had come to pick me up. The rush outside of the soft hum within the car’s cabin was palpable. People were rushing back to homes (it was around 8 in the evening - or night, as Kathmanduites will say); their faces read a curious collage of fatigue and relief. Beyond, the sea gurgled in a satisfied rumble, purring to the overtures of the negligible moon above. Comfortably ensconced in my room after a quick and efficient check-in at the reception, I started my wait, while checking on the blogs and mails, having bought an exorbitantly priced wi-fi connection from the hotel’s business center. Another call - this time to another fellow blogger: Priyangini. She is the only blogger who has the dubious distinction with whom I have had several long telephonic conversations, but not met as yet. Next time, Priyangini – we gotta meet, and yes, you owe me my coffee treat. She also gave me an interesting piece of information about the place I was staying and its vicinity. Just when I was wondering as to whether the concerned person will be able to make it, the phone rang. “Which room?” the now familiar voice asked. I gave it. Shortly, the bell of the room rang in its melodious tone. I rushed to open the door. To Be Continued
posted
by Deepak Jeswal on 07:39 PM
Wednesday, December 29, 2004The Bhutan Diaries Part Three 2:00 pm It’s been almost one hour of this pantomime. The man is still on phone, and I pace the room restlessly. All of a sudden, he places the phone down and looks at me. “You can go” he says, a small smile forming for the first time, and hands over my passport and travel permit. Looking at my visiting card, he says, “Can I keep this?” Sure, I volunteer, relieved to be off this hell. Sitting in the car, the driver, visibly shaken and perturbed says, “It seems they had some mis-information. They knew my exact taxi number and from where it was hired and my mobile number as well. It is the first time I have been subjected to this kind of a check” It does no good to my shattered will power. Surreptitiously, I check the laptop and bag to see if some ‘foreign thingy’ has not been slipped in now! (Later, I learn from my friend, that these kinds of checks are quite ‘normal’ and should not be taken as otherwise; apparantely, the army officials were right) We start off, but have to stop the car again after a couple of kilometers. The trailer that is the cause of the current delay is carrying a tall piece of machinery, which has got solidly stuck onto a piece of jutting out mountain rock. The work is on, and it takes some one hour before a small way is cleared off for the cars to pass. 5:00 pm. The rest of the journey is uneventful. We had stopped at a roadside restaurant to have some snacks and coffee. En route, we pass through Chhuka, near which a large dam (Tala Hydel Project) is being developed with the aid of Indian private and government sectors. It has its headquarters some way up at Begu. At Begu, I again notice a standard Bhutanese government architecture…the buildings are white, with the windows in bright and intricate designs, giving the effect of a ‘patola saree’. Crossing Begu the weather changes quite abruptly. The clouds have descended and we are enveloped in a thick fog. Immediately, it is dark. “Now you are in heaven!” exclaims the driver. That is fine, but please drive carefully; I am in no mood to reach the real heaven this soon, I feel like telling him. I snuggle myself cosily into the farthest corner of the seat, wrapping my arms tightly to shelter against the crazily cold weather; the lengthening shadows and the thickening mist play eerily over the unyielding landscape. 6:00 pm At long last, we see Pheuntsholing (after passing yet another check post, where once again, the immigration counter stamped my ‘travel permit’; a routine at each entry of a fresh district). It is dark now, and the lights from atop the hill look like a million fireflies laid out in a replesendent net. Pheuntsholing is on the foothills of the Himalayas, beyond which the plains take over. There are no more mountains after that. On entering the city, I call up my friend, whom I have come to meet, and he promises to pick me up from a designated venue in five minutes time. I get out of the car to stretch myself; once again, the driver, warns me to get off the left hand side; I look at the deserted lane where we stand; where the hell is any policeman standing here? And, the rule, though it makes sense on an highway, cannot be so strictly imposed that one becomes paranoic! I do as he tells me, and wait for my friend. My friend, B, and I were school mates, and have shared the same dormitory in the hostel, some twenty years ago. Since then, we have been in touch off and on, largely through the ‘email forwards’ that we keep sending each other. He is settled in Pheuntsholing with his family, and has his business here. We last met some seven years back. At that time, jokingly, I had promised that some day, I shall surely visit him in Bhutan. Today, it was the time to rub in the fact in that I had finally kept my promise! 7:30 pm After spending some time at his office, and having a hot cup of tea, we leave for my hotel. Although he had insisted on me staying at his place, I was not keen on troubling him to that extent so I forced him to book a hotel. He chooses the best hotel of Pheuntsholing for me - The Druk Hotel. I am impressed. “We are late…they won’t allow the Bhutan number cars through at this time!” he says, as we sit in his red Alto. “They won’t allow Bhutan number cars? Here? Why?” I am all questions. He drives out towards the main road, barely half a kilometer away. “Actually my house is in India and they have stopped Bhutan numbered cars into India in the evenings” “Pardon! India?” “Yeah…don’t you know? Pheuntsholing is on the border of Bhutan!” I didn’t know!. And how far off is our India? “There,” he points to a tall concrete ceremonial gate in the middle of the main road, again, barely a few meters away. “That gate separates India from Bhutan.” Incredulously I look at the gate. It is a revelation to me. It is as if one city has been divided into two parts. How can one part of the city be in Bhutan and other in India? No, it's not one town, technically, that is; they are twin cities. The Indian end is Jaigaon, West Bengal. He drives upto the gate where, as predicted, the security personnel stop us. I view the place…on one main road, a gate is set up, and it divides two countries. I am amazed and amused! “See, that is India…will take you there tomorrow…today, will leave the car at your hotel and I will walk down…my house is hardly half a kilometer away” He crosses the border daily. Due to the friendly relations between the two countries, the ‘no man’s land’ is missing. And what time do they follow in Jaigaon? IST. So, with just a couple of steps, one can gain thirty minutes as Pheuntsholing follows Bhutan time, which is half an hour ahead of us. He then takes me on a tour of the border. Extended from the gate on both sides is short wall demarcating the two nations through the breadth of the city, with a narrow ‘nallah’ in between, to cross which one need not be an Anju Bobby George. Some enterprising ‘panwallah’ has broken a portion of the wall (away from the prying eyes of the security) and is openly selling off cigarettes to Bhutanese, as the cancer-sticks are strictly banned here. You cannot smoke on the roads! He smiles at the still surprised look on my face. 9:30 pm We have drinks at a nearby restaurant and catch up on the past seven years of our lives. Much has happened, and time flies by. I also taste the locally brewed Highland Whisky; to me it tastes quite like the Red Label that I had been having. Since there is a ‘virtual curfew’ on after nine in Pheuntsholing, we have to leave early. Life sleeps even earlier than Kathmandu. He jokes that he should have warned me not to expect 'cities' here; Bhutan is small, laid back, beautiful, simple, exotic and unostentatious. After promising to meet the next day at ten in the morning, he leaves for his house…in India! 