The Chase 2v4j40

THE CHASE BOOK TWO

Mythili Zatakia

Copyright © 2016 by Mythili Zatakia.

ISBN: Softcover 978-1-4828-7399-3 eBook 978-1-4828-7398-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Contents

A Wanderer's Journal (#3)

The Sands and a Lesson

Day 1:

Day 2:

Day 3:


Lettres de la Seine

Cher Nana,

Cher Nana,

Cher Nana,

Cher Nana,

Cher Nana,

Cher Nana,


Vanakkam Tai,

THE STAGE

ALONE AND UNACKNOWLEDGED

TRUSTING THE UNRELIABLE

DANCE WARFARE

DO YOU HAVE TO BE A NATURAL?

THE FIFTH VEDA

UNSHACKLE

THE U-TURN

THE INTERNSHIP AND THE GODSEND OF A GURU



Day 1:

Day 2:


Hi Nani,

OF DRUMROLLS AND DANCING BELLS


So, What's The Status?

To every girl who knows she's gloriously free.

To,

Those who endured Book One,

This is your reward.

Or perhaps, your lengthened penalty.

In my defence, I did break off from 'The Chase' fleetingly, but had to pick it up again when I was met head-on by the realization that a non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity.

How else was I to keep a hold on the thousand and one things? Youth, certainties, places, doubts, fantasies, instants, ions, phrases, changes, relationships; memories that go on slipping like sand, through our fingers.

My chronicles as a maverick rolled on, oblivious to the roadblock ahead.

And the siege put the wanderess' wanderings out of sight.

Be that as it may, can one curb a wild flower from blooming?

Book Two might just be the jolt that did.

Now, while you didn't quite press for it, I promised a sequel. So, let's cut straight to 'The Chase'.

Cheers!

Myth

To,

Those going for Book Two before reading Book One,

Boo! You just chickened out of reliving your incorrigible teens.

References made to Book One are not regretted.

I should, however, be gracious for your bravado in ing the game at this burning juncture.

Hi. Welcome to 'The Chase'. Although, by definition, I'm a published author, an aspiring travel journalist, an endurance athlete, a qualified dancer, a theatre actor, and as you have rightfully deduced, a braggart, these statistics are impressive only to my own family. All it really means is that I don't make any money. Certainly not enough of it to offset the bills.

For this reason and more, my Chase took an inconceivable U-Turn after my early wanderings.

Believing, therefore, in the allegory of a wild flower, I thought I should allow myself to grow in all the places none, including myself, reckoned I ever would.

This is where I document my findings and duly, immortalize the caprice.

Your turn. Roll the dice. I mean, flip the page.

Cheers!

Myth

To Uncle P.K., my boss friend,

For making me feel like I work at your firm even though I don't actually do any "work". For overlooking my thoroughly despicable standards of indiscipline: excessive tardiness, daily power naps, underhand escapes from the office for Kulfi, Singh Chana Chaat and Bhel Puri that don't quite go as unnoticed as I hope they would. For being the only one concerned about my athletic career and gladly throwing me out of office early to go train. I like to believe it isn't because you want to get rid of me. For your sincere love of wildlife. It's easy to tell why you just let me be. For making me want to come back every day. Leave aside Saturdays and Sundays.

To Nana, the genie grandpa,

My most treasured hallucination. All the other trips my head has gone off on have been rather wimpy. Because sometimes, when your mind gets to wandering and feels ruffled in this queer world, you find a friend who helps you transmute it into your own beautiful imaginings. And all of a sudden, you spot the miracle in what you once thought were ordinary things. I hope you never regenerate to exist for real. In an age, where everyone is over exposed, the coolest thing you can do is maintain your mystery. For being my most faithful audience. For telling me, "hold on to your dreams, for the wanderer will have no place to go, if you stop dreaming." Because there are some offices which one's pen, as well as one's tongue, fail to perform. But you will understand.

To Raju, the household elf,

For keeping our home in order ever since my disorderly self crawled into it. For running the show in our peculiarly dramatic, dysfunctional and deranged dwelling. For governing every domestic decision, including dictating what luggage I should schlep on my wanderings. I can't disprove that your selection is always appropriate. You're the real man who cooks, washes, cleans and helped raise a freak like me.

A WANDERER'S JOURNAL (#3)

THE SANDS AND A LESSON

Rajasthan, the royal home of the Rajputs; literally, "the land of Great Kings and Kingdoms"; preserver of the massive history and heritage of the monarchs that once ruled India, beckoned. Somewhere amidst the mammoth Thar Desert, I found a preamble to the next record of my "wanderings".

Right here, under a blistering sun, in the piercing heat of sands unbound, I saw beauty where others might see none.

A camel went trotting by spiritedly to reunite with the herd, reasserting the comforting warmth in a desert.

A light wind and a sparkle in every eye, compelled me to stay and trust that this blazing star could be defied.

A vastness unparalleled, let my dreams breathe untroubled. The shackles are unbuckled.

Anywhere you dart, you'll trounce the hurdles.

Those sweltering rays, put your thirst at bay when they throw light on the vibrancy of every woman, clad in colours reflective of the brightness of every day. These aren't sights that will ever be forgotten.

This was life in one landscape. The memory of this lesson cannot fade.

Padharo Mhare Desh!

Myth.

DAY 1:

For the 7th time today, the 'Lamba Auto Rickshaw' that I'm sharing with 9 other engers has come to a grinding halt. The cows, goats and sheep who forcibly make their presence felt along the drive from Jodhpur to Jaisalmer possess no road crossing sense (much the same as most pedestrians in Bombay). Only this time, the troublemaker is a colossal creature, towering over us in all its magnificence. It's a camel! Galloping across to reconvene with a caravan that is perhaps, her family. Half of me is out through the teeny window of the Rick to get a thorough eyeful of this spectacular scene and capture it on camera. Her saddle has "Lucky" printed on it in big, bold, shimmering letters that glitter under the scorching sun. Thanks for trotting by to say hello, Lucky!

The next time we break, it's at a Rajasthani Dhaba named "Welcome" for a longdelayed lunch. I've been craving this food ever since I landed at Jodhpur Airport. Bhajanlal, our rickshaw driver had promised he'd stop at one when I first appeared in front of him, a starved raven, requesting a ride to Jaisalmer, the Golden City of India. As I wait for my big feed, the owner of the Dhaba, Bhairaosingh, shows me around his little oasis of farmland behind the eatery, where he cultivates most supplies. As we take a stroll on the ading lawn with hammocks and charpoys, he speaks about his eventual ambition of expanding with the construction of a motel for tourists to bask in the charm of an authentic Rajashtani lodging experience. Enthusiasm with a purpose! The open space calls for delighted cartwheels until the aroma of my ready and waiting meal swallows me up.

When I taste what his cooks have prepared for me - Gatte ki Subzi, Ker Sangri, Kadhi and Tandoori Roti, topped with a dense Mithi Lassi, I know the motel isn't a distant dream. I've relished every bite and sip. A warm "Welcome" indeed. Bhajanlal says we better get moving if we want to make it to our destination in time for dinner. With the food still in my gullet, trying to burst into my stomach, we've hit the road.

This boundless stretch of the Thar Desert surrounding us is clearly enchanted. There's other inhabitants besides camels and cows. Peacocks! They cross our path several times, not quite in the mood to budge until Bhajanlal has sounded his horn to an ear-popping decibel. The lasting pause works for me and my lens. The sparkling smiles of stunning Rajasthani women, clad in a rainbow of Ghagra Cholis, their heads veiled by a ghoongat (for both, protection from the ruthless sun's flare and as a mark of modesty), strutting alongside with clay pots on their heads, are refreshing. They wear ivory bangles from their wrists to the upper arms, symbolic of wedded bliss. The Marwari men I've caught a glimpse of are quite the head turners in their white, heat-reflecting Dhoti Kurtas and chromatic paggaris or turbans. Their moustaches -- a manifestation of pride.

Bhajanlal, detecting the look of lure, lyrically tells me, "The simple, direct gaze of the people tells of their pure and transparent lives- nothing more, nothing less. The desert is their lifeblood. They live the desert, they breathe the sand -- the wonder in their potent, liquid eyes marvelling at the simple fact of being alive, living out each day as it comes, becoming part of a great, timeless river, flowing with it, taking the rough and smooth currents, the big obstacles and the gentle slopes with equanimity."

The unmitigated magnitude of the sand dunes is a backdrop of wilderness I gawked fixedly at until darkness and our rickshaw penetrated into the princely city of Jaisalmer.

Standing on a ridge of yellowish sandstone, with every finely sculptured construction illuminated with yellow bulbs, crowned by a fort built of the same material, I see how Jaisalmer derived its caption. Every structure here glistens like Gold. This little city is dazzling. I salute Bhajanlal good bye when he drops me off at the Rang Mahal, a palace of a boarding house. He winsomely tells me that this place will arouse the warrior princess within, by way of its heartiness and history of combat. The Rajputs are synonymous with courage and honour.

I'm sure the break of day will buttress that understanding, when I gallivant through town. For now, a dinner of smoking Hariyali Seekh Kebabs, crisp Khasta Rotis and luscious, warm Gulab Jamuns complement the familiar chill of a desert at night, consummately.

A shower, A Million Little Pieces by James Frey and some solid sleep.

Khamma Ghani Sa!

Myth.

DAY 2:

I'm running on the same terrain as I did back in Oman. Only here, there's no turquoise sea to gape at but a limitless expanse of sand and hillocks of it. People, it is often said, love repetition. Because as much as each incident is similar, so it is different. Each time. Every time. This panorama is equally picturesque. The sun is up and mighty, out too soon for me to absorb. Up and down the dunes, I have a couple of scattered camels for company. There are clubs you can't , schools you can't get into, neighbourhoods you can't live in, but the road; a track; a course is always open for you to belong. When my heart has raced enough, my stomach wants breakfast. Not until I've worshiped the flaming sphere with Surya Namaskars.

My Bajre Ki Rotis with a generous layer of white makhan on them were cooked on a wood-fired oven or chulha. Tall brass glasses of freshly churned Mithi Lassi, multiple (because it's inconceivable to drink just one) Mawa Kachoris and some rare Malai Ghevar caused an intense fondness to take shape. Stomach's happy. Jaisalmer, I have one day to fall completely for you. Wave your wand!

History states that at one point, the Sonar Quila, a World Heritage Site on the Trikuta Hill, housed the city's entire population. The whole of Jaisalmer was the fort. With the increase in inhabitants though, the city spread out to the foot of the hill. Even today, the Quila is home to 4000 people. In one of the little shops that line the upward route inside the structure, I ditched my jeans for a pair of harem pants and got Mangala, the lady selling motley Bandhani materials, to tie a flashy purple paggari on my head. When in Marwar, do as the Marwaris do! The temples, a museum, the palace of the Queen (Rani Mahal), the palace of the King (Raja Mahal), the secret attack and defense positions, ornate sandstone carvings and the efforts being made at restoration make me proud. The artistry is stupefying. Bhajanlal was right. Up here, in the fort, I feel the adrenaline rush and fortitude that royal warriors must have felt. I park myself on the topmost terrace of the monument to behold the heart-stopping, integrated view of

Jaisalmer. And as my eagle eye operates, I ask myself, "what must it be like to be here at sunset?" The titanic, yellow, sandstone walls that are a tawny lion colour right now will fade into honey-gold and camouflage into the desert. Ah! The Golden City.

When I've finally managed to drag myself away, I go on a Haveli spree. These mammoth, elaborate houses with baroque chiseling and arresting engravings, that only came into being with lifetimes of arduous labour, their many floors and countless rooms with majestic paintings, decorated windows, archways, balconies, ancient wood sculpted ceilings and doors, floored me. Outside these massive homes, street vendors earn their daily bread by selling traditional handicrafts and puppets. A Kathputli made to my liking, whom I've named Nanda found her way into my backpack, with her head sticking out to allow her to freely see all that I am about to. She won't be held by strings or shoved into the darkness.

In the marketplace, I am excited by the intricate details of the ornaments, the garments, the painted walls, the carved doors. They become an arabesque which is a necessary counterpoint to the endless sands.

I'm hungry after scanning the Gadisar Lake and the sanctified Shiva Temple in its midst. I walk to a nearby "Kachori" street stall and before I knew it, bit into an appetizing Shahi Raj Kachori. The fitting opener to my lunch at "Trio", a regional food favourite. I got some more Gatte Ki Subzi, a Bharwa Aloo in Tomato gravy and Moong Dal with Kulchas. Delicious spice and everything nice.

Lodurva, age-old capital of the Rajputs, lies 16 kilometres out of the city. I hire a rickshaw to the ruins of its Jain temples embellished with the splendour of Dilwara-style architecture. The perforated sandstone and latticed screens with ornamental patterns constructed through the use of calligraphy and geometry, known as Jaali work, make these remnants a marvel.

A few kilometres west of Lodurva, lies a vacant village by the name of Kuldhara. As I scanned this deserted space, Devilal, my rickshaw driver, tells me the story of the desolate village. "About 300 years ago, this was a prosperous village of Paliwal Brahmins under the state of Jaisalmer. On one of his travels through the state, the wicked eyes of Salim Singh, an authoritative and immoral prime minister, fell on the daughter of the village head and he desired to marry her by force. He threatened the village with grave consequences if they did not adhere to his wish. Instead of submitting to the order of the tyrant, the Paliwals held a council and resolved that in order to uphold their dignity and integrity, an evacuation was the only alternative. The people of 85 villages left their ancestral homes and vanished." "What drama!" I exclaim and then skeptically question, "Are you sure this legend hasn't been fabricated to inject a smattering of thrill into people's lives?" Looking far into the rows and rows of mud houses, with their roofs gone and dilapidated walls, he adds, "a more plausible tale is that apparently, Salim Singh raised the taxes to such an extent that it became unfeasible for the local community to survive in the village. They therefore decided to migrate to greener pastures." Well, I think I'll settle for the more sensational of the two.

How could I possibly leave without hopping onto a camel and going for a ride through the Thar Desert?! I've mounted Rocket and he's dashing through the yellow sands, guided by his master, Sultan, dark skinned and kohl-lined, light green eyes. He is warm to his pet and his visitor.

I recall Bhajanlal's poetic portrayal, "As the vast, unending sand grains from the dunes fly up and down in the eternity of the hourglass, inverted with every desert storm, it is the eyes that hold the water. Look for the water in the eyes as you search the oasis in the desert. You too may leave your heart behind." I've thirsted for this ever since. Only to be appeased by a spring in Sultan's leafy eyes -- an exemplification of every pair in the Thar. They gave life to the cold marble of a temple in its midst -- liberating the gods. The freedom I feel, elation, intensity, surging forth, bonding with the infinite. It's another realm of experience that has no definition.

I see the sun set on my right and a deer scurrying across the sands on my left. A prodigious shot for my camcorder. When I've caressed Rocket to take his leave, I raise my palm to high-five Sultan, a gesture of my indebtedness. He returns it with matched glee and grace.

I sprint up a dune and plonk down, breathless, on its peak. Now, sieving the grains of sand through my hands, a reminder of time ing -- I ask, but hasn't time stopped long since? One wants loneliness a bit, I think, to help one grow. Too much society cannot be any better for one than too much solitude. I recount ions felt and lost. May be, life is just a ballad of what we were and what we want to be.

When stirred out of my musings by some folk music echoing through the caramel sands, I make a dash to behold three Ghoomar performers, in local regalia, entertaining their patrons in the early black with their prowess in the art. This was witchcraft. And the witches -- Oh! ravishing.

On our drive back into the city, Devilal intones a Marwari song which literally translates as, "For the rains to come, the sands thirst a long, long time, for the rains to come, the desert song echoes endlessly, for the rains to come, one more whisper in this silent night." As a rule, we learn more from people than from many philosophies.

Devilal hands me his business card and insists I him if I need to be driven around the next time I'm in Jaisalmer, as he halts at "Desert Boy's Dhani", my dinner stop in the city. "Of course I shall Devilal. Thank you!" Tonight, I have the coveted prize of Daal Baati Churma prepared in asli ghee. Heaven just descended on earth. Jaisalmer, you've won me over. Regal treatment with a mesmerizing charm. A Golden City, with priceless treasures of history and golden hearts.

Back in bed, I'm humming Devilal's song, "...one more whisper in this silent night" and sleep seeps in at some point.

Ghanni Ghanni Khamma Sa!

Myth.

DAY 3:

Having left Jaisalmer minutes before first light, I was in time for a breakfast of Jalebis in Jodhpur, the capital of the kingdom of Marwar. The iconic Janta Sweet Home stuffed me with a monster glass of Makhani Jodhpuri Lassi, fiery Mirchi Badas and a grand bowl full of savory Badam Aloo Lachcha. There's so much more to chow down here, I hope to return today itself. Not very far away, the Sadar Bazaar is jammed with cows, rickshaws and people. When I push my way through the three, I find myself standing under the Ghanta Ghar or 'Clock Tower', a fine construction indeed. This city is bouncing and peculiarly, I feel relaxed amidst the pep. Gorgeous chaos unfolded right before my eyes. How could I not deem it refreshing?! My fellow tourists are going gaga in the zillion boutiques with enterprising shopkeepers selling Rajasthani textiles, mojdis, clay figurines, miniature camels and elephants, marble inlay work and classic, antique silver jewellery.

An endearing, elderly merchant, Afzal, sold me a Topaz pendant and it wouldn't be wrong to surmise that I only bought it because of his angelic rendition, "There is a dear and beautiful legend of the Himalayan country that the sun smiled at a drop of water lying in the cleft of a dark rock; and the little drop, keeping forever the memory of that smile, grew into the thing which we call now a sun-stone or topaz." There are many things in life as to which one must never count the cost and this, was one of them. The sunny smile he gave me. It made the day worth living. Nanda yells that we better get going.

Up on the Mehrangarh Fort, amid the many formidable cannons, the "Blue City" is revealed to me in all its majesty. Vivid, cobalt-painted houses mill around this imposing citadel. In the Armoury, the sword of Akbar the Great lies in front of me. I'm stumped. He's the only Emperor whose life and reign I know backwards and forwards. In school, he was my paramount excuse to study the Mughal Empire in an Indian History class. To learn that he's touched and gripped and exercised this weapon affirms that he's here with me, in spirit. Perhaps, this was

my wildest fantasy coming true, a meeting with the august King (of Hearts, Spades, Clubs and Diamonds - the complete man). Golly! What shall I tell you of the feeling that comes over you when brought face to face with bygone centuries?!

The Daulat Khana preserves more of his belongings. It makes it particularly difficult to concentrate on the glorious Elephant Howdahs, Royal Cradles, dazzling costumes, elegant furniture, palanquins, paintings and the elaborate Folk Music Instruments and Turban Galleries, in equal measure. Akbar stole their thunder. A firm belief though is that craftsmanship probably touched its peak when it created this fort.

Visiting the Umaid Bhavan Palace was an inevitability to gain access to a 20th Century of the Jodhpur Royal Family. Their vintage automobile collection did it for me. The Mehrangarh Fort was distinctly visible right across as was the Palace from it. Every monument is a gem; a rare glory. I celebrated the presence of these invaluable jewels with Kesar Kulfi and Strawberry Phirni, instant, lip smacking coolers in the "Sun City", available outside one of the world's largest private residences.

Janta! I'm coming to you soon. But I have to go see the Bawdi first. This recently-erected step-well is a terrific addition to the heritage homes encircling it. This has got to be the optimum and incontrovertibly, most fascinating location for a game of hide and seek. Indeed, the architect is a creative adult within whom the child has survived.

Lakhan, the rickshaw driver who drove me to Jodhpur this morning, categorically mentioned that I shouldn't miss the sunset at the Balsamand Lake. Surrounded by jade gardens and emerald groves, the beryl lake, that gradually tucks away a tangerine sun, entrances you. Can't help breaking into a run. When I'm breathless from the scenery and the scampering, I wave to an unoccupied rickshaw. The trip must be garnished before it is considered finished.

Scrumptious Onion Kachoris, inviting Mawa Kachoris and the very last, celestial Makhani Lassi hit the right spot before the airport and Bombay beckon.

A street vocalist in the distance cries, "Don't end the night -- the fire is still burning, don't shut your eyes -- the moon is still shining, don't stop ion from folding and unfolding -- till all becomes ash."

I hope fate will keep the learned likes of him immortal.

Nanda beams when I promise her that we will be back for more.

On another day. With another sun struggling hard to penetrate an overcast sky.

Until the next journey which awaits me,

Myth.


LETTRES DE LA SEINE

As a child, the only person I ever wrote letters to was Nana. When he left, ahead of time, he took with him, all such correspondence. In an attempt to redeem that lost barter of writing, I scribble to my grandfather of a summer in Paris.

Caution: The author of these 6 letters is the sole victim of 'DCD', a condition of 'Dark Chocolate Dizziness', spawned by virtue of consuming bars galore of Mathilde's creations, whilst penning these down. Forgive her fever, for she was inebriated by the city and its chocolate.

Cher Nana,

I won't ask how you're doing because I suppose I know what it's like to be in paradise; quite the same as being in Paris. You kept your promise, Nana. The one you made to me after telling me the story of "The Falcon Who Wouldn't Fly" at bedtime one night. You that legend, don't you?

"Once there was a king who received a gift of two magnificent falcons from Arabia. They were peregrine falcons. The most beautiful birds he had ever seen. He gave the precious birds to his head falconer to be trained. Months ed, and one day the head falconer informed the king that though one of the falcons was flying majestically, soaring high in the sky, the other bird had not moved from its branch since the day it had arrived.

The king summoned healers and sorcerers from all the land to tend to the falcon, but no one could make the bird fly. He presented the task to a member of his court, but the next day, the king saw through the palace window that the bird had still not moved from its perch.

Having tried everything else, the king thought to himself, "May be I need someone more familiar with the countryside to understand the nature of this problem." So he cried out to his court, "Go and get a farmer."

In the morning the king was thrilled to see the falcon soaring high above the palace gardens. He said to his court, "Bring me the doer of this miracle".

The court quickly located the farmer, who came and stood before the king. The king asked him, "How did you make the falcon fly?"

With his head bowed, the farmer said to the king, "It was very easy, your highness. I simply cut the branch where the bird was sitting."

"Therefore, young lady", you went on to say as you tucked me under the covers, "we are all made to fly -- to realize our incredible potential as human beings. But at times we sit on our branches, clinging to the things that are familiar to us. The possibilities are endless, but for most of us, they remain undiscovered. We conform to the familiar, the comfortable and the mundane. So for the most part, our lives are mediocre instead of exciting, thrilling and fulfilling. Let us learn to destroy the branch of fear we cling to and free ourselves to the glory of flight. Will you do that for me?"

I nodded then, fervently. It was more rewarding to be your "little falcon" than anyone's "buttercup" or "munchkin". I recall asking innocently, "Nana, where am I going to fly to?" And you said, "Somewhere Falcons aren't found. Just so you'll be the first of your kind there."

"Though, I don't doubt you being so, anywhere you go", you added with a wink.

Suddenly, "Paris! We'll both go soaring straight into heaven!", you exclaimed. "You're making me 'The Paris Promise', Nana. You better see it through!", I wanted the deal rubber-stamped. "Oui, mon petite faucon! Sûrement!", you vowed.

I must have dreamt of this moment by the Seine that night, conceived from the

lucid descriptions of your ramblings here in your youth, perhaps. You brought me here, Nana. And you're going to show me around from the skies.

You kept your promise. I'm here and you're with me, only a couple of light years away. But you were wrong about the Falcons. I see two on the highest echelon of the Notre Dame. The Peregrines have returned to Paris after their unforeseen disappearance in the 19th Century, I'm told by an old Frenchman who struggles to decipher my experiments with conversational French. "Nature's reclaimed its place", he says blissfully. Sure enough, he's a farmer from Lille, a city in the North.

They're symbolic of our arrival I'd say. That'll make you right again. And I think I'd like that. The dream is alive and the cheetahs of the sky have flown straight into it.

À bientôt!

Votre petite faucon.

Cher Nana,

I can see that impish grin on your face. Of all the fairytale-like structures in this haven of charm, I had to walk straight into the Shakespeare and Company bookstore at Saint Michel. And how astounded was I to see a section dedicated to "The Lost Generation" to my left? A little less than you thought I'd be. Is this how this city is going to compensate my fruitless midnight waits for Ernest Hemingway to pull up in a horse-drawn carriage on the wayside of a cobblestoned street, frozen in time since the 1920s? I was hoping he would tell me, "you're lost" on a more intimate date rather than through a distant rendezvous with his writing. Never mind! This rustic locale ('Book Cathedral' seems more fitting) has brought me closer to him and the 30000 other aspiring writers who've crashed here over the decades.

But, guess what Nana? Turns out, I'm not the only one from a 'génération perdue'. Paris is awash with disoriented, directionless, wandering, confused and aimless bohemians. And we've all descended upon this prime piece of real estate facing the Seine. Some are gathered together to discuss the novels they're writing, some are reading for pleasure; others to find inspiration, some are racking their brains to come up with words and ideas to pen down and some, like me, are just staring out of the store window as light rain tumbles into downtown Paris, mystified by its lure, deliberating upon the next meal or merely, envisioning a dream within the dream of being here. Someday, Nana, I'll read my book to these fellow wordsmiths. Someday.

I've been all over the map -- the Museums, the Monuments, the War Memorials and the Palaces, the Courts of Justice, the Champs Elysées, the Cathedrals, the Armoury, Napoleon's Tomb, the Gardens and the Giant Gates. But as I walk by the mighty river that flows through L'hôtel national des Invalides with a sinful Amorino Gelato in my hand, I'm thinking, that while nothing is more fantastic; nothing is more sublime, nothing is also more tragic. Why? For in Paris, so far, whenever God has put an attractive man before me, the Devil, in response,

immediately puts a woman beside him, clutching his palm.

Of course, I don't count the ones who swing by to ask if I'm Espagnol, to strike up a dialogue, while I read 'Albert Camus' or 'Samuel Beckett' at the water's edge. They're mostly Americans who couldn't place India on an atlas. Nah! I'd much prefer a fairly muttered French exchange about what brings me to Paris with a European, who'll make an effort to latch onto what I'm saying even if I speak in Hindi.

The Orientals seem more promising though. Among all the Japanese tourists who've rote learned the city map to help me battle my 'directional dyslexia', Akio, an English school teacher in Osaka, and I entered into an extensive discussion over some steamy, luscious hot chocolate outside the Louvre, upon literary works in translation and the purposes of our respective visits to this stunning land, as we walked to the nearest metro. He says to me, point blank, "I'm here to find love." In retort to the stupefied expression on my face, he added, "Well, you'll have to fall in love at least once in your life, or Paris has failed to rub off on you."

Love in Paris. How novel?! What am I doing here, Nana? Clearing my head, possibly. There's something in the French air. Something pleasurable, pleasant, cheerful and pretty. It bathes the brain and does me good -- a world of good. I can feel it on my footraces through the city every morning. Speeding through the paradox of drizzle and sunshine and chill, all at once, on a different route everyday: the Montsouris Park with a lake in it, the alleys and roadways of downtown Paris, the University Grounds, et cetera, is ritual. Creative invention is easy and lofty when air cycles quickly through my lungs and the body is busy at the noble task of running.

By jove! Every epigram painted above the doorways and on the steps of Shakespeare and Company rings true: "LIVE FOR HUMANITY", "BE NOT INHOSPITABLE TO STRANGERS LEST THEY BE ANGELS IN

DISGUISE", "FEED THE STARVING WRITERS." Indeed, les Parisiens make space for us, gonzos.

How's the weather up there?

À bientôt!


Cher Nana,

Baguettes and croissants have a rival. Brioches cooked with chocolate chips are the newest addition to my core diet. Bakers outside the gargantuan Gare du Nord make fluffy, buttery and accurately crisp ones. Weekend markets at Denfert Rochereau offer me an assortment of cheeses. From the minimum exposure to its varieties, I've deduced that Brie, Emmental and Chèvre suit my palate the most. Grape and apple juice are proxies for wine but I'm not sure there's one for escargot in the vegetarian domain. You think I should just pop one into my mouth? For trial sake?

My world in Bombay asks if I went to the top of the Eiffel Tower? Or the Arc de Triomphe? Or the Tour Montparnasse? I trekked up to the top of the Parc de Belleville instead and here, the Parisian panorama manifested itself, in entirety. After all, you can't see La Tour Eiffel from the top of itself. Quick fix to dodging the lingering queues? Who brought me to this cheat spot? Arthur. The broken French and even more broken English and attempt-to-throw-in-a-couple-ofHindi-words castle in the air actually found ground.

Hunger had this magnetic effect of transporting moi to Chatelet Les Halles, better known to me as the food and feeding quarters of cette ville de l'amour. Amongst cranberry, pistachio, raisin cookies, a fromage du quiche and the obligatory chocolat chaud, from multiple street cafes and boulangeries, to shield myself from the nippy evening breeze, I found some space inside me for a crêpe. So, I seized a table at a bistro cum crêperie and out came Arthur, the chef, with my roasted almond, pecan, walnut, Nutella, banana crêpe. Of course, the way to my heart was through my stomach. I can't deny the visual was terrific as well. Not just the food, Nana! The chef! Curly haired, kempt bearded, olive-eyed Frenchie. With native French courtesy, he requested a seat across mine. Unmistakeably, food was the meat and potatoes of our conversation. Crêpes were suggested as resembling Dosas and Chillas, Pancakes were thicker Malpuas without a dry fruit garnish and Ratatouille was just a less piquant

Indian vegetable stew. An hour later, he wanted to get on the next plane to India and I wanted to mount a train to the North of to get my hands on orange, raisin bread, apparently a delicacy. We hit a compromise. He proposed to take me to the North-East of Paris instead. And here we are, on a sundrenched afternoon, in Belleville, on my first Parisian date.

More food found its way into our banter and stomachs as we surveyed the modern art exhibits in this youthful town overrun with Graffiti and offbeat, animated displays of expression and adornment. Savoury crêpes with Ricotta cheese, sautéed mushrooms, caramelized onions, spinach and roasted red peppers were complemented with honeyed Baklava from a patisserie owned by Idris, a tubby Tunisian friend of Arthur's, who transparently, indulged copiously in the treats he sold.

Close to sunset, we relished Butter Pecan ice cream as a French adaptation of the Shakespearean play, Henry the Fifth, was enacted in the amphitheatre of le Parc. Arthur studied Literature and Economics before embracing the world of culinary arts. Although not much of the performance was an enigma, he broke down the inscrutable elements for me.

Back in town we spoke at length, under the moonlight on the Pont des Arts with the waters of the Seine aglow, of Paris being a crucible for diverse cultures and nationalities, its own prominence eclipsing all others. Of the Americans, he explained his understanding with an allegory concerning the obvious -- food. He said, "I showed the words 'chocolate cake' to a group of Americans and recorded their word associations. 'Guilt' was the top response. If that strikes you as unexceptional, consider the response of French eaters to the same prompt: 'Celebration'." I knew he'd borrowed that from "An Eater's Manifesto" by Michael Pollan. But he was making a sincere effort here, Nana. They're a lot like us: the French, aren't they? Their earnest fondness of sucré. Their multicultural, all-embracing attribute.

Yes, Nana, I did get home "Before Midnight". Only, more infatuated than ever.

An enchanted land. Dazzling sun and moon. Arthur. Are you sure Cinderella was a fairy story? Or maybe, this is one!

À bientôt!


Cher Nana,

I found the perfect postcard for you at Saint Michel's. I'll have it sent to your nest. Perhaps, you're perched on the Palace of Luxembourg today. Aristocrats belong nowhere else, you'd say. All those fables about your kingdom in the French Alps! You'll be happy to hear that I did eat some Framboise Yogurt from the cows up there. Il était exquise! It's ceremonial -- this postcard exchange. I've been to so many places without literally being there when you posted news from your many voyages to me. This one has a caricature of the most recent Parisian Piaggio MP3 with Baguettes, Macaroons, Croissants and basically everything you could get your hands on in a Boulangerie, sticking out of a brown paper bag in the backseat. Food by Speed Post! In case Grandpa Falcon takes to the air before the postcard reaches him, here's what it would say. And more.