10:30 pm I surf the channels again. ETC is available, so I catch a lot of latest trailors. I am quite confused…all of them look alike, forming certain cohesive groups…eg, Shabd and Vaada looked like cuts from the same frame with a similar storyline…add Bewafaa to this, I think the ‘unfaithful’ wife is here to stay for some time. Similarly, Elaan, Insaan and Blackmail merged into one bunch- with Akshay Kumar and Ajay Devgan being common to a couple of them. The song snippets do not excite me enough; moreover, like the scenes, they all sound the same. I go off to sleep. Saturday 25th December 2004 9:00 am I wake early, and catch the early morning show on Star Gold. The film is Barkha Bahar, starring Rekha and Navin Nischol. It is a longwinded tale of a girl who becomes a tawaif after her lover leaves her. If I am not mistaken, this was Rekha’s first Hindi movie. I cannot help but notice that for her debut, Rekha’s performance came across very polished and mature. The title song by Lata Mangeshkar will stay with me for the entire day. 11:30 am It is Christmas, and the Yuletide spirit has given this kingdom a complete miss. Not even a single colorful light to show that there is a festival on. All offices are open just like a normal working day. We complete my meetings, which turn out to be quite successful and fruitful; and I am excited as he drives the short distance through the gate. I am in India! I am in India! I exclaim excitedly. Just a gate on a continuing road is enough mental barriers…and crossing it gives me immense elation. Yes, I am in my own country, my own land! “Achcha lagta hai, na? Yahan aakar apni aukaat bhi badh jaati hai!” comments my friend. I agree completely. There is a strange sense of freedom that I am feeling…no one is just going to stop me here and ask for my ‘travel permit’ and passport! This is Jaigaon…the northern most tip of West Bengal. I am a trifle dismayed to notice that the Indian side is much dirtier than Pheuntsholing. 12:30 pm We visit his family, and later roam around the market of Jaigaon. Since this is India, I decide to buy a few CD’s at normal Indian rates; I pick up Bewafaa and Kisna. Rog is not available.Taking the opportunity I also purchase a few other stuffs which I do not get in Nepal, including Dispirin. 1:00 pm We cross the road and enter Bhutan. It is nearly time for me to leave. Since my flight back to Kathmandu is early morning the next day from Paro, I have to be there tonight itself, any which way! The taxi driver is on time. Thanking B for his warm and wonderful hospitality (he made entry into all the offices simple as also arranging for a hotel stay in Paro, and of course, here in Pheuntsholing), I start off on the return journey. The clouds are low, and it rains for most part of the journey. 7:00 pm Reach Paro; it is pitch black, and exceedingly cold…The return trip is without any mis-adventure, and I doze off for most of the time. The hotel chosen by my friend is exceptional. I am booked in an independent deluxe cottage, right at the back, overlooking the forest and the hills beyond. The cottage, made of wood, complete with a drawing room, and a dressing room, is L-shaped and tastefully decorated. I notice that the curtains have a bright woven design, with a broad piece of multi-colored cloth externally sewn at the top end, giving a reverse border effect; I had seen a similar design at the Thimphu hotel as well. 9:00 pm Sony is telecasting a repeat of Lata Mangeshkar’s “The Queen in Concert: An Era in an Evening”. I have seen it twice earlier and also have its audio double cassette pack. Yet, I am tempted to sit through it again. I watch a small portion, while having my dinner- a Bhutanese dish of cheese and mushrooms with butter naan, and a locally manufactured apple juice. With a heavy heart, I switch off the television…have to wake up early tomorrow…cannot take the risk of staying back. My cash is nearly exhausted…and credit cards are not accepted in Bhutan! Though Visa has entered at some establishments, the acceptance is rather poor. I enter the bundle of quilts and silently thank the hotel staff for having the fore-sight of placing two hot water bottles. (I returned to Kathmandu by an early morning flight of Druk Air on Sunday, 26th December 2004. The journey was uneventful, and the staff at the Paro International Airport, though clumsy, was more courteous. An irritating formality at the airport is to verify your baggage after the security check. The mannequins stayed constant in their unwavering stern smile-less heavily made up visages; and my earlier co-passenger, the tidy man with the thin beard, was also on the same flight back). The End
posted
by Deepak Jeswal on 12:17 AM
Tuesday, December 28, 2004The Bhutan Diaries Part Two Friday 24th December 2004 9:00 am I am ready for the day. After a small breakfast at the hotel restaurant, with lukewarm tea, I proceed to check out, and arrange for a taxi to Pheuntsholing (my travel agent refused to help me there in sheer exasperation). But now I have learnt the standard rate, so the negotiations are easy. It is off-season, and the hotel front manager is clearly disappointed at my leaving so soon. I pay the money and promise to return. Inwardly, I vowed, not to this hotel, ever! The official working hours are from nine to five in summers; and nine to four in winters, which is understandable considering the early sun set and the harsh weather. I start the meetings dot on time; I have to complete all agenda in Thimphu and start for Pheuntsholing, which is some 172 kilometers from here, but the journey takes approx. five-six hours due to the tough terrain. 11:00 am The taxi is a Maruti van. Apart from our films, Maruti is the second binding factor between our neighbors. Nepal and Bhutan are full of Maruti 800 and Vans. There is a dealership in both Pheuntsholing and Thimphu. The scenic beauty is mindblowing as the rickety van traverses through the curves and bends and the slippery mountain roads; a river gives us company gurgling in its innate enthusiasm. The driver plays some lovely Udit Narayan numbers. Ironically, the first one he does is Raja Hindustani’s Aaye ho meri zindagi mein tum bahar banke…almost felt like Karisma Kapoor driving to Palankhet… Apart from this the other good numbers in his assorted album are Aawaz do humko (Dushman), Ghar se nikalte hi (Papa Kahte Hain) and Tu hai meri kiran (Darr). Apart from Udit, I hear another voice…yipes! It is the driver insisting on singing along with each song…move over Bappi Lahiri! You have competition! Leaning to take out my handkerchief, I spy his fingers move into negation with the lines “tu haan kar ya na kar..” Ok, move over Shahrukh as well, Gopal Gurung is here! As I look out at the dangerous curve, I pray that he concentrates on the steering wheel than his histrionics. 12:00 pm The road has been decent enough, and the mountains are dark green in this stretch. It is difficult to realize when you leave one and ascend the other. They envelope you from all sides…on my right hand side, the peak extending up is formidable, and the fall goes sharply down towards the river, which still swings its way in a joyous rhythm. 1:00 pm From afar on the opposite end towards the right, where we have to go, Gopal notices that a trailer has got stuck and a traffic jam is piling up. How the hell he managed to do so beats me? From afar, it is barely imperceptible to discern the road on the mountain side, as the foliage is dense, and the wall of the mountain seems to be one continuous whole. We cross a small bridge over the river, towards the base of another mountain, and reach a check post. A number of cars are standing there, some due to the checking and others, largely due to the jam that has taken place due to the stuck trailer. Gopal parks the taxi after crossing the barrier. “Sir, it will take some time, you want to ‘minus’, please do it some place ahead," he suggests. “Minus?” I ask incredulously. He raises his small finger. Of all the euphemisms for urinating, this is the most unique one that I have heard. I start to get off from the right hand door. “No, no …” exclaims the driver. “Not from this side. It is illegal to get off a taxi from the right hand side” 1:15 pm I return from completing my ‘minus’. The driver is in the check post room, I follow him there. He is talking to some officials in Nepali (it is a common language spoken here); the official looks up at me and asks my name. I reply and he repeats it to someone over his handset. I wonder at the proceeding and look at the driver for explanation. He is equally blank. Perhaps, they might allow small cars to pass the trailer up ahead and some arrangement is being done for the same. We come out to the taxi, and are immediately joined by another official. I smile. No smile is returned. The man is short, fair and has a typical Nepalese-Bhutanese face. He points towards my bag and laptop. His subordinate struts in shortly. “Is this your luggage?” he asks. I nod. “Please open it” I open the lap top bag, and he searches every nook and corner, taking out each item and rummaging through the tiniest piece of paper. There is a box of my visiting cards. “What’s this?” “Visiting cards” I reply; he looks at it blankly, and asks his subordinate to note that down. One lap top, one charger, one book, one box of visiting cards. “What’s in this?” he asks, pointing to my blue bag. “My clothes” I answer. He asks to open the bag and take all the items from it. I am a bit worried. As he proceeds to remove each piece of clothing and checking every pocket of each trouser and shirt, I sense something is wrong. This does not seem routine checking. Then, he searches all the pockets of the bag, and looks at the cologne bottle, and even opens the cap to smell it, and looks curiously through my after-shave kit, and my panic increases. I question him about it. He mumbles an incoherent reply. As he is doing his checking, my over active, fertile and imaginative brain is thinking about all those Bollywood