It's not quite foreseeable that I'd learn an art of combat in the city of love. Fencing or 'l'escrime', as they call it, is the latest engagement. Well, the city of heart is also the city of ion; of ardour; of art; of devotion; of vigour. Besides, I can't be a warrior princess in your kingdom in the Alps, unless I'm sharp as a tack with my sword. I was sauntering on the lawns, a property of the University, one summery Sunday afternoon, clutching Hemingway's 'A Moveable Feast' in my hand, searching for an unoccupied spot in the shade to plonk myself down and read on, when I noticed a platoon of French Swordsmen training in one section of the grass. Mere observation led to the striking up of conversation, which caused the expression of my temptation to learn the art form, followed by the initiation of instruction and practice in swords(wo)manship.

These gladiators didn't speak a word of English. Nevertheless, they knew their weapon and the skill and that was all that mattered. Xavier volunteered to be my opponent. This mesomorph had dark brown, brooding eyes, a nose as sharp as the blade he held and a tiny ponytail quite the same colour as his yeux. As he ushered out technique after technique of attack and defence, I revelled in the splendour of holding and handling a sword. It was my Joan of Arc moment. I

would have said Razia Sultana, Rani of Jhansi or Jodhabai but when in ,...you know how it goes. "I'd have killed you thrice by now!", Xavier would exclaim at the end of every round of fencing we competed in, for all the times I failed to defend myself or institute a counter attack. "Channelize your aggression!", "Fear will cut you deeper than my sword. Get rid of that feeling!", "Agility and ferocity, all at once!" Nana, I'm not sure you've read the series, but Game of Thrones came back to me. Here was Syrio teaching Arya,

"Swift as a deer, quiet as a shadow, fear cuts deeper than swords.

Quick as a snake, calm as still water, fear cuts deeper than swords.

Strong as a bear, fierce as a wolverine, fear cuts deeper than swords.

The man who fears losing has already lost."

Xavier nodded with approval and bowed at the end of the lesson. The Samurai

smiled, Nana! A dimpled smile. The shielded man has a raw spot after all. Now then, I can't wait for my next session.

Later in the evening, I biked to La Bibliothèque énorme with Hemingway in the bicycle basket. At the Seine, I read and now, I'm writing (to you). I think the first thing that reading teaches you is how to be alone. But somehow, remarkably, it also tells me that I'm not. And of writing, I reckon that all I could ever write is the truth. All that is worth writing is the truth. So, I'm scribbling down the truest sentences I know or have lived through or have read or heard someone say. Didn't Stephen King say that fiction too is the truth inside the lie? There is sorcery in this solo journey. And that, Nana, is the unequivocal truth.

But I hear someone singing Rabindra Sangeet a couple of metres away. It's our song, Nana! The first Bengali one you ever taught me on our Saturday morning singing sprees. When he notices I'm familiar with the piece -- "Ekla Cholo Re" -and swaying to and crooning it, he introduces himself as Tanmoy. Debonair Bangaali Baabu. The song says, 'you can go your own way alone.' How peculiarly congruous with the newfangled insight I've ascertained. Some would call this coincidence. I know you would say: "It's destiny; fate" -- for him to be singing precisely the truth I wrote to you. Serendipity, perhaps. It's mom's favourite word. She said you always told her to cherish the happy discoveries she made when she wasn't in quest for them. These moments are few and far between. They merit every scintilla of gratitude. Indeed, they do Nana. Would it be fitting to describe this summer in Paris in similar ? Back in Bombay, I wasn't in pursuit of it. It just happened. Who could've thought, as I gazed, entranced, into the Bay of Bengal last summer in Pondicherry, a virgin to the intoxication of solitary travel, that a year later the waters of the Seine will be the vista before me?

Tanmoy sang some more, in his evocative, lush baritone. After which, we discussed the 'Geetanjali'. He was teaching it to his students here, as professor of Comparative Literature and Cultural Studies at L'Universite Paris-Sorbonne. Enlightening, as you'd suppose. When we had eaten our Paninis from a trailer

parked nearby and hammered away at the likelihood of my resumption of academic studies in Paris, Tanmoy made a play on words, "You can't cross the sea merely by standing and staring at the water." -- Tagore, the terrific. He was making one final attempt as a representative of the world of academia and with it, we rose. Peut-être, je vais. Peut-être. "But Tanmoy Baabu", I said in response, "our venerated Tagore himself avoided classroom schooling. He preferred to roam, to swim, to trek, to run, to jump and skip and roll, to learn independently. He loathed a formal education and his scholarly travails at college only spanned a single day." Not backing down, Tanmoy had a prompt answer, "The esteemed renouncer of knighthood and school also said that proper teaching stokes curiosity. And who knows? You might find the proper teacher." This, he said with an earnest glint in the eye. I grinned at the insinuation and bid him adieu knowing well that the inexhaustible reserve of Tagore's work will bring us together sometime soon, for pondering and the ensuing epiphanies.

I'll leave you too now Nana, with this, for you to hum:

"Jodi tor dak shune keu na ashe tobe ekla cholo re, Jodi tor dak shune keu na ashe tobe ekla cholo re,

Ekla cholo, ekla cholo, ekla cholo, ekla cholo re,

Jodi tor dak shune keu na ashe tobe ekla cholo re, Jodi tor dak shune keu na ashe tobe ekla cholo re."

Surely, you will reminisce a little slice of the heaven we shared down here.

Bidaya!

Apanara samanya phyalakana.

Cher Nana,

I have confessions that I must disclose. Instantly, in fact, so that I can scarf down my breakfast of Chouquettes, once the cramp in my gut abates when the scoop slips out of my system. When loneliness was beginning to consume me, Louis came into my life. And for the very first time, it feels right. It feels complete. He's gracious and warm and most of all, he listens Nana. To my boundless babble. I met him in the Jardin des Plantes. Round black eyes, cuddlesome in a beige coat. He was injured and abandoned. We're healing in each other's company. He lives with me now.

In a shoe-box. Got you! He's a hamster, Nana. I've named him after the French Roi. Naturally, he listens. He doesn't quite have a say!

When I met him under an almond tree, he was bleeding down his right side -from ear to paw. I reckon he wrestled with a vicious beast, over a paw-ful of nuts, perhaps. He needed treatment and came to me willingly when I stretched my palms out to lift him. He was on his own too. Ah! I know what you'll say: 'Solitude isn't always pleasant.' It could lie within the realms of possibility though, that one is both pro-solitude and not anti-social. Louis, true to the opening remarks, is adorable and to say the least, delightful to have around. A prize from the Parisian treasure.

Arthur had the modus operandi to zipping through the city -- Rollerblading. Rues, Avenues, Boulevards and whole Arrondisements are unearthed far more rapidly. One evening, after terminating one such escapade on our blades at Jaurès, we eased off at a Bar run by a bunch of students by the Canal Saint Martin. On a table beside ours, Erique and Sophia sipped on some Chardonnay. A copy of 'Shantaram' by 'Gregory David Roberts' lay before her. Of course, that was the conversation starter. She's here from Stockholm, visiting Erique for a

couple of days, before she makes her way to London for an internship in Civil Engineering. Erique instantaneously acknowledges Arthur, having eaten at his bistro in the past. A student of Mathematics at L'École Polytechnique, he's actually the DJ for the night. His shift starts in half an hour. When he asks if there's anything in particular I'd like for him to play, I promptly make a bid for some Bollywood music. Arthur already knows a couple of signature moves and having had enough to drink, he's all charged. And that was that. A swarm of Europeans kicking up their heels to Bollywood music. All the withdrawal symptoms from the dearth of thumkas danced in a while disappeared. What an unforgettable night it was, Nana!

And there was another one. But before I get to that, I will have to digress. One night on the Rue Mouffetard, the most effervescent viscera of the Latin Quarter; a foodie's wonderland, Arthur introduced me to a friend from college -Benjamin. He told me of his fascinating life as a photojournalist while we dug into some Greek delicacies -- Feta cheese, Moussaka, salads, Gyros and Melomakarona, being the clear choices. Tastefully prepared and tasty. His next assignment was a story on the homeless in Paris. "Aye", I said, emphatically, when he asked me to accompany him on a research tour. This was the squalor beneath the splendour. And it was laid bare before me in a Parisian catacomb at Wagram, where the destitute sought shelter. We trekked down into a decommissioned underground railway track and located the impoverished souls in man-made caves. It was just as unthinkable as it was dismal -- the wreckage that lay in the underbelly. Nana, even the moon has a dark side. Benjamin had his story and I, a reformed perspective.

To return now, to the radiance. The other night must be recounted.

It would be inaccurate to say night because Summer Solstice doesn't allow nightfall. It's the morning after and I couldn't, in any way, sleep until I wrote to you of the joie de vivre in running riot from band to band at 'Fète de la musique' on a day the sun didn't want to set. Arthur put it as it should be, "This night is sparkling", he said, "don't you let it go." Exhilarated, carefree dancing which I

wished would last eternally. And this time, Arthur didn't need a drink to get there. I think I'll immodestly take credit for the quickened brio.

Yes, I should stuff my face before breakfast gets cold.

I hope it's sunnier where you are.

À bientôt!


Cher Nana,

It has been befittingly stated that 'a journey is best measured in friends, rather than miles.' I found mine and learnt that sometimes, who you travel with can be more important than the destination. I met Nina, my twin from Grenoble, outside Le Basilique du Sacré Cœur, the crown of Montmartre, when requesting directions to the Gare d'Anvers. An exchange of Parle-G biscuits, caramelized peanuts and Madeleines ensued and it was a matter of time before I was drifting through virtually every corner of the city and beyond, with an aspiring filmmaker in search of a screenplay.

What an elaborate process filming can be. To me, Nina's a living library of information on shooting techniques and angles and storytelling via a camcorder. She says, "It's not the size of the lens or the camera model that turns a picture into a story, it's how you use the instrument." No matter how sophisticated the device may be, the photographer is still the one that makes the shot.

On one of our filming trails in the inner recesses of the elegant neighbourhood of Temple, we encountered Constance, an artist from Dublin, at a futuristic design exposition inside the relic of a mammoth gare. She's here to paint a sincere recreation of Paris on canvas. Sure fire, we found an honest friend, a traveller who wanted to live deeper, in the wilderness of our world.

Picnics to Les Châteaux des Versailles, Vincennes, Rambouillet, Chantilly and Compiègne through the splendid summertide in during the day have often been counterbalanced with pub hopping into the wee hours of the morning. Soul and Jazz music, Samba dancing and Hip-Hop parties are the keystones of my night life. It was on one of these evenings that we met Harold and Luc, two professional gymnasts from Lyon, here for a national tournament. Awfully good dancers, who seem to revel in traditional Irish music. Yes, Nana, Luc's working

on my single-hand cart wheeling, handstands and back flips. As for Harold, I think Constance has found her summer fling or it might be more appropriate to add, Muse. Hence, according to the girlfriend code, he's forbidden territory. But, you're not supposed to concern yourself with all those details, Nana!

A couple of lessons later, the Samurai came as well. Turns out, he comfortably wiped me off the mat on this field as well. How could I have even doubted it? After all, fencing, as a rule, is a dance! Xavier is of Turkish origin. We've bitten into many Caucasian delights -- Dolma and the accompanying Olives being the cream of the crop for me. We're both optimistic about learning Kalaripayattu in Kerala sometime soon. I think I might have carried a little bit of India to everyone I've met and gained a new experience; a new understanding of ethnicities, in reciprocity. May be, your culture makes you belong, more than it makes you a stranger.

Travel is fatal Nana; to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness. And fortunately, no one I've come across here in Paris possesses any of these. As people from diverse backgrounds, our individuality came from our distinct cultural identities and the portrayal of our true selves, made acceptance and camaraderie predestined. We were smitten by our idiosyncrasies. My French has picked up and they've all been initiated into introductory Hindi lessons. When Nina insists on experimenting with her limited scope of Hindi terminology in her understandably, deep French accent, I burst into long spells of laughter and Constance quotes Mandela, "If you talk to a man in a language he understands, that goes to his head. If you talk to him in his own language, that goes to his heart." Spot on!

These friendships. They're fortified. Forever.

As my tryst with Paris nears its terminus, Buddha tells me, "The trouble is, you think you have time". The petite faucon can't remain perched on this branch, can she Nana? I met the old farmer from Lille on my conclusive reading and writing

visit to the Seine. He says he had returned to bid the falcons goodbye as the imminent autumn in Paris whisks them off to warmer regions. Though Nana, we both know he was there to cut the bough off.

And, what of Arthur? The meals at French Brasseries, the long walks by the Seine, the conversations of substance, the witnessing of western classical symphony performances together, the cooking in concert, the concurrently sparkling eyes and pearly smiles, were every bit magique. But the trouble is that although love can sometimes be magic, magic can sometimes ... just be an illusion.

It was a little unanticipated when he offered me the world; his world. Disquieted, I told him, "I have my own".

It was untimely. And there goes the first magic of love: our ignorance that it can never end.

I chose freedom. I chose the sky. Because that's where falcons belong, right Nana? As I soar, my fellow birds are writing "yes", in the blue.

A healthy Louis went back to his habitat in the Jardin as well. I hope he'll be happy, where he belongs, in the green.

I'll see you at the home away from home. More accurately, our nest.

And to the river here, I'm saying: "The Sea beckons. And it shall be flown into.

But it is never full. Water must and will return to the river, to start for the sea, all over again."


À la tienne!



On my last week in Paris, I received an email from my first cousin in Nashville, Tennessee. The very first Bharata Natyam artiste in the family, she inspired me to dance, only to succumb to the exigencies of a career in medicine herself, soon after. Needless to say, dance still breathes life into her soul. On the rare occasions that her life allows her to breathe, she finds solace in her art and takes it up where she left it off. To my mind, a balletic performer like her belongs nowhere else. She could enthral audiences universally. The dancing doctor, unusually, has some time to spare.

This is a verbatim record of our email trail:

Salut Myth!

Ça va? How's Paris? Well, you may as well tell me in person. I'll be in India for a fortnight in July. When do you go back home? I was hoping we could tour the temples of Tamil Nadu. Can we dance in them? I suppose we'll need a day or two to rehearse before we're good to go. Write to me soon. Will book my flights once I hear from you.

Love, Naina

Hi Naina!

Je vais très bien. Et toi? Paris is a dream. But you've given me a fitting incentive to return home. So glad to hear you're coming. To dance! Sure we can. I'll be in

Bombay on Thursday next week. 'The Tamil Nadu Temple Trip' promise shall, at long last, be fulfilled. Since we're going off season, I imagine we'll have easy access to the amphitheatres and other arenas before the idols. Have you saved the list we drew up at the pub in Nashville two summers ago? We'll get help with practice at my dance school. Go ahead and book your flights.

Beaucoup d'amour, Myth

Myths,

I will arrive in Bombay early on Monday week. We can start for South India on Thursday, if that seems alright. The list we wrote out says: "Madurai, Raameshwaram, Dhanushkodi, Trichy, Thanjavur, Chidambaram, Mahabalipuram and Kanchipuram." If only we can squeeze Pondicherry in somehow, to embark on some more of 'The Chase'. I'll leave the scheduling to you. Enjoy your last week in Paris. Look forward to seeing you, hearing your Parisian tale and of course, the dancing on our trip. Can't wait!

Au revoir! Nain

Naino,

Sounds perfect. I have a couple of places to add as well. I reckon it'll be no more than 9 days of travel. I'm certain you'd like to spend some time in our beloved

Bombay. Else, Nani and Mom will throw a fit. Will consult my Guru to settle on the pieces we can perform before you arrive. That'll save us time. Yes, I'll take care of the itinerary. We've got a lot of 'Chasing' to do. Equally eager. Come soon!

À bientôt! Myth

Myth,

Can I bring you anything in addition to Pecan Pie and running shorts?

Nain

Nain!

You're my Santa Claus.

Yes! Bring a device that can access Google Maps. You'll need it when my piloting goes awry (a situation that will crop up often). And an Ipod loaded with all the latest Country Music. We can juxtapose it with our Carnatic Compositions.

Tchao!

Hahaha Goofy! Done! See ya!