films where all of a sudden a packet of ‘drugs’ is fished out of the innocent hero/heroine’s belongings. What if the taxi driver had implanted something in my bag when I had gone for my 'minus'? After all, I had not checked his antecedents before hiring him. As the investigation proceeds, I am relieved that nothing ‘foreign’ is there. “Follow me” the guard orders. I do so, and am taken into the inner room of the check post, where I am subjected to a thorough check up- behind my coat collar, all over the body, in every pocket of the coat, each crevice of the wallet…my mouth is dry. “Wait outside!” All along, cars are coming, stopping and drivers/passengers are getting their names and addresses registered at the table on the porch of the check post. The wind is blowing harshly, and I shiver in fear and cold. Something is wrong, my instincts scream at me. There is a flurry of activity as the taxi driver comes out, makes a phone call and talks animatedly to the guard. Thereafter, the guard dials and is calling someone and shouting over the phone. A couple of Indian army personnel are there in the crowd outside, including a ‘sardarji’. In Punjabi, I solicit their help for I am convinced that this is not a 'casual checking'. They dismiss off my fear and walk away by saying that sometimes they too are subjected to these types of searches as well. I am still not convinced. To me, the officials have just shirked off their responsibility a bit too non-chalantly. I am called in again. The man is still on phone; cupping his hand over the speaker, he asks my name, and repeats it on the phone…then my father’s name…then my age…then my place of birth…then my ‘village’. I inform that I belong to Delhi, hence there is no village of mine. Again an excited conversation follows. Outside, I notice that another official is inspecting the taxi with the same rigor. The driver’s face is ashen and pale. The man on the phone places the receiver on hold and comes to me and asks me to turn; I am scared. I feel his hand paw all over the back side. He goes back to the phone, receives another set of instructions and is back with me to check the legs - knee downwards to the ankle. A similar routine follows, and he is back with me once more, “Remove the shoes” He dusts the shoes and fingers into it. Nothing there! Once more, he is on the phone, and asks my name - yet again! My name is difficult for him to pronounce, I spell it out. As a last resort, I hand over my passport to him. He views it skeptically, and reads out my name, but cupping the receiver, he glares at me, “This does not have your father’s name” I am at my wit’s end, exasperated and ready to burst. Quite sarcastically, I reply, “The Indian passport has the family details on the last page.” I know the tone can land me in trouble, but being an Indian national, and having entered the country in a completely legal manner, with full travel documents (and now, no ‘foreign’ thingy coming out of my luggage) I am not going to get bogged down by them; I make up my mind that if he troubles me more I am calling the Indian Embassy! But, alas, that is not to be. I find him talking to me, “This does not state your village!” I am ready to shout! “I don’t have a village. I have New Delhi, and that is clearly mentioned there” With an irritated force, I point to the document at the exact place. I also give him my visiting card, which was a very wrong thing to do, as the address is of Gurgaon, and he is again looking at my questioningly. “You said Delhi!” I throw up my hands in disgust and explain him the Delhi-Gurgaon symbiosis. Dutifully, he repeats the same on the phone! Though I am trying to put up a false façade of bravado, inwardly I am fearful…I am in an alien country, in the middle of nowhere, with no mobile connection, and faced with hostile security men…not exactly a rosy picture! A draft of wind enters the door. I shudder. To Be Continued
posted
by Deepak Jeswal on 12:33 AM
Monday, December 27, 2004The Bhutan Diaries Part One: Thimphu Preamble The mobile phone rings. As ever, I try to do two things at the same time- switch off the gas, and switch on the phone. It’s my travel agent from Mumbai.. With an unusual warmth and glow, she drags out, “Hiiiiiii, Deepak! You had called? How are you?” Perfect, except that the milk has boiled over, and the ‘parna’ with which I was holding nearly caught fire. I let it be. “Fine, yes, I did call…a small request…” “Yaaaa…tell me naaaaa” she goes…the same heart-filling, confidence building lovely friendly tone. “I need a ticket to Paro in Bhutan, and an early return. Plus arrange for a taxi to Thimphu, and a decent hotel stay, with a taxi for the next day to Pheuntsholing!” The warmth has boiled over; a frosty silence follows. “Huh?” she manages to blurt out. “Request?” I almost hear her saying. But, after a few minutes of a few incoherent sounds and uncomprehensive gibberish, of which I can catch only the ‘umms’- and-‘yas’ and ‘ohs’, she manages in perfect English, “I will call you back!” – curt and pithy! I laugh. Maybe, my request was actually a demand…going to Bhutan and arranging for places there, sitting in Mumbai, is certainly not easy, and I let the poor girl be! Thursday 23rd December 2004 10 am Tribhuvan International Airport, Kathmandu is nearly empty. The major flights have still some couple of hours more to go. After paying the airport tax, I await at the check-in counter of Druk Air, the only airline that flies to Bhutan. The counter is deserted and the flight is to leave at 11:35. A couple and another family are there before me. The family has more baggage than I can ever expect anyone to carry. Later, I learn the total weight is a whopping 90 kilos, much more than the allowed one, and they pay excess baggage charges. After waiting for some fifteen minutes, a grumpy man comes to the counter. As I patiently wait the family to do their excess baggage check in, I notice a lengthening queue behind me. When my turn comes, the grouchy fellow looks at my ticket, and grunts, “Business class?” I am flummoxed. Is that a sin? I stutter an affirmation. But even before I can react, the man is shouting out, and calling the lady who had just left before me. “Madam!” he calls in his gruff voice “You forgot your baggage claim stub”. Flustered the lady returns, collects it, thanks the unsmiling gentleman and leaves. He is back to issuing my boarding pass, but again the lady returns, her papers and passport falling all over her, “I am sorry, you did not give me the boarding passes!” What exactly has she collected from the counter considering that a boarding pass and the baggage stub is the only thing that this man is supposed to give? I sigh! This is indeed la-la land! 11:35 The departure lounge is jam-packed. A Qatar Airways flight is almost ready to leave; since Qatar is a hot-destination for unskilled workers, the airlines are doing brisk business. The gates open and a crowd rushes towards it like the way people did in the past when DMS milk booths opened up in the mornings in Delhi. There is a pat on my shoulder. I turn. A tidy looking, slim gentleman, with a thin beard is standing there. “Is the flight to Paro announced?” I nearly laugh. “Flights are not announced here. Just keep your radar up!” 12:00 pm I alight from the airport bus on the concourse. Both the front and back doors are open. Since everyone is heading towards the back gate, I follow them, with my boarding pass in hand. I look around; the same grumpy man has reached there. He sees me, and calls out, with his fingers clicking, “Business class, this way!” For all I know, I could have been a Tihar jail inmate being flicked off to a special jail. I follow him up the stairs from the front gate. A mannequin dressed in the tradiotional Bhutanese dress stands there. I smile. She does not. I enter the miniature plane and take my seat. Customer service is indeed a long way off from this place! 12:15 pm The orange juice served is world class. Since the glass is small, and my thirst is not, I press the switch to call the airhostess. The mannequin comes in, and I point towards the empty glass and ask her for a refill. “I have to do the demonstrations now, wait!” she looks at me with the tired look of admonishing an irritating child. The smile is still missing. 