Naina came. We choreographed our Margam. One full definitive repertoire of dance items in the traditional order. Tai, my dance Guru, insisted we adhere to the format proposed and propagated by the legendary dancer, T.S. Balasaraswati -- Alarippu, Jatiswaram, Shabhdam, Varnam, Padam, Tillana and a Shloka or verse -- the correct sequence for revealing the spiritual through the corporeal.

She has compared a Bharata Natyam Recital to a grandly structured Temple:

"We enter through the Gopuram (outer hall) of Alarippu, cross the Ardhamandapam (half way hall) of Jatiswaram, then the Mandapam (great hall) of Shabdam and enter the holy precinct of the deity in the Varnam. In dancing to the Padams, one experiences the contentment, cool and quiet of entering the sanctum from its external precinct. It is akin to the juncture when the cascading lights of worship are withdrawn and the drum beats die down to the simple and solemn chanting of sacred verses in the closeness of God. Then the Tillana breaks into movement like the final burning of camphor accompanied by a measure of din and bustle."

The concept, we thought, was tailor-made for our Tamil Nadu Temple Tour. After hours of practice under Tai's supervision, things seemed in place. Ghungroos and other dance paraphernalia wedged into our luggage, we flew into Chennai, our first port, with a chock-a-block lineup of cities to pop into.

We wrote to our respective 'Tai's, nearly 9000 miles apart from each other but linked by their common pursuit of Indian Dance, expounding 'The Art Crusade'.

Vanakkam Tai,

I suppose most dancers practicing Bharata Natyam would dream of the kind of pilgrimage we had the privilege to set out on. A road trip from Chennai to Madurai to Raameshwaram to Dhanushkodi and The Ram Setu to Trichy to Thanjavur to Swamimalai to Gangaikondacholapuram to Darasuram to Kumbakonnam to Chidambaram to Cuddalore to Mahabalipuram to Kanchipuram and back to Chennai, has convinced us that exhibiting our art on stage will never quite measure up to the rapture of performing it in the sanctity of a temple. A sea change in our approach.

We've danced in the countless temples' courtyards, lawns, amphitheatres, archways, corridors, shrines and even the remotest corners of their arenas. Nothing restrained us. Our little speakers ensured we were accompanied by Carnatic musicians wherever we had to break into a recital. We bounced from one city to another in search of divinity and I surmise it came to us for a split second in every location as we danced entranced. The magnetism of each place of worship spurring us on. Other devotees became our loyal audiences. And I have to say Tai, that you now have a host of additional aficionados.

While some temples are screaming for attention and care from heritage property restorers to salvage the inestimable treasures of sculpture and architecture contained by them, the famed Thanjavur Temple and the idol of Shiva dancing on one leg at Chidambaram, the very Meccas of Bharata Natyam, leave you breathless. Awed as we were, an irresistible urge to dance for the deities overrode all such wonder. And there we were, dreaming with our feet.

These spaces seem frozen in time. We could imagine how it must've been even 2000 years ago, when dance in India was a highly evolved and complex art with gifted, highly educated Devadasis presenting it to the gods. Our dance

movements have been crystallized as Karanas in temple sculpture. I recall the innumerable lessons you spent teaching me these challenging poses. Traipsing by the figurines engraved in the ages of these edifices, we aped as many as we possibly could. All those hours of yoga came to fruition.

Although, dance has left the temple for the proscenium stage, dance and music are still powerful vehicles of veneration. Nattuvanars (Gurus), Dancers, Musicians, Poets, Composers, Architects, Sculptors and Painters share a holistic approach to all the arts and ensure their evolution. We interacted with a rainbow of these, who come to the temples for inspiration and liberation. Classical Dance is therefore, a living tradition, continuously renewed. Bharata Natyam, we inferred from most of the Gurus we spoke with, remains rooted in the past, is enriched in the present and keenly reaches out to the future. I understand why you say it's a prayer. It is, after all, the loftiest form of expression. The gods employed it to unveil the eternal rhythms of the universe. And we, in turn use it to tell stories -- of mythology, reality and morality. Somewhere, this cosmic dance made us feel limitless. We were finally one with ourselves. The years of practice and learning found fulfilment. The Art was ours; to make whatever we could of it. The Art Crusaders had arrived at freedom.

When not in a temple, we were on the road, travelling from one picturesque Southern Indian city to the other. When we weren't en route, we were eating every Tamil treat we could get our hands on. Dosai, Idlis, Vadai, Poori, Pongal, Uppma, Idiyappam, Aappam, Parotta and Paniyaaram. Bananas and Coconut Water were the instant energizers. Why, with all the dancing, they soon became crucial to our Crusade. From the Shivagana district of Tamil Nadu, comes Chettinad cuisine, identified by its variety of freshly ground spices. Although our tongues were on fire, we couldn't resist the peppery food. Kootu, Poriyal, Murukku and Uthappam. Thank goodness for thayir sadam (curd rice) and Jigarthanda (a milk beverage from Madurai) to neutralize the piquancy.

Most nights, I would sit out in the verandas of the small cottages we were housed in and write of themes relevant to "The Art Crusade" under the pen name

of "The ArtHuntress.". This was the panorama before us. And we were on the prowl.

As a student of dance and an aspiring gazetteer, I recorded my liaison with the performing arts. To me, art propounds forgetting safety. It is living where you fear to live; destroying your reputation and being outrageously notorious. You break open and free when you let the beauty of what you love be what you do. Back in the temple towns of Tamil Nadu, I lost and found myself at the same time, devoid of any dread.

Art is the last form of magic that exists. Thank you Tai, for casting this spell on me.

Anputan,

Myth.

Naina and I discussed Stage Fright on our first night in Madurai. This is what came out of our dialogue.

THE STAGE

"When you step from the wings onto the stage, you go from total blackness to a blinding hot glare. After a moment you adjust. But there is that moment. It's like being inside lightning."

One would surmise that 'The Stage' is a performer's sanctuary; that it's where she goes berserk; that it makes her come alive; that it's an imperial feeling to have all eyes on you, with them watching every move you make; that when out there, she just wants you to know this is what she's supposed to do. This is her dream.

Although, that may be predominantly true, 'The Stage' could well engender performance anxiety. The gospel truth is that you never stop being nervous. In fact, if you're not nervous you're as anesthetized as death. Everyone battles stage fright. And some vanquish it quicker than others.

The likes of Adele, Renee Fleming, Barbara Streisand, Carly Simon, Bob Dylan, Britney Spears, Rod Stewart, Andrea Bocelli, etc. have had every fibre in their being tell them that they can't be on stage. There are moments of deep panic. But once they're up there, in a flash, their adversary is set ablaze and becomes their alleyway to express.

Queerly, 'The Stage' plays friend and foe, in concert. A performer must make the former facet reign.

To cutting loose!

The ArtHuntress

The temple society in Gangaikondacholapuram screened a film and made a presentation on Shanta Rao on the evening that we visited it. This is her story.

ALONE AND UNACKNOWLEDGED

In the era of the revival of Indian Classical Dance, lived a forgotten legend -Shanta Rao, a contemporary of powerhouses such as Balasaraswati, Rukmini Devi Arundale, Ram Gopal, Mrinalini Sarabhai, Chandralekha, Krishna Rao and others. She coexisted as one illustrious and unknown. A master of 4 dance genres (Kathakali, Bharata Natyam, Mohini Attam and Kuchipudi), Shanta labelled herself a 'learner of the arts', a tag that trailed her until she met her end with a paintbrush clutched in her hand composing her last canvas. It is deemed that great art changes lives. Every prodigious artiste is therefore, a revolutionary.

Shanta commenced her surge into breaking ground with the resolve to study Kathakali (characteristically a male-dominated dance form exacting rigorous training) at the Kerala Kalamandalam, becoming one of the first women to withstand such unsparing instruction. Resultantly, her Bharata Natyam was terrifically vigourous and dynamic supplementary to being remarkably graceful. The secret to her stupefying portrayal of the dance of the enchantress, Mohini Attam, lay in her eyes resplendent with zeal. Her training in Kuchipudi was instrumental in the inception of Shanta's brainchild -- Bhama Nrityam, a dance style evolved from the Bhamasutram rituals. Her life was an interminable campaign to preserve the authenticity of Indian classical dance, emulated by her maxim, "the art is to be served; not to be used". To Shanta, all that mattered was remaining earnest to the ethics of the art and immortalizing an untarnished heritage.

Shanta abhorred publicity. She was repulsed by the concept of 'holding a pose' to be photographed. "I am not a statue; I'm a dancer", she'd say. This adamancy bound photographers to capture her solely when she was in motion. The same doggedness gave rise to a renaissance in dance when her practice of Kathakali brought power to her performance of Bharata Natyam and the sacrifice she made to learn Mohini Attam ed her pursuit to project it (contrary to prevalent

beliefs) as a pure art form. Shanta's devotion brought merited recognition to Indian classical dance across the globe.

Dance critics, the world over, set her on a pedestal, "Then she started to dance -a mixture of silk and steel, rippling water and sledge hammer blows. Every movement was crystal clear in a school of dance that combines as none other, the mathematical and the dramatic, the abstract and the emotional. And this first impact, tremendous as it was, grew with a cumulative effect that became completely hypnotic. This dancer of genius possesses a spellbinding stage presence. She betrays a zest and ebullience which seem to be almost obsessive. Her movements have an extraordinary power and force which do not permit the onlooker to take their eyes away from her." Her naturalism made one presume true that there could have existed a dancer such as Lord Shiva who turned inert matter into motion when he danced. Shanta became the person she was impersonating and this adhesion made her ever so magnetic.

She described her allegiance to art as a labour of love. Although she made manifold attempts to endow the subsequent generations with her knowledge, unfortunately, she didn't trace a parallel discipline and dedication to learning in those that wished to be taught by her. Shanta grew dreadfully intolerant with those who came simply to be trained in dance 'pieces' within a particular time frame. "You can't set time boundaries on the degree of adherence imperative for learning. You've got to be able to stand and walk before you can imagine being a dancer." Perhaps, the austerity of her Gurus had permeated into her making her want her disciples to undergo the same thoroughness and severity meted out to her. Shanta could never bequeath the legacy of her repertoire of dances as she never crossed paths with a deserving student. She found it shallow that dance was being integrated with commercialism wherein the process of training could be expedited for personal gain, at the expense of forfeiting the genuineness of the art and the purity of it's knowledge. There weren't enough people of like mind, for whom the preservation of the art sured self-glorification.

The debasement of traditional Indian dance distressed her. Her Guru had once

told her, "One day all our art, all our music, will be ashes". When she saw this statement actualize, she receded into her home; a recluse in a castle with the drawbridge drawn. "Dance is the perfect stillness; the ultimate Yoga", she had been taught. For all one knows, Shanta became the emblem of all she had imbibed from her Guru. She perished in solitude and silence, clinging to her art, the one thing that keeps her alive even today.

Shanta Rao remains.

With reverence,

The ArtHuntress

In Mahabalipuram, we chatted with Pi, a young Bharata Natyam dancer who is determined to establish herself as an artiste. When we asked her to participate in our informal concert, she matched our moves with ease and subsequently, taught us some of her own notable choreography. This is what I gathered from her resolve.

TRUSTING THE UNRELIABLE

An aspiring performing artiste is no stranger to the skepticism and question marks on people's faces when you reveal to them that there is no "Plan B". You've picked creativity over currency; talent over tedium; craze over consistency. And, why do you forfeit stability? Because being penniless and ionate is far more rewarding than being rich and drab. The belief in possibility is far greater than the fear of failure. You've convinced yourself that submission to middle-of-the-road dogmas drown out your inner voice, the intuition telling you to follow your heart. You're comfortable with the uncertainty and you know that someday, the cynics will accept that it's alright to want to "just" dance; "just" sing; "just" act; "just" perform to make a living, despite the narrow prospects to thrive.

Artistes ignore logic, ignore the odds, ignore the complications. They go for it. They're brave, they're different and they want to be who they were meant to be. An artiste's choices would perhaps, be better understood if we put the performing arts on the same footing as mathematics or science or humanities back in school. If only we were taught to swear by our fortes; to believe, we'd have saved a vast portion of the world from falling into the category of insipid sheep.

A true artiste takes that leap of faith. She escapes security. She trusts her art enough to inspire the discipline within her to become one with it. When you've striven to excel, the unreliable becomes the only apparatus for survival. You have to shine.

To the capricious world of every artiste!

The ArtHuntress.

One night in Swamimalai, whilst on our third bowl of kheer, Naina and I asked ourselves whether or not absolutely every phenomenon could be illustrated with dance, particularly war scenes. An evidently learned nattuvanar, living in a nearby cottage overheard our conversation and decided to intervene. Consequently, he answered us in the affirmative.

DANCE WARFARE

Our very word for drama, 'nataka', attests that dance was its indispensable feature. The purpose of ancient Indian plays is to evoke 'rasa' within the spectator. The term 'rasa' has been translated as the 'flavour' derived, the 'poetic sentiment' stimulated or the 'aesthetic relish' acquired by the beholder. 'Abhinaya' carries a narrative towards its patrons by means of a universal dance-language illustrated by rhythm and gestures.

The events of human life can all be embodied as movement. Therefore, when an event of importance has to be portrayed; a story is meant to be told, it is only natural that its movement is given a corresponding majesty by the addition of rhythmic grace. Dance gives a pulsating prominence to the events of a tale, manifesting the truism that this art form is in fact the highest form of expression. The body does the talking. Here, Puranic legends are addressed to the eye.

Everything can be danced. As regards combat scenes, Tagore very piercingly states, "Nothing could be more foreign to any actual field of battle than the ingenious creation of dance warfare. But if some fairy land had been governed by the rule that fighting must be done rhythmically, a false step entailing defeat, then this is the kind of battle that would have been waged there. And if anyone is inclined to smile at such lack of realism, he must also laugh at Shakespeare, whose heroes not only fight in metre but even die to it." The words are kept in the background or left altogether. Dance, together with its music, become the intermediaries for the communication of the emotions, beauty and diverse, engaging aspects of the play.

We are yet to come across a phenomenon that cannot be evinced through dance. It follows that, such warfare is indeed the mightiest.

To this pearl of an art form,

The ArtHuntress.

On our drive from Madurai to Raameshwaram, I asked Naina, "As an aspiring artiste, do you have to be a natural?" She gave it some thought. And then responded, "I'm sure it helps to be one. But, how can we leave it all to fate? Luck doesn't always do the trick." Somewhere in the discussion that ensued, I found a vague answer.

DO YOU HAVE TO BE A NATURAL?

Experienced artistes often state, "you can't teach someone how to act -- either you have it or you don't." Acting, therefore, is ostensibly a skill innately bequeathed by chance or a certain supernatural divinity as is probable with any other art form. It's a gift; a marvellous dexterity, bestowed upon the fortunate few who decide to reap the benefit from it. "You just have to be born with it. No one can teach someone something that they don't already understand." Perhaps, one can draw a parallel with the fine art of music. An inherently symphonic voice is a prerequisite to further refinement and tuning. A talent is not acquired from the outside. It is triggered from within.

Now that it's been proposed that to be a successful actor or musician or artiste, you need to be gifted and that no one can teach you if you don't somehow already know what there is to learn, the million dollar question is, do you assuredly have to be a natural to thrive? Do you come into this world mindful of all that there is to understand regarding your skills? Can you not amass a distinct adeptness from scratch?

Universities across the world, when speaking of subjects such as entrepreneurship, claim that this too cannot be taught. Clearly, the issue is much more universal than we'd think. What applies to the performing arts, evidently, bears upon other fields as well. So, do we have to be born with it? Can a given talent be learnt by not-so-naturally-gifted people over time? Many of us in the world are born untalented. Everyone can't be an artistic prodigy or a math whiz at age seven. Are we then, supposed to sit down and it defeat? Absolutely not.

May be eminence isn't so much a result of natural ability as it is of sheer ion;

the drive to want to be something and get somewhere you've dream't of arriving at. Being gifted may not necessarily always be a good thing. Such people are often at a disadvantage when pitted against those willing to put their noses to the grindstone. Their natural endowments might wind down the fire in their bellies when complacency steps into the frame. The most talented people quit many of the things they've tried because they weren't automatically good at them. They're used to getting things easy since they intrinsically have it all.

People who have to work and practice for that proficiency; that artistry, appreciate it more. They comprehend the value of such attainment. Whether you're a "natural" or an "unnatural", accomplishments are only real when they've emanated from blood, sweat and tears.

No, you don't have to be a natural. But if you have "it", don't waste "it". And if you don't, try to go get "it". Because when you want something as bad as you want to breathe, you'll find it.

Don't stop believing!

The Art Huntress.

We found two Gurus in Darasuram engaged in an heated debate to ascertain the exact date on which The Natya Shastra was completed. The wrangling was rather perturbing.

THE FIFTH VEDA

The Natya Shastra is the world's most comprehensive treatise on dance, drama and music. "What is found here may be found elsewhere, but what is not here cannot be found anywhere." It is described as The Fifth Veda, accessible to all the castes in society. The foundation of a structured order of fine arts emerged from the knowledge of stagecraft, literature and Indian classical dance and music that emanates from this consummate text.

The scholars of the world have everlastingly haggled to ascribe a date to this ancient composition. An earlier date, it seems, confers greater prestige. In India, we have a patent on upholding inconsequential squabbles. We will assign it to the centuries before Christ if we have to but sidestep the emphasis on its momentousness as an unrivalled treatise. Clearly, we're missing the point. Drama came into existence before the Natya Shastra. Its eminence lies not in the assumption that it came before the Greeks but that it is as applicable today as it was when its amplitude provoked the genesis of our dramatic tradition.

The stage has been an attraction for our people for thousands of years. This text takes into that drama represents the ways of the world and the picture of our people's speech and manners. It is the only Veda that was written impartially, for all; the only Veda that is not confined to the realm of wisdom alone; it provides entertainment too, a timeless essentiality. A playwright, a popular theme, actors, a director and an audience -- the five prerequisites of theatre are to be unwavering. The playwright should have the capacity to grasp the characteristics of the populace and represent them as judiciously as possible in a compelling narrative. Physical fitness, control over the voice, clarity of speech and pronunciation are indispensable to an actor. The audience is the paramount critic of any performance. These, in addition to the acoustics and visibility of an auditorium, have been described as the primary elements of theatrics, aeons ago, and are just as crucial today.

A critical study of the Natya Shastra reveals that because the general way of life had been massacred by indecency and foulness, the Natya Veda was created to cleanse society and civilize it; to spawn harmony and accord from shambles. The provision of drama consolidated humanity. The mirror of theatre brought consciousness of people's doings. It ushered enlightenment.

These are the lines on which this treatise has to be studied. The relevance of the Natya Shastra today, is incontestable. Contemporary developments, though, must be marked in furtherance of the evolution of drama that will certainly safeguard the precepts of the monograph, in perpetuum.

To those that study to elevate tradition with progress,

The ArtHuntress.

An unfading memory from Thanjavur is beholding an imioned performance on a raised platform in the temple square. Cathartic, for every woman, we would think. Art endorses the prerequisite of being distinct. Savitha personified this statement.

UNSHACKLE

"Young Vichitra, all of sixteen, enthralls her school with a riveting performance, filled with vivacity and the joy of youth. Indifferent to innumerable irers, Vichitra lives rather befuddled by the attention she receives. But, the first rains of the year bring out feelings of true joy in her. In the shy and gauche Adhvik, Vichitra finds her first love; a tumultuous love, the intensity of which one only feels at sixteen. Her love story comes to a grinding halt in the face of her parents' refusal to accept Adhvik. Vichitra tries all she can to convince them but to no avail. Years have ed. Vichitra is now married -- a husband chosen by her parents. Her family has grown to include her in-laws and children. Every day is exactly the same -- the so-called marital bliss and a dissolved identity. But, one night, in her sleep, Vichitra dreams of being beckoned by an unknown silhouette in the light. She hesitantly moves into the spotlight and dances to the music she hears. In this state, she experiences the freedom from her mundane life. The days continue as always, but she now looks forward to returning to the life of her fantasy. A fine line of guilt separates reality from the illusion. As she spends more time dancing in the spotlight of her dream, her life finds meaning. She is alive. Until of course, the voices of her family awaken her to the sacrifices she is expected to make. She is forced to choose one over the other. The answer is obvious. The life of the dream; her desire; is brushed aside as a delusion. Vichitra, now well advanced in her age, lives by herself. Loneliness pursues her and she tries to escape its clutches by fleeing in fear. But then, comes acceptance, followed by a love for solitude. Perhaps, this is the only love that will last eternally. Vichitra is at peace with solitude, whom she regards as her companion. The world thinks she has lost her mind, forever in conversation with no one they could see. But this is what gives Vichitra her tranquility. She lives with loneliness, her shadow, who says nothing, but understands her like no one ever has. Liberation, eventually finds her. Perhaps, a little too late?!"

Savitha Sastry revealed this story to me through her portrayal of Vichitra in a hypnotic Bharata Natyam performance entitled "Chains". To me, this was a new

dawn for the art form. Never before have I seen an Indian Classical Dance style, perceived as being exact and austere, become so malleable. For once, the mastery did not lie merely in the precision of movements but also in the rendition of an actuality in the life of every woman.

One gesture floated into the other, each becoming a metaphor for myriad emotions and circumstances that engulf a woman. Sastry's effortless miming only made her extraordinarily natural. The vibrant colours she wore served her stunning appearance. Every time she moved, she soothed.

The truth about 'the spotlight' brought further poignancy to this presentation. It's always there. You just have to smoke it out from within. And, that's when your soul will unbind itself from the "Chains" that you consented to be manacle by. The spotlight. It screams. For you to pursue your dream.

All Savitha seems to want to say to every woman out there,

"Free yourself from those "Chains"; that bondage. You were born to dream. You were born to live."

And, what an instrument she picked to communicate this consciousness!

To the dancers who dream with their feet!

The ArtHuntress.

Dear Tai,

We're certain South India will send for us again. To better understand, in the words of Mark Twain, the conviction that,

"India is the cradle of the human race, the birthplace of human speech, the mother of history, the grandmother of legend and the great grandmother of tradition."

Indeed, "Our most valuable and most constructive materials in the history of man are treasured up in India only."

With our culture, having widened our minds and spirits on this Crusade, we hope our Art will continue to reveal more of ourselves and the truth to us.

I'm positive you will persist with bolstering that process.

When we parted, soon after 9 days of hustling, we swore that "The Art Crusade" shall live. That the Art Huntress shall remain on the prowl.

Naina returned to her world, leaving something for our next visit -- Pondy. Before long, we presume.


Ninkal Parkka

Myth.

THE U-TURN

Nani is currently at her benevolent best -- bequeathing family heirlooms. It'll be tragic if she goes down the ascetic route and eventually, forsakes the world. There's an army of us, grandchildren who pine for her cooking and feeding; mythological storytelling; the criticism of her daughters, our moms; and the marathon sessions of Rummy that she gets high on.

As she persists with this bestowal, I'm visiting her, in anticipation of a top and typical nani-style-home-cooked meal, denied to me for the weeks that I've been away. Once fed to gills and giddiness, I'm rummaging through Nana's coin collection and privately making notes of the countries I have to make my way to, if this currency has to be put to any use. Nani doesn't miss the smirk I flash.

"Can't wait to vamoose again, can you?", she asks, matching my grin with a far more striking one, unmarred, even by age.

I nod, roguishly, and lay down on her bed with my head in her lap.

Nani then fishes out a narrative from her store of stories, a coveted moment long overdue. This one's from the indigenous people of North America.

"In a remote village a child was born. As he grew, he loved to run, play and swim. But most of all he loved the stories his grandmother told. His favourite was about the Singing Stone -- a stone of absolute beauty -- conferring wealth, power, knowledge, wisdom of the entire world on whoever possessed it. He would ask: "But where, can I find this Singing Stone?" She would sigh and say, "Oh child, I know not; maybe you will find it someday."

At thirteen, he was to be initiated into the tribe as a man. When he was asked his one wish that must be granted, he knew that it was his strong desire to discover what the 'Singing Stone' meant.

Before he set out his grandmother said, "There is a wise and learned scholar in the North, with a library which contains every book in the world. Perhaps there you will find out about the Singing Stone".

The scholar smiled in welcome when he arrived; of course he could stay for as long as he wanted. Many years later, the young man came to the end of all the books the library contained. For of all the great knowledge in that noble library, he sadly told the scholar, not a single page of a book, had contained a single word about the Singing Stone.

"I know nothing of it," said the scholar, "maybe the Butterfly Queen of the South can help."

After many adventures he reached a shining palace of crystal and glass. The Butterfly Queen made him welcome, smiling knowingly at the desire in his eyes. For many years, exotic food, rich clothes and beautiful maidens were his for the asking. He built a fine palace, living a life of great luxury and pleasure. But, after many years, somehow it all lost its appeal; and middle-aged now, he felt something calling from within.

"You have kept me a prisoner here; I lost my purpose. I had come to ask you of your knowledge of the whereabouts of the Singing Stone!" The Butterfly Queen said gently, "The only person who has kept you prisoner here is yourself. As for the Singing Stone, I know nothing; but in the west there lives a great Wizard who may."

He finally reached the Wizard's dwelling, staying there for many years, learning all kinds of magic and spells, even suring the Wizard in his skill. By now he had completely forgotten the purpose of his coming here. But he wasn't really satisfied, much to his surprise -- and one night he dreamt of his almost forgotten quest.

So he went to the Wizard and said he was setting off on a journey; the East was calling him now. "Have you any knowledge of the Singing Stone" he asked the Wizard. "I have not," he replied, "but you should follow your instincts and go East."

After many months he came to a group of small wooden dwellings. He watched as the door of a little home opened and a very old couple came towards him. And he knew that this was his home, this was the place he had set out from nearly sixty-one years ago, and these two people before him were his parents. And as they put their arms around him, his mother whispered softly, "Welcome Home, Singing Stone."

"Someday", she softly said, caressing my head, "someone will say that to you. But before you set off in search of the Singing Stone, I've saved something that's befittingly yours."

She pulls out a large, stiff envelope from a cabinet beside her and hands it to me. Given her existing track record of philanthropy, I'm hoping it isn't a signed declaration of renunciation.

Not in the least. It's Nana's Law Degree. "Perhaps you will cherish this as much as the evidence of his travels that you were inspecting. He would have wanted

you to have it. The only descendant who got close to getting another one." This last zinger came down on me like a torrential rainstorm.

"I thought we had sent this debate packing, Nani. I made a decision to drop out when the system failed me. It's all in the past."

She has that beaten look on her face. And she's doing her utmost to conceal it with a contrived smile. Just like that, in a second, my mind goes back into the tizzy it had, that night when I decided to quit the study of the Law.

Have you ever seen a smile become a tear? A fraction of remorse. A slice of guilt. A fragment of shame. The incineration of my soul.

Cashing in on my tick of vulnerability, she makes herself clear, "I told you then and I'm telling you now. You fled on an impulse. You were incensed by the unimaginativeness of the methods of schooling. But you never once protested against the analysis of and reflection upon legal principles. Perhaps, you were replete with episode after episode in your 'Chase' and you needed a breather from the misery exams in our system often shove introspective individuals into. Regrettably, you have to put your cogitative faculties to snooze, momentarily. But don't for one second deny that the law is of interest to you. The only one you'd be fooling is yourself. It has forever been your sole academic inclination."

Unwilling to let this occasion slip, she further explains, in that tender but firm tone that only grandmoms possess,

"The system failed you; not the knowledge of the law. What befriends a traveller? Learning. Every addition to true knowledge is an addition to human

power. If, however, you are not willing to learn, no one can help you. If you are determined to learn, no one can stop you. The Singing Stone has an open mind. If you refuse to acquiesce to the cramming and a one-dimensional education, then effect a revolution. Empower yourself with knowledge within and beyond the periphery of the presently prescribed syllabus and examination-acing requisites. Be hungry for more. Read. Experiment. Research. Probe. Give the field an even-handed chance."

She concludes with her distinctive inspirational technique, "You've had your transitory diversion. And beyond a shadow of doubt, it was sensational. All the same, one chunk of the 'Chase' remains half-baked. And that's not how you roll. Jump back into the game. Fight and you will have victory. Who says a lawyer can't wander?!"

Whew! It works. Terrifically. Every time.

Stroking Nana's certificate, with a crack in her soft voice, she soothingly states, "The miss of him is a miss perpetual; a miss which finds its only solace in the attempt to be what he thought one might become."

Nani has that rare gift of self-revelation. I mean, she reveals one's self to one's self. She puts you in touch with your own resources. Ordinary social intercourse gives other people to us; she gives you yourself, but a better self, a new-made self: a best self -- which in truth hardly existed but she compelled it.

She wins. Fair and square. And I'm re-enrolling into the University, not to get a second degree into the family but to provide another inquiring mind a purpose in the study of the Law.

What a bloody turnaround. My fellow dropouts, I'm sorry to disappoint. But as Nani says, "Life is short and youth is a good deal shorter. Try to get something done as soon as you can."

And may be this switch is right up my alley. The one I have to traverse to discover the Singing Stone.

THE INTERNSHIP AND THE GODSEND OF A GURU

Mom almost had the heart attack I am certain to cause her before she turns 50, Dad choked on his 2nd bar of chocolate and Mihir checked my forehead for fever when at a routine family congregation post-dinner, three days after Nani's address to me, I broadcasted, without warning, that I was to start working as an intern at a law firm next week. Utterly incapable of tucking away their exhilaration, they tried to not turn a hair when I told them I've ed into my Law course again. Perhaps, after all these years of my existence, they're still attempting adapting to the volatility by toiling to not react and seem ruffled.

Once all updates on our domestic news bulletin were shared, the assembly was adjourned when mom could no longer put up with the flurry of crazy balls being hurled at her, during a synchronous battle she was forced to participate in. Gradually, the monkey business blew over and everyone drifted into their own spaces.

Tomorrow, I go back to the drawing board. Tomorrow, I breathe life into what I deserted. Tomorrow, I assume the role of 'The Intern'. To learn. To know. To grow.

But secretly, this schedule shift, this break with the past gives me the jitters. And I sleep fitfully, until...

Far away, inside a dream, I why I made this choice when Nana tells me, "Love implies better knowing, and better knowing takes time and trouble and sacrifice -- sacrifice of one's own point of view. Yet perhaps, it is just this simple method which will bring you certitude; a sense of completeness. Who knows? And at any rate, it is worth trying."

I can hear the saintly smile in his voice when he says,

"Difficult ways can purchase things, and the more one pays, the more one buys for a loved one. Oh! But the way of difficulties is a great and beautiful way. It takes things from you, but it also gives things to you, back again -- better things."

I must begin at the beginning. The standard introductory dialogue with my boss wasn't quite standard. We were friends, in a flash. All propriety ran out of gas when I gave him the true picture. The whole spiel on 'The Chase'. He wants it to persist. When I ask "how come?", he says, "I couldn't possibly hear you wish that these years would come over again to be better occupied. Let your youth smile without any reason. It is one of its topmost charms." I think no one has been blessed more with friends who less deserved it than me.

As the days wore on, he revealed to me a misplaced yearning to be a wildlife photographer. "That's why I want you to stick at the 'Chase'", he maintains, adamantly, "because, somewhere, I abandoned mine."

We share identical views on a conservative education and the farce that it is. Of exams, he tells me, "Examiners are such difficult people to please. And if you happen to hold an opposite theory to theirs, I suppose they will cut you into atoms." He's stealing the words from my mouth. "But", he continues, "when you step outside the confines of formal schooling, only then do you start learning. The profession of law is a high adventure. There is no learning that comes amiss to the lawyer; there is no phase of all the myriad mysteries of the human heart which may not be the subject of the case which he has to consider. It depends entirely upon the individual herself whether she will allow the legal profession to narrow her mind or will regard it as an opportunity to learn comprehensively the story of human life and human nature."

Gradually, as the legal domain ushers me in, I have to agree with him. The firm

is my school; the college I never went to and the boss, my guru. He gives me the independence and impetus to learn, the guidance when I stutter and am in a fog. And I find that, you don't always have to go to a quiet place by the river and sit down to think. If you study, ideas come. All my ambitions and hopes and aspirations found utterance somehow, in the presence of the boss. Before anything else, he lets me be. And that, is all I could ever ask for.