1:00 pm The flight had taken off a wonderful start and the view below is simply breathtaking. Layers upon layers of lush mountains stretch upto the horizon, with the snowy, hard peaks forming the border at the end. The clouds form an intricate design with their white tufts, some far below the peaks. The journey is truly a worth taking experience for the visual splendor that is on display (despite the mannequins and grouchy ground staff!). En route, the captain points out towards Mount Manaklu (fifth largest), Mount Kanchenjunga (second largest) and Mount Everest (the largest). After some time, the landscape changes again, the mountains below are larger, brown and gargantuan in their circumference. At some point we are so close I can see the shadow of our plane over them. The plane shudders and shakes and I am jittery. It is scary to see the plane maneouvering through the mountains, and at the same time shivering through them. In a casual, non chalant way the captain’s static voice booms over the announcing system, “This is just a minor turbulence, please fasten your seat belts, and relax!” Oh yeah, give me another line, please! Barely has the captain finished when I notice the mannequin announcing “Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to land…” My heart jumps up faster than Jeetender can ever amidst his pots and pans…Land? But where? All I can see below are miles and miles of barren brown mountains…and the plane is actually descending. In a flash, the mammoth bumps give way to a small valley, and I see the runway. Phew! What a relief! 1:10 pm Bhutan has only one airport in the entire country: Paro International Airport. From there on one has to travel by taxi or bus to Thimphu, the capital city (or to any other town). The airport at Paro is neat, well maintained and was built by India as a friendship gesture. It was inaugurated in 1999 by the then Foreign Minister Mr. Jaswant Singh. The airport is smaller than Delhi’s Inter State Bus Terminal even! The plane parks itself at the front of the arrival lounge- no buses required…just walk through. A small glitch at the immigration counter occurs. In the immigration form there were three choices for purpose of visit: Business, Official and Tourism. Since I was on an official work I had naturally, keeping in mind the basic meaning of the word ticked the second choice. The lady at the counter looks at me. “Which department” “Eh?” She points to me at my form. “You have marked ‘official’ on the form. Which government departments have you come to meet?” I get her import. ‘Official’ here means something to do with any of the Royal Ministries. Sensing the futility of argument I mention one, which in any case I was to meet during the course of my visit. 3:00 pm The drive to Thimphu (from Paro) is one and a half hours approximately. It’s an enchanting journey with a river flowing along the highway as it curves and winds its way through the tricky and treacherous mountains. The river is shallow and full of smooth white stones and emanates a sweet melody as it shimmers through the crevice between two slopes. All along as much as the eyes see, there are hills and mountains in various sizes and shapes strewn over the landscape. The bridge at the confluence of two rivers (again, built by Indians) is a wonderful scenic architecture, an ideal place for a song picturisation. The winters have a firm clutch, and despite a sunny day, I can feel a chilly wind. Thimphu is not in a proper valley. It is built between spaces found between two mountains. From above, before we enter the city below, I can see it stretching longitudinally parallel to the river, at the base of the hills. It is quaint. 7:00 pm All meetings over, I do my discovery of Thimphu. As I had noticed earlier, the place is very small, and I take a walk around the main market square, built over two parallel long roads, on one of which is the hotel that I am staying in. The hotel road is almost at the edge of the city, lengthwise, and from my room, I can see a formidable wall of the mountain rising, not very far off. Bhutan Tidbits Ensconced snugly in the Himalayas, Bhutan truly is a kingdom in the sky. It is believed that the name Bhutan is derived from the Sanskrit 'Bhotant', meaning 'the end of Tibet', or from 'Bhu-uttan', meaning 'high land'. Historically the Bhutanese have refered to their country as Druk Yul, 'land of the thunder dragon'. Bhutanese refer to themselves as Drukpa people. The Kingdom has a total area of about 47,000 square kilometers, about the size of Switzerland The Bhutanese have preserved their culture with a ferocious intensity. They have also treasured their natural environement as seen as a source of life. It has been identified as one of the ten bio-diversity hotspots.Due to this tourism is structured and controlled and everyone entering it is given a ‘Travel Permit’ mentioning the places of visit. The official religion is Buddhism, which has been predominant since the 7th century. Most men can be found in their traditional dress, gho (it is difficult to describe it – but looks like our modern day bath robe but with proper overlapping in the front and tied around the waist by a small belt called a kera). The women wear an ankle length dress called kira, made from beautifully colored and finely woven fabrics with traditional patterns. The currency here is Ngulutrum, which (very surprisingly) has a conversion rate on par with Indian Rupees. The latter is widely accepted here. The local language is Dzongkha, but Nepali and Hindi are prevalent. When I asked the reason for this widespread knowledge of Hindi, my host replied without any hestitation: “Your cinema!” In both Nepal and here a strong binding force is definitely our Hindi commercial cinema. We may deride it sitting in our snooty ivory towers, but Hindi cinema has been a perfect cultural and linguistic ambassador. The second reason quoted is the popularity of our serials. Modernity is slowly settling in- there is a mobile phone service and number of internet outlets, but hotels still do not have them. Airtel does not catch here. Calls are expensive, even though, of the list, calling India is the most inexpensive. Most hotels do not provide outside direct dialling. 9:00 pm The cold is severe, and I return to my hotel room chilled to the bones. The hotel room is typical hill station type- with wooden floors and walls, and some lovely local paintings and designs on the wall. A bunch of quilts are available and I look gratefully at the heater, which the housekeeping had thoughtfully switched it on in my absence. Since television is available, I catch up on the world and, of course, a few Hindi flicks. Sony, as usual, is showing an umpteenth re-run of Karan Arjun. Since it has been some time since I watched it, I view the film for most parts and call it a day after some time with Mamta Kulkarni prancing to "Chhat pe soya tha behnoi" in my hazy , tired grogginess. Next: Pheuntsholing.
posted
by Deepak Jeswal on 08:34 AM
Thursday, October 07, 2004Pokhara The flight to Pokhara, some 200 kms west of Kathmandu, is my shortest flight, in the smallest plane ever. Having always traveled in the large Boeing aircrafts, my apprehension on entering the tiny Beech 1900, with two ominous looking large fans on the wings, must have been quite evident on the face. My companion, traveling with me for the official tour, re-assured me that the airlines had the best aircrafts. I smiled feebly, taking a seat on the left, two seats from the back. Now I realized why the attendant at the check-in counter did not ask preference for the seat-window or aisle. There were only two columns of seats, both on either side of the window, with a narrow aisle in between. The flight takes all of twenty five minutes, which I suspect could be crunched further, had it been a normal plane. The height is never large, so the view below is breathtaking- the sprawling Himalayas spread on the vast terrain like green wrinkled pieces of foil thrown away by God. My apprehensions were unfounded. The plane maneuvered dexterously over the difficult landscape, and even more nimbly as it neared and descended the Pokhara valley. Like most small cities, the airport consists of two small cabins- one each for arrival and departure. At arrival, one can just walk out, as if alighting off a wayside rail station. Pokhara is lower than Kathmandu, and hence was warm. At 827 m height, the biggest draw of this tourist destination is the sparkling Phewa Lake. Covering an area of around 4.4 sq. km, with an average depth of 8.6 meters, the lake is at the edge of the mountains. Being a smaller valley, the rings of mountains are nearer and more daunting. The famed Machchapuchhre peak is visible from the lake on clearer days; today, there were clouds blocking the view. In the middle of the lake there is a temple, which is a major attraction for all boaters. The lake is oblong in shape with one side entirely surrounded by mountains. A few enterprising entrepreneurs have built exotic resorts. A few kilometers up one of these peaks is a well known hill station called Saharankot! Paragliding is done from there. From the start point of the lake, the body of water stretches into the horizon, with the mountains providing reliable guardianship. Quite a sight! Like most tourist places, the town is full of hotels, resorts, restaurants, money changers, money transfers, bike hiring etc. The road to the lake is quite similar to the Mall Roads that lead to most famous lakes of India (this one particularly reminded me of the road leading to Nakki Lake in Mount Abu). Since I had a very small time (the return flight got preponed by some two hours, as the plane developed a technical glitch), I could not gather much, but a return trip here is definitely warranted!