A Guru in the eastern sense he is, to many. But unlike the eastern Guru, he never wishes for his disciples to be mentally drugged with his own influence or impressions. "Be yourself", is his gospel -- a gospel of divine individuality. "No power", he says, "That is adrift in the world, should go to waste, for a lack of direction." Therefore, after the mandatory forty winks that I lay claim to at some point in the middle of a day at work to atone for the obligatory 'Chasing', I often wake up ruffled as to where I am. It's a hangover of sorts. But that also means I'm high. A little psyched, I should add. And why not? I reckon it's alright to go hazy and crazy.

The Guru says, "The answer will come." That I will awaken in my own time.

When I first accompanied the boss to a court hearing, he switched gears into picnic mode, merrily intertwining the Bombay High Court, a galaxy of legal talent, with the history of our nation.

"The lawyers from this court have shone bright and long in the legal firmament: Sir Dinshaw Mulla, the doyen of Indian jurisprudence, Sir Jamshedji Kanga, Nani Palkhivala, H.M. Seervai, C.K. Daphtary, Sir Chimanlal Setalvad, Motilal Setalvad and others. They're the very pinnacle of the legal profession in India."

"It was through the corridors of this Court that those who shaped the destiny of independent India ed: Mahatma Gandhi, Lokmanya Bal Gangadhar Tilak,

Badruddin Tyabji, Mohammed Ali Jinnah, Sir Phirozeshah Mehta, N.V. Gokhale, M.G. Ranade, Bhulabhai Desai, K.M. Munshi among others. There is a long legacy of erudition, a heritage of indomitability and fearlessness and a history of zealous safeguarding of the rights of citizens."

As we traverse the vast castle --a four-storied stone structure, 562 feet long and, at its highest point, 178 feet high, a grand total of 80000 square feet -- he pauses, runs his hands by a stone wall in one of the court's corridors and continues, "This spirit seems to have pervaded the very building: its stones have tongues and they speak the language of justice and mercy."

When I ask what gives it this unique culture and reputation, he says we owe it to the Bombay Bar. "This is a bar that is fiercely -- even frighteningly independent. It is unforgiving of legal and moral transgressions amongst itself and its judges and yet, strangely, is a gentle Bar that adopts as its own every judge who sits here."

"But, really, what is Justice?", I enquire. He pronounces, "To the Romans, Justice was a goddess whose symbols were -- a throne that tempests could not shake, a pulse that ion could not stir, eyes that were blind to any feeling of favour or ill-will, and the sword that fell on all offenders with equal certainty and identical strength."

In the courtroom I see that the ambience can be disconcertingly informal, yet is unfailingly courteous.

It would be unfair to keep to myself that indeed, there is much laughter and enjoyment of work and life in these halls and an astonishing spirit of camaraderie prevails in its precincts: judges, lawyers and istrative staff all work together with enormous goodwill. The cohesiveness of the Bombay Bar is

pretty patent.

Of the precious and interesting memories of this treasure house, the guru tells me of an instance when Dr. B.R. Ambedkar was appearing as a counsel before Justice J.C. Shah. "While Dr. Ambedkar was arguing, the lights in the courtroom suddenly went out. He said, "It is all dark. How can I argue?" Justice Shah quipped, "I have no power over that power. You do." Dr. Ambedkar promptly said, "As your Lordship pleases. Let there be light!" And the lights came back almost in a flash."

What a Bar and what a Bench! Illuminating, indeed.

In the central courtroom on the second floor of the Bombay High Court hangs a large portrait in oil, the largest as I recall, in the building. The guru makes known, "It is the portrait of Sir John Peter Grant, a judge of what was then called the Supreme Court. The portrait has always held a fascination for me, more so when I learnt Sir John's remarkable story. A writ of habeas corpus had been issued by the Supreme Court. The then Governor of Bombay issued orders that the writ be ignored. He went further, and in a letter addressed to the Supreme Court, stated that he had instructed the East India Company's servants to take cognizance of no writs issued by the Supreme Court pertaining to people residing outside the limits of the Island of Bombay."

"The ime continued until Sir John, in protest, locked the Supreme Court and sailed away to England. That the Privy Council later overruled the Supreme Court is not the point. The point is that the executive could not sit in judgment over the validity of the writ; it was obliged to enforce it. Its failure to do so brought Sir John's remarkable protest. A British judge so strongly upholding the independence of the judiciary in the face of an intransigent executive, British at that, must evoke tremendous iration, and it is but right that when Sir John left Bombay he was presented with an unprecedented address of thanks by the citizenry."

In response I ask, "Would you affirm the same judicial independence exists today?"

He takes a deep breath and comes in, "Times change, and with them attitudes. But the respect the Bench and the Bar of this court has enjoyed has not diminished in any considerable measure. That about 3 decades ago, the Bar was strong enough to protest against the conduct of some judges and obtain redress enhanced the image of the court, strengthened the public view of the Bar and, I should think, put judges to notice."

Nani Palkhivala once wrote, - "The court has no reason for existence if it merely reflects the pressures of the day. Our system is built on the faith that men set apart for this special function, freed from the influences of immediacy and from the deflections of worldly ambition, will become able to take a view of longer range than the period of responsibility entrusted to Congress and Legislatures."

The corridors of the building have carvings of seemingly strange sculptures like a fox wearing bands, a wolf with a wig and a lion in a gown. Detecting how amused I am by these, the boss discloses, "These artistic creations are figurative. They proclaim from the corridors of the temple of justice that not only all men but all life under the sun is entitled to be treated with an even hand and that each living entity must receive and ister justice without an evil eye."

Engraved on a commemorative plaque of marble, on the first floor, are the words, "In spite of the verdict of the jury I maintain that I am innocent. There are higher powers that rule the destiny of men and nations and it may be the will of providence that the cause which I represent may prosper more by my suffering than by my remaining free." This was Tilak at his historic trial at The Bombay High Court in 1908.

The boss adds, "Mahommedali Currim Chagla, who after independence served as the first Indian Chief Justice of the Bombay High Court, had markedly stated that the 'Lokmanya' was sentenced in 1908 only for the crime of patriotism." He goes on to quote Chagla, "If an Indian is now presiding as Chief Justice of this court, it is due in no small measure to the suffering and sacrifice of Tilak. He loved the country more than his life and liberty."

Immediately after his release in 1914, Tilak was prosecuted again on charges of sedition. Jinnah defended him so adroitly that Tilak was acquitted by the High Court.

He theatrically declares, "Through trying times, and when freedoms have been attacked and undermined, the Bombay High Court has stood firmly by its citizens. The very same lot that takes great pride in this splendid building which so effectively embellishes our city."

I would like to believe then that this overwhelming perception of the High Court is not founded merely on its physical presence as a unique edifice in stone and mortar. Several momentous trials held through the years within the court and its many tales about leading legal luminaries -- chief justices, judges, lawyers and solicitors who have served the cause of justice in its many courtrooms, make this institution the very symbol of people's democratic rights to equality, freedom and impartial justice, guaranteed to them under the Constitution of India.

I try and revive this realization every time I return to witness a proceeding. The Guru has given the novice a story to ; a truth for keeps.

Atticus Finch's closing argument in the trial of Tom Robinson, from Harper

Lee's classic, returns to mind -- "We know all men are not created equal in the sense some would have us believe -- some people are smarter than others, some people have more opportunity because they're born with it, some men make more money than others, some ladies make better cakes than others -- some people are born gifted beyond the normal scope of men. But there is one way in this country in which all men are created equal -- there is one human institution that makes a pauper the equal of a Rockefeller, the stupid man the equal of an Einstein, and the ignorant man the equal of a college president. That institution, gentlemen, is a court."

This is "the one place where a man ought to get a square deal".

As we walk back to the office from our field day at the Court, the boss reveals, "The romance of The Bombay High Court will endure. Nothing can equal the thrill of appearing in The Bombay High Court. It cannot be readily expressed in . Imagine a raw junior appearing in the court of a judge whose very name inspires awe and utmost terror. The knees feel weak. Words do not come out for some time, and when they do there is no control over what he says. And then, if he is fortunate, the judge smiles and encourages him along. And he is on top of the world."

Fond reminiscence. As fictional as it may seem to me today, the Guru didn't start off being a boss. And it comes as a relief to know that I don't hold a copyright on the description -- 'lost and thrown'.

Friends at work make the days go by faster. I owe them tremendously for not telling on my cat naps and horseplay (when the boss hasn't already noticed and magnanimously overlooked them). And tolerating a lunatic; a tormenting animal in their midst. The only 'devil', they'd say, in the legal tongue -- A beginner who makes a devil of a nuisance of herself.

With every ing week, I scuttle to keep up with the prism of undertakings, trying to think of it all as a game.

I sensed I was submitting to the 'work like a horse, live like a hermit' doctrine. I had Nana, occasionally telling me to appease the blood-pumping organ in my being, "Dear heart, forgive me for giving everything. But as long as we're giving, we haven't given up." "Wild hearts", he promises, "can't be broken".

Perhaps he made a cloak-and-dagger signal to the boss, who, after a short time, taught me, "Certain ideals and values which open up a larger meaning to human existence will always be beyond the pale of the law; and that is why a lawyer has to be well-versed in other subjects if he desires to aim at excellence. 'The law the lawyers know about, is property and land; But why the leaves are on the trees, and why the waves disturb the seas, why honey is the food of the bees, why horses have such tender knees, why winters come when rivers freeze, why faith is more than what one sees, and hope survives the worst disease, and charity is more than these, they do not understand.'"

"Go find out for yourself in the wild wood of madness. Unearth the willingness that few mortals possess, to step away from the protection of sanity.", he instructed.

And then one day, when I felt that I'm somewhere. I'm not here. For a little while, I had to escape...

Or maybe, I heard an airplane ing overhead. And I wished I was on it.


4 hours from Bombay, upon a hill, there's a place in the Western Ghats that's largely a forest, with no wi-fi. Only the promise of a better connection. Perhaps not with the many fruits of technology -- apples and blackberries, to be precise. But yourself. And sure enough: nature.

Mahableshwar and I really hit it off, every single time.

There are wavering runs to run in the woods and up and down highlands, books to read and feel, horses to ride at breakneck speed, farm fresh strawberries to feast on, deer and panthers to occasionally bump into, infinite stray dogs to befriend, one bazaar that I'm unlikely to frequent, trees to climb and bruises to acquire when you fall off them, stars in a luminous night sky to gaze at, a lake to go canoeing in and welcoming weather conditions.

There's the solitude to play uninterrupted games of solitaire. Manually. With a pack of cards. Sans mechanized devices.

Primarily, a reminder that there's a long forgotten way of life that some corners of the world still preserve.

5 days. A zephyr. A tick on every box enumerated above. Ecstasy.

Why does it have to be so shattering to leave?

Back in the burner, I miss the cool mountain mist.


Cheers!

Myth.


I'm told Nani and Nana lived the early years of their marriage in Calcutta. To my amazement, I've never been to the East Indian Metropolis before. I should go. To track down a quantum of my lineage and live those days of yore. Who knew? All their yesterdays would be my tomorrows.

When he heard I was headed there, Sanjay from Pondicherry volunteered to show me around his hometown. His family lived there, once upon a time. Not anymore. Hence, our purposes in visiting the place were pretty much identical -excavating the archives of our roots.

Off we go! To the birthplace of Modern Indian Literary and Artistic Thought; the City of Furious, Creative Energy; the very Cultural Capital of India.

To the land of the Goddess, Kali! Hello Kalikata!

My first impressions of Calcutta:

Easygoing, placid people who only seem to mutate into raucous beasts in a tearing hurry when they're behind the wheel, blasting their horns to deafen everyone in the vicinity.

Choked roads that don't clear until you're well into the dark. A darkness that falls too early in the day, making you pry why India doesn't have two time zones.

(Sanjay has the answer. "The bulk of India's major cities like Bombay, Bangalore, Chennai, Hyderabad and Delhi are relatively close to the central

longitude. Because most of the commerce is centred around these cities, it is economically viable to have a uniform time zone. Also, our proximity to the equator means there's less of a seasonal variation in day length. More often than not, there could be a tremendous crunch as far as economic integration goes when there are multiple time zones. Communication companies, broadcasting companies, the railways and aviation sectors, stock exchanges and travellers have to adjust to them and re-schedule accordingly. Things are just smooth when the whole country falls in with one clock.")

The yellow Ambassador taxis are adorable and I have half a mind of taking one stuffed with Sandesh back home.

This is the only Indian city with trams. Be that as it may, I wish they weren't futuristic looking. I'd have preferred the old ones with their ding-dong bells.

The weather isn't a far cry from the hot, humid, sticky and damp Bombay I come from. Our Puducherrian feels likewise.

It's massive. Second perhaps, only to Delhi. Architecturally, the metro is more British than Bombay. Conceivably, Calcutta was a pearl in the British Empire. Their most prized city after London.

It's a beautiful paradox. There's a hustle and a bustle and there's superabundant people on the streets. But unlike other cities, where everyone's too busy to give you any attention, here's a horde that will always be ready for a chat over chai.

The flipside of being lackadaisical is that you have time. And for a visitor, that's a good feeling. You're welcome in a place where anyone in the street is willing

to be engaged in converse.

I'm starting to believe Vir Sanghvi was correct when, in one of his articles, he wrote, "You want your cities clean and green; stick to Delhi. You want your cities, rich and impersonal, go to Bombay. You want them high-tech and full of draught beer, Bangalore's your place. But if you want a city with soul, come to Calcutta."

Through with the first taste, I gather it's improbable to have no stomach for Bengali people and their food.

I have questions though. And I hope to have them answered on this trip. The high priority ones pertain to the origin of the Roshogulla and of course, how the land of Kali came to be called Calcutta. I'm sure many will volunteer to provide fitting responses strung along with true tales.

DAY 1:

The origin of the 'bungalow' has its roots in the historical Province of Bengal. Bangalo, meaning 'Bengali' is 'a house in the Bengal style'. Traditionally small, one-storey high, with a wide verandah, these were adapted by the British as summer retreats for their colonial s. I found myself moving into one for the time I was to be in Calcutta. It's one of Sanjay's ancestral homes in Ballygunge, a locality in the south of the city.

The caretaker, Durjoy, a septuagenarian, has been attending to Sanjay's family for over 5 decades. Before he ushered us in, Sanjay warmly embraced him. He says it's the closest he'll ever get to his predecessors; the departed generation that Durjoy had the fortune of seeing and serving. Through him, Sanjay is bound to them although he could never look into their eyes or hear their voices. From the stories he was told by Durjoy, my friend honours their history, cherishes their lives, re them and by happy chance, will have a family narrative to recount to his children. "Durjoy is the link.", he adds. "He reminds me that I'm a brook with a source; a tree with a root."

And then I ask myself who my Durjoy is. I have a hunch that he's a list of places; lands my ancestors sojourned. They will speak to me of things they would have wanted me to know; show me all that they once saw. Hence, their stories and mine are intertwined.

Sanjay and I have taken an oath to send our intestines into distress on this visit because of the limited time we have to chow down all we can (and well, can't).

We dumped our luggage into the bangalo and made a break for the best

Rasgullas in town. A comprehensive investigation requires us to dig into them at a few defined, contending sweet shops. At the Esplanade crossing, in the heart of the city, we walk into K.C. Das. The spongy white balls are a "special" on the menu. Tasting one put me on cloud nine. And of course, I ascended many cloud levels thereafter. The Nolen Gurer Roll is Sanjay's favourite here. And mine too. May be, after the lyangcha, an elongated Gulab Jamun without the syrup inside. We left, craving for more. Surely, that's always a good time to leave.

From one Das into the other. This one's Nalin Chandra Das and Sons. More appropriately, from one melt-in-the-mouth experience into the other. Sanjay didn't lose a second in ordering a 'bhar' (an earthen pot) of Rasgullas. Now, to get the best of both worlds, we bit into some Nuren Gurer Rasgulla. It's the kind of combination no human being on this planet could possibly disapprove. We opted for some Mishti Doi to put the lid on this particular Das' stores. Splendid climax!