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by Deepak Jeswal on 12:13 PM
Monday, September 27, 2004My Discovery of Kathmandu Since I have to live here, and have ample time with me, I have not gone attacking and exploring Kathmandu the way a tourist would. I have done that earlier, more than a decade back, when the three day visit was cramped with taking in all the famous tourist spots (and mind you, Kathmandu does boast of a large number of them- it’s not called a living museum for nothing). What a tourist does is no less than a quick one-night stand, a mere obligation of filling up his itinary and camera reels. Rather, this time, my discovery of the city, is more like a soft, slow and sensuous love making- deep and satisfying. I am traveling a lot on foot these days (good for my beer belly!), and generally roam around aimlessly, till I am familiar with the area, and/or discover all the routes or something fresh that might be missed out on the tourist manuals. On Saturday, after a deeply satisfying afternoon nap, and an immensely interesting read of Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code, I left for my evening stroll. Instead of taking my more usual route, I diverted towards a road behind the main Durbar Marg. Crossing Kantipath, I saw a small by lane leading into what looked like a crowded alleyway market place. My curiosity got the better of me, and there I ventured. The long, winding, narrow road was filled with shops on both sides, built below huge edifices of stones- the old style houses. Enthusiastic sellers called out their wares- shops of all hues and commodity were here- plastic ware, brass ware, foot wear, audio cassettes, spices, etc. This was the real and original Kathmandu that I had inadvertently ventured into!!! I keep giving references to Delhi’s bazaar to make understanding and vision clearer to my Delhi readers, at least- if Durbar Marg is Connaught Place, and New Road the Karol Bagh, then Ason (where I had stepped into) is definitely the Chandni Chowk of Kathmandu!!! The same crowd, the same tall brick buildings, the same narrow alleyways, the same compounds… Indra Yatra My walk from there, made me realize that the same place has a road that eventually links to New Road ( my initial agenda-as I was going there to search for Veer Zaara). However, as I was turning left, my curiosity again got the better off me; because, on the right there was a huge crowd again. I had traveled to this intersection earlier in my previous visit but had not ventured to the place where this crowd was going. I just followed them. And lo! I was at the famous and the most beautiful Durbar Square. In the early nineties, when I was here as a tourist, I do recall a lot of it (partly refreshed through the innumerable photographs that we had taken at that time)! Today, again, I just loved it. With cobblestone roads, the Durbar Square consists of temples and palaces built in the ancient Nepali architectural style- the two-three triangular roofs placed over a square main body of the building. (Any of those who has seen the atrocious Anil Kapoor starrer Gharwali Baharwali or the Dev Anand cult film Hare Rama Hare Krishna, would know what I mean!) The crowd was there due to the beginning of a week long festival known as Indra Yatra. I knew the Yatra was actually on Monday (it being a public holiday here) But as I spoke to a few of the locals, I realized the enormity of its importance here- and I had just stumbled on it by accident. The eight day festival kick started on Saturday. Indrajatra (as they called it in local language) begins with the raising of a huge 50 feet long ceremonial pole at Hanuman Dhoka Durbar Square. This pole is identified with victory banner of Lord Indra, the king of heaven- also the king of rains (those of you who have seen Agnivarsha, will recall this-Amitabh Bachchan played the Lord in a cameo in the film). Though I missed this part, let me put in a few things that I learnt: The 50-feet long Yosin (or the sacred wooden pole) dragged from the Yiosin-gu jungles of Nala, was erected by the Manandhar community of Hanumandhoka area. A golden idol of Indra was placed beneath the pole, which will be the central attraction of the yatra (on Monday). This week of festivity is symbolically celebrated as a thanksgiving to Lord Indra for the rains (and there was quite a lot here, as I also observed in my first week here). Apart from this, Newar Buddhists, who have lost a member of their family that year leave oil lamps called ‘palcha’ and pray for the eternal peace of the departed soul. In my quest, I did follow one such procession. Innumerable people from all walks of life, with lamps and incense sticks, walked their way into a by-lane from the Durbar Square. The sight was absolutely mesmerizing- the serene looks, the chants of a few singing hymns near the roadside, and the delightful aroma of the incense in the air combined to give a mystical air to the entire atmosphere. Simply put- very heavenly. The lanes that I followed them were typical old city style- once again reminding me of Old Delhi. Other than this, I witnessed one more important item of this festival- the “Dash Awatar Pyakhan”, or the pageant of 10 different incarnations of Vishnu, the Hindu God of Preservation. A makeshift stage, with a large white sheet for curtain, was the venue at the central temple of the square. At the Hanuman Dhoka itself, the most typical “Lakhe”, Bhairav and Mahakali dance are also staged. The third day ( which I think will be Monday ) is locally known as “Kumari Salegu” meaning the ceremonial pulling of the chariot of Kumari ( the Living Goddess), which is followed by two other living gods, namely Ganesha, the elephant headed God of good luck, and Bhairava, the God of inner vision. A local told me this chariot is pulled around the old city only! As I was watching the Dash Awatar Pyakhan, my eyes went up to an adjacent building (at ninety degrees to the Hanuman Dhoka). Atop, looking out of the window was a brightly dressed small girl. This was the house where Kumari gave darshan. Probably, the one I saw was either Ganesha or Bhairava! Religion is celebrated with fervor and festivity here in the most traditional manner. I loved to be a small part of it. And to think, I had come here just by chance. Chance? Or, was this God’s plan that made me take that turn off the main road, earlier in the evening. As I retraced the same route that I had come from, the shops on the Chandni-Chowk style market were closing down. My heart skipped a beat as I realized that I could have easily missed all this. Once again, my eyes just looked around registering all of it on the mind’s camera…this part of the town was much rooted in history and tradition…this was the real Kathmandu… this was very sublime and ethereal! And when I came out, a huge blue hoarding of Samsung, on an overbridge, stared back vulgarly…it seemed so incongruous to what I had witnessed today!
posted
by Deepak Jeswal on 11:14 AM
Saturday, September 11, 2004Hill Stations Visited I am sitting near the poolside, which is on the lower level than the lobby. Yet, the view from here is breathtakingly beautiful. A few minutes back, in my hotel room, I had the chance of seeing a rainbow. The colorful arch is a rare and nearly extinct in the smog covered Delhi skyline. Here, it dazzled in its splendor. The more I want to write about the views that I see, the more the words fail me. Words like magnificent, awesome and picturesque are so small and confined in their meaning and description. So I will refrain from using any such repetitive and monotonous phrases and words and just write what I see. The sky is overcast with light gray and fulsome clouds. There is a drizzle on now…gentle, very gentle, barely perceptible, yet nonetheless, imparting the atmosphere a fresh, moist and fertile hue. A couple of birds whiz past overhead, like two naughty schoolchildren seeking shelter from the rain. I wrote in my previous post that Kathmandu is surrounded by a ring of mountains (the Himalayas). Today, they are covered in a muslin veil of the clouds, peeping out occasionally like a shy bride and then quickly covering themselves up. It is cool, though neither windy nor breezy. Hill stations and mountains have fascinated me since childhood. I do plan to settle in one after retirement. In India, I had the chance of visiting lots of them. Here I present some of the hill stations visited by me: a) Kasauli- Undoubtedly one of the finest, smallest and exquisite hill stations, some 2 hours drive from Chandigarh. Basically, a cantonment, the entire town is built over two main roads- the Upper and Lower Mall. I have written a post on this town earlier . Kasauli will always remain number one for me. Read about it here b) Manali- Again in Himachal Pradesh, Manali (and its name-sharing sister town, Kullu) are higher up, and well known for the vivacious Beas river flowing through it. It is very relaxing to sit near the river and watch it flow by…it takes away your tensions along with it. My best memory of the place is sitting on the rocks near the river, cooling a bottle of beer in the chilled waters of the river, and then drinking it slowly. There are other sight seeing options also. Incidentally, apart from it being our ex-Prime Minister Mr. Vajpayee’s favorite holiday destination, it is quite a popular spot with Bollywood too- Saudagar and Roja are a couple of hit movies shot here. From Manali, a visit to the Rohtang Pass is also a must (it’s open only for a small part of the year during summers). Driving is quite dangerous, so a trained driver is recommended. The vast expanse of spotless white virgin snow is the highlight of the place. c) Naldera and Chhail –Though they are not nearby, I am covering these two together as both are near to Shimla, but on differing directions. Shimla is now an ugly and looming slab of concrete on the mountains. But Naldera, with its golf course and a resort, is worth checking out. A walk through the forests and its ‘pagdandis’ is rejuvenating. Chail has a palace turned into a resort- again, with a splendid sight right at the top. d) Nagarkot- In Nepal, please see my post on this. e) Mt. Abu- Situated in the Aravalli range, on the border of Rajasthan, this quaint hill station is famous for its Nakki Lake and Dilwara Temples. The minute and polished sculpting in this Jain temple is indescribable. I liked walking through the Mall road which ends up in the tranquil lake. The lake is quite large, and boating (especially rowing) is quite an exciting exercise. f) Panchgani and Mahabeleshwar- These are part of the southern mountains, and in Maharashtra, a few hours drive from Pune. Like Kullu-Manali, the two are always clubbed together. It has been some time since I visited there, so the memories are not all that vivid. But I do recall standing atop a plateau of Panchgani; the panoramic view requires a huge cinemascope screen. Incidentally, at that time N.Chandra was filming Narsimha there (so you can know how way back I went there). Since a song was being picturized on Ravi Behl and Urmila (both non-entities at that time), it held no star value for me, so I skipped it. Mahabelshwar has a lake- boating recommended. g) Lonavla and Khandala- The latter was made quite famous by Aamir and Rani Mukherjee (remember Aati kya Khandala from the film Ghulam). En route to Pune from Mumbai, these two neighboring hill stations are not very high up. Lonavala’s chikki is quite famous and tasty too. I went there many years back for a conference. h) Shimla and Mussoorie- Again, I club these two together as they are nothing but crowded mass of cement and concrete. The road to Mussoorie is particularly bad, and unlike a drive through Himachal, the highway is pretty dull and unexciting. Since a lot of Delhi crowd comes to both the places, all I can say is allegorically, if Shimla is populated like Karol Bagh, then Mussoorie is a Lajpat Nagar central market. i) Nainital- Also commercialized, but to a lesser extent than the above two. Has a few interesting sights. The lake is small and nothing much. Again, driving there is a pain. j) Siliguri- This is not exactly a hill station, as it is on the foothills and very plain. But there is a lot of greenery and tea gardens worth viewing around the Siliguri-Jalpaiguri belt. The town is small, quaint and contained. Like Kathmandu, the mountains are just nearby especially the beginning of Bhutan. So, this is a small list of hill stations that I managed to see. There is so much more to visit, I hope I do get time to travel around more. Some of the ones that I am longing to visit are Lahaul and Spiti (have you seen Paap? It is shot there!), Dharamsala and McLeodganj, Leh-Ladakh, Srinagar and Pahalgam, Ooty in India. In Nepal and Bhutan, the list includes Dharan, Pokhara (again, a valley), Dhulikhel, Kankani and Thimphu. Abroad, the Swiss Alps is what I look forward to. Some day, I will realize my dream. Some day…