I have 16 sweet teeth, 2 missing and 14 savoury ones. And Sanjay, in addition to indulging the primary set of teeth had to lay in some provisions for the lattermost as well. At Ganguram Sweets, we dug into Radha Ballavi, a deep fried, lentilstuffed Puri served with Alu Dom, a zesty potato preparation. Freshly made Kochuris stuffed with green peas and Luchis flowed straight from the pan into our leaf plates. I was ready for some more Mishti Doi. And Sanjay, as a rule, never says "No".

We switched to infantry mode to scan more of the city on foot, with old newspaper cones loaded with Jhalmuri from a stall on Park Street in our hands. It's puffed rice, chanachur, jhuri bhaja (bhujia), chopped onions, chillis, tomatoes, coriander, spices and nuts tossed in mustard oil. We snacked on them in the shade of a tree on the lawns of The Victoria Memorial, submerged in conversation. It was a lovely day for a picnic, we were high on our predominantly sugary and fairly spicy breakfast and nothing seemed to matter much while the sun shined. This elegantly proportioned structure of white marble was quite like the Taj Mahal meeting the U.S. Capitol. As I marvel at its design, I pick my brains to know why this didn't receive just as much

recognition.

Sanjay says, "The British intended to commemorate Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee in 1901 with this construction. However, given that it wasn't completed until 20 years after her death, it came to become a tribute to a dead colonial queen." Awestruck by the stateliness of it, I imionedly remark, "If a landmark only becomes notable by the story behind its creation, this one should have been built for a beautiful Indian princess, for it to be considered one of India's supreme vestiges."

We have a year of each other to catch up on. The Lego pieces fit back exactly like they did when they were brand new. There's dream documentaries to film, places to plan to travel to, envy to feel when one hasn't visited what the other has, big switches in our approaches to digest, arguments galore to have, choices that we're both answerable for and a need to evaluate what our ions, many of which are shared, mean to us at this stage. When, what seemed like a bottomless supply of Muri is exhausted, we have to round off the hours of chatter and reveal some more of the capital of West Bengal to ourselves.

There's a quote by Tahir Shah, - "Calcutta's the only city I know where you are actively encouraged to stop strangers at random for a quick chat". Why not test the veracity of that statement?! As we rove about Chowringhee, Sanjay goads me to ask a middle-aged lady in a striking orange sari, standing on the footpath outside the Indian Museum, another arresting edifice with a rare collection of antiques and armour, how our beloved Roshogullas began life. He'd treat me to the renowned Phuchkas if I did. To my surprise, she was my ticket to the tale. A former student and now teacher of History at the Modern High School for Girls, she was at the museum for some research work with a handful of students. Having lived her whole life in Calcutta, Minaxi had a time-honoured version. Some polite conversation later, she starts, "Do you know there was a man who was called 'The Father of Roshogulla'? His name was Nobin Chandra Das. He came from a family of sugar merchants." She continues, rather humorously, "He was a tiny confectioner who did not have the luxury of marketing his unique

product on Facebook, Twitter or any other social media." In a sermonic but sweet tone she asks, "So, how did his Roshogullas reach us?" Answering herself, Minaxi discloses that, "One fine morning, a wealthy merchant came to his shop and asked for a glass of water. Nobin, in true Kolkata-styled hospitality, offered him his handiwork of Roshogullas along with it. Without delay, the merchant bought a large quantity for his family and friends. Thus, Nobin Chandra and his Roshogullas became famous in no time." Thank you ma'am!

Sanjay and I shared that flicker of a glance, enough to deduce we had a twin sensation -- the euphoria that we had spent the morning at two Das sweet shops. We were cocksure the owners or head chefs of one of them was a bona fide descendant of Nobin.

Now then, Sanjay owes me my reward. However, since we're closer to Flury's, we choose to advance towards Kolkata's legendary tearoom located on Park Street. Inside, this restaurant still exudes that quaint, traditional charm. We bite into good old European classics such as apple strudels and sacher tortes. From the contemporary options, I picked the sinful muddy fudge gateau and Sanjay got a lemon cheesecake. We topped it off with a Hot Chocolate with cream and a Belgian hot mocha. What does one say of a place that has been consistently firstrate for five generations?! This is confection at its finest.

Phuchkas calling! At the Vivekananda Park in the Southern Avenue, the Maharaja Chaat Centre feeds us Aloo Phuchkas, Papri Chaat and Dahi Phuchkas. Tangy mouthfuls of heaven. Our tongues are aflame. May be this is the right time to assess the remaining Rosho rival. Balaram Mullick & Radharam Mullick provides stiff competition to the Das'. But I much prefer their Rasmalai and Kheer over the Roshos. There! We have it then. The first Das is first past the post.

We clambered into a bus that takes the Howrah Bridge route. As we drive over the Hooghly river, Sanjay fills me in, "It's the sixth longest cantilever bridge in

the world" to which I can only say, "And quite an architectural phenomenon."

I had never been more grateful for traffic until, cemented in the jam, we saw the sun set on the river. Picture perfect.

In a bus with people packed together like sardines, two women, unperturbed by the congestion, are singing Rabindra Sangeet. And at that precise moment, from nowhere, Kolkata strikes home. Soul to soul.

Sanjay sees that and grins. Not a word exchanged. He just knew.

I saw the merit in travelling with a friend. I get that I will need coffee shops and sunsets and road trips. Airplanes and ports and new songs and old songs, but people more than anything else. That I will need other people and I will need to be that other person to someone else, a living, breathing, screaming invitation to believe better things.

Two stops later, we alight and walk home, dead beat. Our stomachs though, have a lot of work to do, if we're to put them to any use tomorrow.

Durjoy forces some steaming chai down our throats before we conk out.

Subha Ratri,

Myth.

DAY 2:

I wake up to Durjoy yelling vociferously at a young milkman. I'm not up to speed with my Bangla as yet but from what I could make of the tongue-lashing, it seems that the lad hadn't brought us enough dudha. On further inquiry, I figured Durjoy was sending him back to the dairy to fetch some more. Just then, I happened to ask Durjoy where the Kali Ghat Temple is. Promptly, Biju, the recipient of Durjoy's wrath, responded saying it's en route to the dairy. I could follow him if I wished to. Sanjay was still sound asleep so I borrowed Durjoy's bicycle and trailed the milkman until the temple appeared before me.

As I circled the temple, Biju was kind enough to explicate, in a mix of Bengali, Hindi and English, "This is Kolkata's holiest spot for Hindus and the source of the city's name. Kalighat was a Ghat, a landing stage, sacred to the goddess Kali on the old course of the Hooghly River, formerly known as Bhagirathi, in the city. Over time, however, the river has moved away from the temple. The shrine now lies on the banks of the canal of Adi Ganga, the original course of the Hooghly, which is in fact the Ganges."

As we rode back home with the milk, Biju adds, "Kalighat is also associated with the worship of Kali by a monk named Chowranga Giri, and the Chowringhee area of Calcutta is said to have been named after him." Aha! Both questions answered.

Back home, Sanjay's up and ready to take me to the big old house where Nani and Nana lived. Built in the 1930s, it lies in an area called Hindustan Park. Durjoy loves the idea. More energetic than ever, now that the milk had arrived, he says enthusiastically, "Kolkata's heritage buildings are part of the city's unique DNA, as distinct to its landscape as a fingerprint."

Durjoy packs us some home-made hot Jilipis (jalebis) and almond milk for the walk. Idyllic start.

Here, in one of Kolkata's most prosperous neighbourhoods, stands a wide, twostorey house. From the outside, this imposing residence has shuttered windows, elaborate wrought iron grills and large pillars, a style typical of colonial Calcutta, I would think. The porch is spacious with intricate cornices. The house is occupied currently. But I'd like a peek inside. We knock on the door and are much obliged to be greeted in after a short exchange with the owner -- a pleasant and refined woman in her early forties named Sujata Mukherjee, pleased to hear of my link with her place.

As we survey the property, moonstruck by the red-oxide floors, open terraces, high ceilings, wooden-slatted windows, a sizeable patio in the centre on the ground floor, rooms full of antique mahogany and Burma teak furniture, a potpourri of colonial tapestries, lithographs, curios and floor lamps, we can't quite cloak our fascination. I was tickled pink to think that my grandparents had once inhabited this premise. Sanjay whispered into my ear, "Your folks were a blessed lot, I see. To have lived here. They must've really had a solid reason to leave. Right?" Regrettably, I don't have the answer. Needless to say, I'm asking myself the same score of 'Why's (which shall be directed towards Nani).

We were soon told how Ms. Mukherjee was spearheading the city's brave fight to save its heritage. She familiarizes us with the scenario, "The house was built by my grandfather. The one next to ours, built around the same time and in the same architectural style is being torn down. It will soon be replaced by a high rise." She is adamant that she will not let her inheritance suffer a similar fate, "I don't want to live anywhere else. The house has a cultural ambience and feeling of old world grandeur that I do not find anywhere else. I have vowed to protect it till my death."

Sanjay adds, "Unfortunately not everyone thinks like ma'am. Thousands of ancient Kolkata houses such as these are being destroyed at an alarming pace. Like Durjoy said, these houses give Kolkata its one of a kind antiquated charm and reflect the amazing architectural ethos of the city, but they're being lost in the mad rush for multi-storey buildings and concrete chaos."

I reckon that the extermination of heritage is not limited to Kolkata. Several Indian cities are battling this malady. Very few like Ms. Mukherjee actually take up the cudgel to try and save these structures.

She resumes, "Most of these houses were developed in the 19th century and continued to flourish over the next hundred years. In fact, even during the recession of the 1930s, the cement industry was flourishing as the middle-class was constructing these huge houses. Destroying these buildings is to destroy one of the chief characteristics of this city's history of modernity. Kolkata is a modern city and these houses are emblems of the city's modernity. They are as important as the painting, literature and music of Bengal."

Having been an activist for this campaign for years, Ms. Mukherjee says, "This is a long-standing movement. The architecture of many neighbourhoods in Kolkata is quite distinct from the Indo-Saracenic or neo-Gothic style of architecture that can be seen in other Indian cities. They represent a BengaliEuropean style that is not seen elsewhere."

Sanjay agrees, "Clearly, these old buildings are not important only because of the nostalgia that surrounds them but because they represent a certain time in history."

"How about a legislative intervention to preserve the buildings?", I ask. "There could be a change in existing laws to prohibit the demolition of these houses."

Sanjay quips, "Ah! The lawyer in you finally gets underway." I smirk, rather uncomfortably.

Ms. Mukherjee replies, "Sadly, the state legislature refuses to take these discussions forward. So, nothing much has been done. Most of the houses are owned by several of a family and, in many of them, litigation is involved, so most owners find it the easiest option to sell the houses to private builders. In fact, most owners don't see any value in the structure itself, and sell it for the value of the land alone. There is a need to change mindsets so that people can better understand the innate heritage value of the buildings."

She shows us an interview with Amartya Sen in The Hindu newspaper where he says, "The rich history of early habitation in the Calcutta region has suffered not only from intellectual neglect but also from the destructive tendencies of the past. We owe to future generations a preserved and unmutilated heritage of Calcutta's eccentric but exciting old buildings."

Sanjay speaks of a recent hit Bengali film in which ghosts evict the greedy builders from a 19th century palace and settle down in it themselves. To which Ms. Mukherjee responds, "In real life, it remains to be seen if the city's heritage will ever be able to evict the powerful builders and promoters."

In anticipation of a more optimistic future for our country's earthly endowments, we bid Ms. Mukherjee a thankful adieu. She shall overcome!

Walking backwards to get a lasting, thorough, eyeful of the house, I see a home, never mind that it was so in another era. "Oh! Calcutta", I sigh, dazed.

"Yes! I was thinking the same.", Sanjay reacts.

"Huh?!", I'm not sure what he's talking about.

"Lunch at Oh! Calcutta. Isn't that what you meant?", he beams, spiritedly.

I crack up, "Yeah! That's exactly what I meant. I'm starving."

A glass of Aam Porar Shorbot preceded the most flavourful meal I've eaten in a while. My picks were the Koraishutir Dhokar Dalna with Gobindobhooger Rice, and Bhajar Thala and Kalo Jeere Diye Phoolkopi Shorshay with Luchis. The abundance of fish - from freshwater catches including varieties of carp from the region's fertile rivers, lakes and ponds of the Ganges Delta to prawn and saltwater fish like Ilish -- warmed Sanjay. His favourites were the smoked boneless Hilsa and smoked Bhetki, which is marinaded with mustard paste and green chillies, wrapped in a banana leaf and then steamed. We had Mishti Doi and Bhapa Sondesh to top it off.

A ride in the metro felt just right after the filling lunch. On AJC Bose Road, we caught sight of Rabindra Sadan, a cultural centre and academy of Fine Arts. The station was close at hand. We boarded a train that would take us to the Dum Dum Metro Station. A gabby, elderly gentleman in our berth, repeatedly referred to Kolkata as 'Calcutta' while conversing with another enger -- a colleague, we assumed. It was probably out of habit, but I politely interrupted to ask how come. He was glad to offer a reason; a fable, actually. "You see, in spite of the fact that the name of the city was changed to Kolkata in 2001, many still prefer to call it Calcutta. And there's a rather bizarre explanation for the city's erstwhile name. But I believe it to be true. Once upon a time (let's not worry about the year), a British merchant was travelling through the area which is now Kolkata, when he came across a peasant stacking hay into the barn. Oblivious to his

location, the merchant asked the peasant about that place. The peasant unfortunately, did not understand English, and he guessed that the Sahib must be inquiring about the date the crop was harvested. In his own language, he replied "Kal Kata" which in the Bengali language means "harvested yesterday". The merchant was happy in the knowledge that he had learned about the name of the place, and left the place. Following English transcription, "Kal Kata" became Calcutta. And so, in like manner, the name stuck with us too."

With that, the old man and his friend alighted at the Shyambazaar station.

Here's another twist in the tale of the name. Both s are convincing. Sanjay's of the same mind.

Two stations later, when we get off, we're going to Tagore's House. Only to behold a space inhabited by a transcendental Indian persona. When he philosophized, the world listened. And we had faith in artistry. This is the temple that felt sacred. The celestial energy of a poetic phenomenon lurked in his home. So otherworldly was he, that even his hairstyle was rather supernatural.

Adding to our introspective banter on the turf of the Victoria Memorial yesterday, we solemnly swear to "let our lives lightly dance on the edges of time like dew on the tip of a leaf".

"I must write to Tanmoy in Paris of my tryst with Tagore and Calcutta.", I say to myself.

Now, in Dalhousie Square, the central business district of the city, the Victorian buildings are captivating. The Calcutta High Court, a replica of The Cloth Hall

in Ypres, Belgium is a glaring construction. Sanjay says, "Apparently, when the original Cloth hall burnt down, a blue print of this structure had to be consulted before rebuilding it." It was fulfilling to have seen Nana's home and workplace.

At the Eden Gardens Sanjay exclaims, "This is cricket's answer to the Colosseum." 'Stumped', all I could manage was a zealous nod. Needless to say, it is iconic.

Kathi Rolls at Nizam's were unavoidable. We effectively made pigs of ourselves with the assortment of rolls that found their way into us. Anyone could tell from the aroma that they're mouth-watering. When you taste them, you're assured. Rare piquancy and tantalizingly juicy. The creamy Phirni is obligatory.

With mouthfuls of the dessert, we ambled through New Market, beholding this mammoth city.

When it occurred to us that the rubbernecking had to cease, we bought Durjoy a farewell gift -- a couple of cartons of milk: plain, almond, strawberry, vanilla and chocolate -- just so it won't be so unsettling when Biju doesn't bring enough anytime soon. He blushed, coyly, whilst receiving them.

As we touched his feet to take his leave, our dear old Durjoy was teary eyed, barely able to say, "Bidaya" and so were we.

Sanjay and I find it impossible to say "good bye". So we don't. I say this instead, "Thank you for being with me from the first journey to the seventh. I didn't know back then that this trip would happen. But I do know now that a lot more lies ahead."

As I would have thought, he found a matchless response, "Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born. Thank you for creating it."

And, we said, "Cheers to many more adventures!" with our concluding Chais at the airport terminal.

Oh! Calcutta! Thank you.