posted
by Deepak Jeswal on 06:50 PM
Sunday, August 15, 2004Jullundhar At the heart of the ever green and ever shining Punjab lies Jullundhar, a town known for its sports good, and as a symbolic tryst of the state with immense sportsmanship spirit. Despite been mercilessly torn in two some 57 years back, Punjab has remarkably risen from its shredded history to become one of the most dynamic, volatile and byouyant states in terms of economy, agriculture and spirit. It is both ironic and symbolic that on the 58th Independence Day Anniversary I (being a Punjabi myself) should be here in Jullundhar- somewhat a return to my roots ( as my parents belong from this belt, if not this city, particularly), and also that this was the state (alongwith Bengal) which could not enjoy its blood filled Independence Day five decades back. Happy Independence Day to All Fellow Indians... ( I shall be back with more extensive posts once I am through with these travellings)
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by Deepak Jeswal on 11:24 PM
Tuesday, August 10, 2004A Black and White Mumbai Morning It is seven in the morning; the day is just cracking out of its cloudy cocoon. The rains have been more generous here than in Delhi. I sit at the large window of my hotel room, overlooking a magnificent view of the awesome sea. Having checked into the hotel late last night, I had not realised that we were so close to the sea. The entire night I had wondered at the ominous sounds emanating from outside. When I parted the curtains in the morning, I was in for a pleasant surprise. The sea is grey, perhaps a reflection of the monsoon turgid weather. Years back I had read that Waheeda Rahman had insisted on filming Khamoshi - the classic psychoanalystic film- in black and white to retain a distinct flavor. Sometimes black and white gives curiously enthralling result. As I see the gigantic grey sea and the white sky, I realise, nature is presenting its encompassing photographic skills in black and white. With a hectic day ahead, I take in as much as I can in my mind's vision. This, again, is a sight I will not be able to see for a long time to come!
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by Deepak Jeswal on 07:47 AM
Thursday, August 05, 2004Rangeela Rajasthan The state of Rajasthan presents a delightful collage of vibrant colors. From the greens of Bharatpur to the pink of Jaipur to the ochre of the deserts, this state should be nominated as God’s own palette. An opportunity to traverse a small slice of this rustic and splendid state presented to me yesterday. Traveling in the sturdy Ford Endeavor, we were three of us, who started the tour from Behror, a small, mid-way village between Delhi and Jaipur. From there on, we broke off civilization and the highway to course our way through ill-constructed and bumpy road towards Alwar, a town famous for its ‘maava’, a milk product. The rains have finally opened their abundant baggage on the thirsty fields, which sway with fulsome pleasure in their dark greenery. The dotted road that cuts through the greens has not seen a proper renovation in years. Instead, the municipal corporation has fixed it in patches, resembling a beggar’s tattered dress, with black, fresh tar, sewn over the broken areas. Like teenager’s acne, Alwar suddenly erupts out of the highway (or whatever that patchy road was). Resembling any other small town on important roots, this town also has a string of tyre, automotive spare parts and tractor shops. Shops line up like errant and ill-disciplined school children in an assembly hall, forming an irregular line. They are all small, with tin boards proclaiming their trade and shuttered. Some enterprising brand names have wormed their way in here, obviously, sensing the potential of C-class cities. We bump our way through the entire stretch of the town, passing through a couple of ‘important’ squares, and roundabouts. One such, turning to the left, leads us to the railway station, beyond which is a small outskirts village of Manduska, our object of visit here. Manduska is much smaller than Alwar, not exactly a typical village, like Tatarpur, which we had crossed just before entering Alwar. Dusty roads, tiny shops, rickshaws, mud and people in penury greet us here. In Rajasthan, history is there on your face, assertive and dominant. One just cannot ignore it, for the entire landscape is punctuated with forts and castles- some taken care of by the government (or the surviving generations of the royalty), others left to perish with their arcane tales buried between the solid rocks. One can only guess and imagine the purpose of a lone structure standing desolately overlooking the sprawling highway. The mountains few and far between (another of nature’s mysterious surprises of this land) are brown and dusty and dry and bear the burdens of age and barrenness. Again, they are not consistent, with their presence coming in spurts and fits. Brown, ochre and yellow are the most dominant colors of this bucolic terrain. After Alwar, our journey brought us to many such villages, no need to list all of them- of these the most prominent was Deeg, which again has a fort, and an accompanying lake. Deeg, unfortunately, apart from its past splendor, has a more recent and current story of power, murder and conceit running through its veins. Deeg runs through a part rocky, part sandy arterial narrow road, concealing much more behind those tin-roofed kiosks and shops. Our last stop on this route is Bharatpur- famous and well identified on the tourist map for its Bird Sanctuary. But before we reached there we had a funny misfortune. Having not taken lunch en route, we were famished by late afternoon. An alluring signboard of a sort of resort beckoned us in its inviting bright brown colors. It was two kilometers from the highway, on a small dirt track, that ended up in a small mud village, with a kind of fort looming ominously over it. The entrance to the fort was through a steep climb; even the otherwise healthy Endeavor heaved through the gradient. The fort was indeed very ominous, made of solid stone, and a huge iron gate. It looked a bit too run down to be a inhabited, thought the signboard had clearly proclaimed it to be a resort. On inspection, and our call, a dour waiter produced itself. Lunch milega, we asked expectantly. His incredulous reply was, sorry; no…you do not have a booking for lunch. With our jaws dropped, we stared at him in dumb incredulity. Booking? For Lunch? Amazing, no! A peep into the fort confirmed our worst fears…we had pushed our luck a bit too far. The place was in ruins; I doubt any one ever came there. The setting was perfect for a shoot of a horror film. And now on to Bharatpur…Due to the presence of the sanctuary several hotels have sprung up around it to cater to the tourist who would like to stay there overnight (Otherwise, most prefer to make it a day trip, since its 180 kms from Jaipur and only 58 kms from Agra). As in all such tourist destinations, these hotels come in all sizes and shapes and with exotic names like Bird’s Inn, Crane Crib and Peacock Hotel, etc (obviously keeping in mind the sanctuary). During our search for a suitable place to spend the night there, we stumble upon the most unbelievable, the most unusual and the most pathetic sights of all times- at least none of us could believe our eyes, and none of us had seen it before this day…on the road to Jaipur, just a few kilometers away from the sanctuary, there is actually an open-air brothel! A few meters are lined up with huts and shanties, on both sides, and girls stand on the roadside inviting customers. The girls are decked up in loud and vulgar dresses (a cheap red color being the most favorite), with heavy red lipstick, chalky powder on the face, and a sweet, alluring but false smile on their lips, waving and calling the passing cars. Worse, this seems to be their acknowledged way of living, for routine life goes on around them as usual- old men are sitting on the cots, sleeping (drunk?) and elderly women are chatting or making dinner, or filling water, or removing lice from another’s hair; in short, remove the girls standing there, it is just another a mini-slum that one can even see in the cities now on small roadsides or alleys. It is open prostitution with a stamp of approval from their immediate society. I pity the plight of the girls born in this society (some do not look any older than thirteen years), sucked into this obscene trade for no fault of theirs, and also getting a sanction for doing so by what seemed to be their own family and relatives. If this is real India, then it certainly is not shining. I believe these girls sell their flesh for as low as five hundred rupees. As we cross the place, my eye catches hold of an obviously more elderly lady sitting on a cot, but also in that same bright red make up. Age and men have already done their rampage on her. Yet, she invites, with her saree pallu dropped down in a futile attempt to look more sexy…but its her eyes that tell all: desperation (to get a client), hope (to get some money) and prayer (to sleep with a tummy full) all rolled together and pasted on her frustratingly facile façade. Our eyes meet, and she makes one last attempt, before I move forward in the car; I have turn back in my seat to see her; her eyes have drooped in sadness…was that a sigh that escaped her horrifyingly red lips? (We stayed the night in Bharatpur; the next day we left for Jaipur, stopping midway at a few other villages and towns like Dausa, Sikandara- famous for its fine handiwork on soft stone- and Mahua. This journey was quite similar to the one described above, as the landscape did not change much. The Bharatpur-Jaipur highway is no better, and it was a bumpy ride again. On our way, also saw two Jackie Chan films on the VCD of the Endeavor: Thunderbolt and Spanish Connection. While the former was a bit too much of action for me to digest, the latter was quite interesting and resembled those good old sixties movies of Bollywood- with just the right dose of action, and the requisite dash of comedy and romance. Apart from this, the driver was considerate enough to play some beautiful Lata Mangeshkar numbers).
posted
by Deepak Jeswal on 09:46 AM
Thursday, July 22, 2004Hardwar- The Holy City (On Sunday, my cousins, my tayiji (aunt) and her brother, traveled to the holy city of Hardwar to immerse in the Ganges, the mortal remnants of my tayaji (uncle) who had expired last Saturday. A diary of the two days is given below) Sunday, 11th July 2004 7:00 am Bleary eyed, I leave the home; a bad decision to stay up late to watch a re-run of Khakee last night is taking its toll. My cousins stay in Pitampura, and I had to reach there by seven; that means, I should have left home at least half an hour back. Worse, I have to reach there in an autorickshaw; they are conspicuous by their absence; is it a strike on, or have the entire rickshaw drivers collectively decided to enjoy a late Sunday today? I finally find an enterprising one, who charges a premium and agrees to take me there in “no time”. I miscalculate his genial offer; he drives as on a formula one racetrack. After a few red light jumps, umpteen unnecessary short cuts, and a sore back, I reach their house. I am late, they tell me. I smile meekly, and timidly ask for a cup of tea to soothe the nerves. I was not to know that the journey would be entailing many more sore backs and butts. Finally, we are ready to leave. 8:30 am The cousins have hired a Qualis; ample car for the five of us; I volunteer to sit at the back, with the baggage. A neat decision, for I can now stretch my legs at will, and have a good space for myself. It is the season of Kanwarias- a sort of pilgrimage where in the water of the Holy Ganges is carried by the pilgrims from Hardwar to their respective cities and offered to Lord Shiva on Shivratri. The same has to be traveled back from Hardwar on foot! Yes, on foot! A daunting and scary pilgrimage, but thousands take part in it nationally every year. Due to this, the main Delhi-Hardwar highway is blocked; we will have to take a detour through Bagpat-Saharanpur way. After picking up the remnants of our dear departed tayaji from the Punjabi Bagh crematorium we are on our way. 12:30 am The route is jampacked through Loni border. The kanwariyas have started to converge for the festival on the 15th. After a couple of traffic snarls, where the gigantic Qualis crawls through the sea of humanity, we finally hit the highway. Alas, it’s a misnomer! The highway is anything but that…a narrow, bumpy road, full of potholes, speedbreakers and speedsters. The Qualis has a bad suspension, and it hurts sitting at the back. My neat decision is proving its demerits. We stop at a roadside dhaba to have our breakfast; or rather, brunch. My creative bhabhis have packed a simple but delightful food of well-cooked paranthas with loads of achar (pickle). Washing it down with a typical roadside strong tea served in large steel glasses, we are refreshed and ready to resume our journey. Washing from a hand-pump adds to the rustic touch. 4:00 pm We have just crossed Saharanpur, the city of wooden handicrafts. But we are lost; from Saharanpur, there is a highway direct to Hardwar; it’s also closed down due to the same reason. We now have to take another detour; this time through Dehradun. My back is aching now. The tough airconditioner of the Qualis begs its due from the immense heat. My tayaji’s brother (whom I have also started calling as mamaji) is now seated at the back; I am on the middle row with cousin and tayiji. It’s a bumpy road but soon gives way to some sylvan beauty as we enter Uttaranchal State. We pass through small hills, and eye-pleasing greenery all around; a welcome sight for us! On the way we pass also through several fruit laden mango trees and lush verdant fields. The mango trees are short and stocky; their tempting fruit hangs on their branches with abandon color. The bucolic surrounding refreshes me. 6:00 pm After some more tiresome hours. finally we enter the city of Hardwar; our first step is the Kankhal Ghat on the outskirts; the only problem is that since we have entered from the other side of the city, this ‘outskirt’ means passing through the entire length of Hardwar to reach. The Ganges flows besides us in quiet dignity. It’s a fulsome river, very rich and very appealing. The Ghat is at the end of a narrow road; on both sides beggars line up for their share of the booty. The authorities have cornered this portion of the river, nearly outside the city, to immerse the remnants and ashes. Here we find a priest to conduct the prayer. I bend to pray at the riverside; the water is cold; my mobile, which is on the top pocket, plops out and falls into the river. Panicked, I hurriedly pull it out; but I guess the damage is done. (Though it worked at that time; later I realize the water has done its work; it is said that a dip in the holy Ganges means you attain Moksha ( the eternal freedom from the clutches of life and birth)- my mobile is luckier than me, I guess) 7:00 pm We have to park our car outside the town limits; and travel halfway through rickhshaw till Bhim Goda, from there, we are on foot, till the Ashram where we have to stay, right opposite Har Ki Pauri- the main town center, and the holiest place to take a dip in the river. Hardwar- it’s a carnival of sorts here; the kanwarias, in their bright orange T-shirts are all over the place; the town has a strange smell, a combination of sweat, river, and perhaps, cow dung. There is noise, music, and chants. People swarm the place. The riverside, has its own share of crowd, people in various stages of undress partaking in the holy dip, and washing off their sins. The roadside has a motely bunch of vendors selling various artifacts of religious usage: rings of various stones, the orange T-shirts; plastic cans of multi sizes to carry back the river water; decorations that the kanwarias use to decorate their kanwars (one footwear selling store has deemed it fit to stop selling slippers), the ubiquitious VCD and audiocassettes sellers, the sindoors and other such stuff (the sindoor is of the brightest red color that I have ever seen). The bhajans that blare from every alternate shop are worth mentioning; they are at the same time devotional, familiar and shocking. Shocking, because it took a few seconds to register that the raunchy voice singing Aisa mera bhola baba re is a remixed, revamped and retreaded version of Aisa jaadoo dala re from Khakee. There were more, but this one seemed to be the current favorite. 8:00 pm A long trudge through the narrow lanes and bylanes of Hardwar presents me more colorful collage of devotion and commercialization mixed in a unique kaleidoscope; this is somewhat like Chandni Chowk of Delhi, but more vibrant and potent. We are trying to search our family purohit to perform the last rites. A ramshackle house near the Shravan Ghat ends our search; an old but genial priest welcomes us with his toothless smile; he takes care of all of us from our village back in Punjab. Making us comfortable on the mat on the floor, he pulls out a few large loosely binded accounts of all the Jeswals who have visted this place; the books are much like the bahi-khatas (accounts) maintained by the accountants of a bygone era. A tedious search through innumerable Jeswals bewilders me; are there so many of us roaming the face of the earth! I also wish computerization enters this ancient place to make the search easier and comfortable. Finally, the toothless grin is back. My uncle was here way back in the seventies to do the last rites of my grandfather; and yes, he had taken care of noting down my name too in the family tree. I am impressed and awed. Finding your own name, and your family’s mention, in a place where I had till before this never set my foot upon, gives me an immense sense of satisfaction and belonging. It’s again a feeling where words leave me desolately crippled; I guess it is beyond the scope of words of any language! After fixing up for meeting in the morning, we depart from the purohit’s house for a quick dinner and sleep. Monday 12th July 2004 6:00 am Mamaji wakes us up; he need not have. I was already half awake. The night has passed off uncomfortably; though the bed is quite comfortable, it’s the noise and the revelry outside that made me sleep intermittently. It seems that the town never sleeps in its devotion. 6:30 am A quick look from the balcony at the Har Ki Pauri Ghaat confirms my prediction. The place is crowded with devotees taking the holy dip in the river. We have also decided to do the same. Packing our towels and change of clothes, our entire troupe makes headway for the river bank. The river is not clean; I guess the sins of mankind are too large for even the holy waters to wash away. Stripping down to my underwear, I climb down the slippery stairs of the ghaat. All around me there is a carnival and rush of crowd. A few stands are put up for the pandits, who, I suspect, are fleecing the unknowing with abandon. There are rich guys, poor guys, the kanwarias, the beggars, and the handicapped, everyone trying to enter the water with verve and vigor. The emotion is infectious; I find myself drawn too. I put a tentative foot into the water; its cold. A shiver runs my spine. I venture kneedeep, and climb down till the waist. I do not know swimming, a small fear grips me, and the flow is quite heavy. My cousin admonishes me to take a full dip, head down into the river. I do so; immediately I am refreshed and cleansed and happy. I hold the chains that the government has provided for non-swimmers like me, and take another plunge, this time with full gusto. The river invigorates; the water is pleasingly cold now, and I am enjoying the Ganges in full splendor. A few more dips, and I feel a new man; the cold water has done its work, my body feels warm and tingled. I come out and change. 7:30 am We come back for a change; the purohit is also on time; we start our trudge back to the Qualis, for the puja. Near the Qualis, the purohit (and another pandit, whom he has brought along) inspect the ghat neighboring the parking lot. They are satisfied; it is a good place to do the puja, they unanimously proclaim. The puja is the kirya of my departed tayaji; a ceremony to ensure that his after-life is comfortable and good. It lasts for an hour, after which my eldest cousin takes another dip in the Ganga. The genial purohit blesses us all, and we are ready to move to Delhi. The driver confirms us that the route is still closed; hence we will have to take a detour via Ponta Sahib, in Himachal Pradesh. It’s a long circuitous route back, but I guess, we had no option. Plus, since we also have to go to Kurukshetra for one final rite, we decide to take that route, move on to Yamunanagar and reach Kurukshetra from there. (I will end the post here, the Kurukshetra leg of the journey will make up for another post; it had its interesting moments as well. Before leaving for Ponta Sahib, we did also make a small stoppage at Rishikesh; hence both Rishikesh and Kurukshetra will be covered in that post)
posted
by Deepak Jeswal on 08:27 PM
Saturday, February 21, 2004KASAULI The greenest cantonment of the country Nestled within lush verdant hills of Himachal Pradesh, Kasauli is a quaint little hill cantonment, built 11kms off the Main Shimla Highway, and just a two-hour drive from Chandigarh, the nearest metropolitan city. My acquaintance with Kasauli began when I was in the tenth standard. A classmate of mine was so taken up by this station that he would regularly keep talking about it. Since, I had spent a large chunk of my childhood abroad, due to my father’s postings, I was quite ignorant of the beauties of nature present in India itself. This friend of mine gave such vivid descriptions of the place that the name Kasauli just seeped into my sub-consciousness unknowingly. Years later, when we were finally settled in Delhi, I started exploring the hill towns of the country. Mountains have always fascinated me, and hence, it was quite evident that I should start my Discovery India with the Himalayas only. In college, whenever we decided to go out for holidays the obvious names that cropped up were Shimla, Mussoorie, Nainital or Manali. Somehow, Kasauli always got vetoed. So during a six-year period starting from college and ending with my first job, I visited all the places mentioned above (barring Nainital; but added Mt Abu and Mahabaleshwar to my ever-growing list of visited hill stations). But it rankled me no end as to why Kasauli never featured in any one’s shortlist. Finally, when I had taken up my second job, the chance came. A couple of friends had shifted base to their hometown Chandigarh. Hence, when I got an elongated weekend due to some God-send (literally, too) consecutive holidays on account of Ram Navami etc. This time, around, I did not let either of the two veto me out; and since, they were tight on the schedules (as the same holidays were not there in Chandigarh), they agreed for a brief two-day tour to Kasauli. To say that I was bowled over by Kasauli would be a gross understatement. It is beautiful, untouched and extremely quiet. The entire hill station is covered over two fork-like roads, the Upper and Lower Mall, which conjoin together in a neat, small central place. The town is untouched by the crass hands of commercialization. The crowd is minimal, and consequently, the cleanliness and the quietitude are of empyreal proportions. As a hill station, Kasauli does not offer anything dramatic in terms of sight seeing, except for a place called Monkey Point. This is a hillock, on the outskirts of the town, next to the Air Force Station. It is believed that when Lord Hanuman was returning to Lanka after procuring the Sanjivini Booti for the slain Laxmana, his feet touched this hillock. Hence, there is a small Hanuman temple at the top of the hill. After an arduous climb, as one reaches the top, the sight and the view from there is simply enthralling. Surrounded by feral mountains (even the Shimla hills are visible from here), this was truly what heaven would look like. I could almost jump and touch the clouds from here, as the cool winds playfully teased me. Another beautiful place is what the locals have termed as “Lover’s Point”. It’s a small dirt track that embraces a small hillock like a lover hugging his beloved. From here one gets a vantage view of the city of Chandigarh; and at night time, from here, Chandigarh, with its symmetrical roads and lights, looks like a gargantuan runway placed by the divine for its landing. Apart from these two Kasauli does not offer much in terms of tourist attraction. Let me add a word of warning: this place is certainly not meant for those who rush to the hill-stations but expect the same luxuries, noise and liveliness. In fact, on my second visit I was accompanied by a friend who was more worried that he could not get Kingfisher Beer or a proper “Daal Makhani”, and ultimately found the place boring and dull. What Kasauli offers is not a tangible source of enjoyment, but a feeling that has to be experienced by the soul, and not by the senses. The walks on the Malls, that stretch into the wilderness was my favorite activity there. You can hear each rustle of the leaves, each note of the birds, each tune of the winds, each song of the all pervading, and all encompassing silence. It is blissful peace that infuses into every pore of the body, soothing and caressing the frayed nerves tattered by the noisy city life. I sat for hours on the mountainside, looking at the green valleys below, with the sunshine stroking my distraught spirit like a mother cuddling its young one into a deep satisfying and secure sleep. Thankfully, the place has not been marauded by the film industry also. Barring Maya Memsaab ( the Deepa Sahi starrer that had five soulful Lata Mangeshkar songs) I do not recall any other film being shot there. Even the locals talk about the shooting of the film and are obviously proud to boast of having met Shahrukh Khan, though at the time of the shooting the film he was not the star that he is now. I look forward to visiting the place again very soon.
posted
by Deepak Jeswal on 03:00 PM
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