Sighara'i abara dekha habe,

Myth.


I have a hunch the stars have ordained that I see Rajasthan two cities at a time. The imperial State has ordered me back. This time it's Udaipur and Jaipur. I'm breathless. Even before I've seen either.

A sceptic once told me, the difference between expectation and reality was the difference between a tremor and an earthquake, between a drizzle and a hurricane.

It's a crying shame no one ever told this person that the world only exists in your eyes. You can make it as big or as small as you want.

I'm positive that this return to Rajasthan will bull doze every such doubting Thomas.

The co-conspirator in hatching this trip was my darling dearest, not-so-old Nani. Rajasthan is her place in the clouds. "It's peerless", she says. As you would've thought, she will be the addressee of my letter.

Hi Nani,

Presumably, you had a hiccupping fit throughout my train journey from Bombay to Udaipur. I have missed you and found you. Alright, I'll try and play less cryptic. By a startling stroke of luck, my co-enger came to off as your mirror image, in approach and appearance. As you often do, Shanti, with a childlike glow at age 73, instructed me in aphorisms from that phenomenal saga of the Mahabharata. She was an inspired speaker. Her voice was wonderful, of a liquid sweetness and clarity; and her enunciation made beauty of the Sanskrit as well as English tongue. She spoke without effort, using exactly the right word, the right imagery, the right illustration, and the right appeal -- an appeal which went straight to the heart. Shanti devotedly revealed more of the sublime beauty of the text and quizzed me on the 'Yaksha Prashna's sounded out to Yudhishthir. I think I did pretty well on that test. All credit to your rock-hard preparations beforehand. I hope, sooner or later, the peas in a pod will convene to discourse about Indian mythology.

Only you would be as charged as I was when I found the perfect car; the dream; a combination of beauty and technology at The Vintage and Classic Car Collection Museum -- a 1930 Model 'A' Ford. I tried to speculate what your pick would be. It was quite a knotty deduction to make given the royal spread before me. Cadillac. I know. I can hear you say it as you read this. The Queen of Mewar's ride. Upon inquiring where her highness would've chosen to spend the rest of the evening, Gajendra Singh, a warden of the fleet of vehicles, took no time in saying "Jag Mandir". And so, there I was at dusk -- standing beside a sculpture of one of the eight elephants adorning the entrance of a glistening garden palace on Lake Pichola. Crescent moon, a flutist playing the soothing melody of Kesariya Balam not very far away and early winter breeze -- a transcendent setting harmonized with authentic, flavoursome Rajasthani fare. The Udaipur panorama from here is otherworldly.

Serenely, my thoughts deflected towards Shanti and her lessons. My reflections

were rather arbitrary. Of heedless desires, she said, "How frightful it would be if wishes fulfilled themselves, if each hasty or angry wish took effect at once! How much there would be to regret or repent afterwards! It is lucky for us that wishes depend on outward circumstances for accomplishment, since that saves us from much sin and sorrow." Of double-edged, acerbic words that could even draw blood, she asserted, "There are weapons sharper than those made of steel. The wounds inflicted by weapons may close in time; scalds may heal gradually, but wounds inflicted by words remain painful as long as one lives." Of humility, she maintained, "No worthy man extols his own merits. Even those who fight and conquer kingdoms, do not crow too loudly about it. The fire is silent and yet cooks the food. The sun shines but not on himself. Likewise, Mother Earth sustains all things, movable and immovable, and s her burden without so much as a whisper." Of inconsideration, she added, "Nothing but error can result if one proceeds to judge conduct without taking into the chain of events leading up to it. You cannot snatch a particular act out of its context and proceed to give judgment on it alone without gross injustice. You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view...until you climb into his skin and walk around in it." And that, Nani, explains my fascination with the perceived villains of the illustrious narrative. Beyond a shadow of doubt, they have a version of their own. Therefore, we have some thrashing out to do at our next lunch date.

As the city was thrown bare to me, I strayed about it, assimilating the stateliness of the City Palace, the hues of the 'Bari's, the radiance of sun up and sun down on the lakes, the glory of the statue of Maharana Pratap atop his horse, Chetak on Moti Magri and the holiness of an irably carved Jagadish Temple. But, Nani, there's this one inexplicable moment that disarms you when you make it to a palace up in the clouds called Sajjan Garh, located on the Bansdara peak of the Aravalli Range. I stood there, seduced by the landscape of two cerulean lakes encircled with limitless bottle green foliage. And, you can't leave. You just freeze; a hostage to paradise.

In Jaipur, the inveigling occurrence had to be drinking creamy Lassi in clay cups at Lassiwala - "Shop 312, since 1944". Of course I owe this one to you, Nani. As you'd rightly described it to me, it is indeed, the drink of the Gods. Gokul, a

puny man with a fat moustache, nailed it when he offered it to me with such generous verve. Yes, I absolutely did have a cupful on your behalf. Much sought, after hours of seeing the grand sights of the City Palace, Jantar Mantar, Hawa Mahal, Baghs and a fraction of the countless Mandirs. When on a Bazaar rampage, I ended up in the market of Johari. Jewellery aside, I found sanctum in the celebrated Lakshmi Mishthan Bhandar (LMB). I should just list out what I polished off like the server did, noticeably knocked for a six, when confirming my order: Badam Dudh, Dal Kachori, Kadi Chhokanwali, Makkai ki Sabzi, Kair Sangri, Lahsoon Chutney, Kashmiri Pulao, Pineapple Raita and Moong Dal Halwa to put some finishing touches on. As is often the case when I shovel in a meal cooked by you, I was giddy after this one. For real, what would life be if we didn't approach food with reckless abandon? Never mind that you're drunk as a skunk one you're through chow time.

In the forts of Amer and Kumbhalgarh, the Durwans took an active interest in acquainting me with the military and hunting equipment. I found myself standing in the viewing galleries of Kings, who often feasted their eyes on wild boars contending with tigers, and ambled through training grounds, invigorated, when told that Rajput princesses practiced the art of war here. My infatuation with Emperor Akbar was rekindled as was the desire to be born in that exalted era. Oh Nani! What I wouldn't give to jump inside a time machine that could dispatch me to that august medieval age.

One evening in Jaipur, at the exquisite Birla Temple, situated at the foot of the Moti Dungri Fort, moon above, marble around, I was immersed in conversation with Alex, an Irish backpacker. Heavily swayed by his sociology professor at college, a fan of the heterogeneity of India, who was recently, regrettably, beaten in his combat against cancer, Alex plunged into touring the country a couple of weeks ago to pay homage to him and concurrently comprehend the man's fondness for it. As a matter of fact, teachers have a virtue; the wherewithal to change lives. Alex carries a pocket diary. In it, he records every impelling detail he experiences. We hit upon a page from the time his professor still held conferences with him before his illness had entirely enfeebled him, "Dr. Radford says, "The best is yet to be. So far you have done well, but there is yet another goal; do better.", "Confidence isn't walking into a room with your nose in the air,

and thinking you are better than everyone else, it's walking into a room and not having to compare yourself to anyone else in the first place." "You have an individuality which has for background the brotherhood of man. You are a unit -yes! But only in order that you might better yourself for your place in the great mass.", "If your heart approves you, it is well, for it points you to further effort. Effort -- and yet no unrest in that effort." "Many a man by being thought better than himself has become better."

Alex writes, "There's this reciprocity of true friendship between us. He gave, but he needed too. There was something which the very least of his friends had to give him, something which he wanted, which he demanded. You were of consequence to him, even though you were a poor little undergraduate student, unformed, uneducated, mediocre. And he made you feel that you were of consequence. He taught you true self-respect. Perhaps that was the real secret of his influence. The great, and alas! Often the good, sometimes make us hate or despise ourselves by comparison: we shrivel up into a conviction that being untalented, nothing is expected of us. Dr. Radford made you feel that everything is expected of you. The illimitable was your inheritance. You love the self which he revealed to you. And yet, with no self-satisfaction."

At his funeral service, Alex added to that, "It was a perpetual renewing of strength, a restful, harmonious activity which he ened; no sense of strain or competition was there about it, for he made you feel that the work that was yours in the world was yours by some strange election of fate; and no one could wrest it from you. An unerring instinct had he too about one's moods, one's depressions and exaltations. Cheer in moments of depression and selfcondemnation; sanity, restraint, in moments of exaltation -- that was his peculiar gift to his friends. Self-poise, to be equally balanced, unmoved in pleasure and pain."

"He hoped that I would live a life that I was proud of. If I found that I was not, he hoped I'd have the strength to start all over again. On my last visit to him, he only said one thing with the flash of his characteristic smile, as if you'd told him

the first joke on earth, "Your life is all before you to enjoy, with youth and beauty and the goodwill of the world". The truth is, once you learn how to die, you learn how to live. I promised him then that I will."

Nani, Alex was a contradiction. He was young, but he was old. Dr. Radford's taught him to do things differently. Contrary to anyone else his age, he's a grown man; mature, mellow, seasoned but involved, all the same. With the act of living. You'll see for yourself because I've guaranteed him a Nani-cooked meal once he arrives in Bombay. But I only gave him my word when I was convinced he could pig out at the sweeping, not to mention heavenly dinner we were presented with in Chokhi Dhani, a traditional Rajasthani dining retreat.

And that's a wrap! The terra firma of eminence has perpetuated my story. Truly Nani, your land of milk and honey, exists, as an eternal compliment to the world.

Khamma Ghani Sa!


Myth.

OF DRUMROLLS AND DANCING BELLS

Being a vagabond is magnetic. You are your own person. You may reach out and embrace the world in your sweet aloneness. And if you're holding aces, the world will return the love. But, coming back home is just as pleasing. There's comfort in sleeping on your old, familiar pillow. There's a thrill in walking back into your den, marking all its paraphernalia, the ingredients that make you who you are.

Sometimes, you retrace the significance of all the apparatus that was employed in an experiment that synthesized you. True, the best things in life aren't 'things'. But they sure can be the basis for plenteous good times. And some moments of folly as well. In a fit of teenage rage once, I threatening to leave home, with two haversacks armed with my running shoes, filming gear -- a tripod, DSLR and camcorder, an Ipod, roller blades and helmet, swimming fins and dancing bells, assured that this was everything I ever needed. I stood in the foyer, both bags strapped onto my bicycle, roaring that I'll be back soon with a caravan to accommodate my drum set and wayfaring ways, when Mihir, all tongue-in-cheek, intervened, "You might not be able to buy your mobile home by selling your tripod and roller blades." Then, unwaveringly, routing all the tumultuous refusal and heated resistance I could muster, he threw me securely over his shoulder and started towards the front door, saying "Get back inside and try fighting with your head for a change. It's a good one, even if it does resist balance."

When Sivamani played his mallets on a suitcase at a Berklee College performance, he became my hero. He was elevated to superman status when he beat two steel spatulas on a Dosa Tawa to produce an utterly pulsating pattern. The drums made an entertaining entry into my room. Much to the chagrin of my parents and neighbours, after 5 years of begging and breaking buckets and mutilating utensils by banging rolling pins and Dandiya sticks on them, convinced that I was deg breakthrough rhythmic compositions, 'Ziva', my first ever drum kit found its way home. I had given mom and dad an ultimatum. It was either Ziva or a Pug. To which the cynophobe in my dad, flat out said it was either him or a dog. Mom made the choice. She picked the drums and therefore, us both. And consequently, a lifetime of no more domestic devices

(erstwhile stand-ins for Ziva) going kaput.

I derive sadistic pleasure out of thundering at Ziva on Sunday mornings with some gentle music on the amplifier for accompaniment. There's reluctant listeners -- steady, nevertheless -- in a family still groggily coming to life. Playing fast around the drums is one thing. But to play music, to play with people for others to listen to, that's something else. That's a whole other world. The more professional instrumentalist friends come by in the evenings to help me strike that region. Drumming is always an experiment. It's a classic love story -- Girl meets drums. It can fix bad moods, bad days, and even bad people. May be, it was time to pick up the hammers and "hit like a girl".

How do I get started? ABBA comes to aid. You've got to say grace. Hence, amp and microphone and Ziva explode into "Thank You For The Music, the songs I'm singing. Thanks for all the joy they're bringing, who can live without it, I ask in all honesty, What would life be? Without a song or a dance what are we? So I say thank you for the music, for giving it to me...Mother says I was a dancer before I could walk." I stall abruptly at that line. And almost instinctively, look up.

My ghungroos dangle from a hook on the ceiling, perpetually swaying to the beats of the breeze. But that's not their proper place. I reprimand myself, "How could I have let them lie idle?" Pronto, they carve out the course of my next expedition. I'm not missing this chance to dance. Adequately then, the bells and beats are my only luggage.


At the very start of a film: a masterwork called 'The Last King of Scotland', James McAvoy spins a globe and vows to go where his finger lands. Before I play that game with a little spherical world; ahead of looking outwards, I have to rummage through my origins.

Could I go about the globe guiltlessly without discovering where I come from? I could. But I can't any longer.

If there are two gifts my family has given me, one is my roots and the other is wings. So, before I flutter the latter and search any further among the branches, I must explore the first gift through and through.

I'm going to Gujarat. To sense and taste and feel, in my gut and every bone, my motherland, the original home.

Prior to my departure, Nani read me a poem by the venerated Kavi (poet) Narmad. Just like that, it became the anthem of this journey.

(Translating this was like walking backwards and in high heels.)

Dhara che aa maari, Dariyaa ni lehro pan che maari.

This land is mine,

The waves of the sea -- all mine.

Aa Rann mane pyaaru che. Khetar che shobha maari.

This desert is my beloved, The green fields are my grace.

Dhanya hu thai gayo, Ahi janma je maaru thayo.

I feel blessed, To be born on this land.

Jai Jai Jai Jai Garvi Gujarat, Maara dil maa dhadke Gujarat.

Oh hail the pride of Gujarat, Gujarat beats in my heart.

Vishwa nu dwaar che,

Ahi sadaa pyaar che;

Door to the world it is, Always, love for everyone it has.

Tane namu laakh vaar hu Bhoomi maari.

I bow to thee a million times, Oh motherland of mine.

Kahi siddh karya vyaapar mein darya paar, Gujarati hu chhu.

I've established businesses over the seas, I am Gujarati.

Mane phoolo jetlo parsevaa thi pyaar, Gujarati hu chhu.

As I love flowers, I love sweat (from one's efforts),

I am Gujarati.

Maari rag rag maa karuna, seva, sahkaar, Gujarati hu chhu.

I have comion, service and co-operation in my veins, I am Gujarati.

Har aafat same ubho bani padkaar, Gujarati hu chhu.

Standing as a challenge against coming storms, I am Gujarati.

Paankh naa aa fafdaat maa, Gagan kahi rahyu che mane khol tu.

Amongst this sound of wings, I can hear the sky calling out to me to open it up.

Lakshya ni pare lakshya aapnu,

Kahi rahyu che have bol tu.

New targets, beyond those already achieved, Are calling out to me to speak out.

Kaik dwaar haju kholvaanaa che, Kaik zharukhaa bandh che.

There are still closed doors, Closed windows to be opened.

Muththiyo ma maari uchhali je rahya, Saat suraj naa chhand chhe.

In my palms, eager to be set free, Are the seven musical notes, symbolized by the seven horses of the Sun God (in Hinduism).



Jai Jai Jai Jai Garvi Gujarat, Mara desh nu gharenu Gujarat.

Oh hail the pride of Gujarat, The jewel of my beloved country.

Ek doro maari paase che, Toh ek doro taari ye paase che.

I have a string, Bring out yours too.

Saath sau mali vaniye ek nadi Kaal ne ke je khaas che.

Let us all together weave this river, That will be most special tomorrow.

Anjali maa sankalp che, Ane aankhon maa vishwas che.

With determination, I make offerings to God, And trust in the eyes.

Mann maa karma ni vaansli che, An eek surili aas che.

The soul is filled with musical hope, By a melody from the flute of Karma.




Oh hail the pride of Gujarat, The jewel of my beloved country.

(Surely, Cervantes said it right. 'Translation is the other side of tapestry.' If it is beautiful, it is not faithful. If it is faithful, it is most certainly not beautiful.)

I'm on a flight to Jamnagar. There's a map of Gujarat before me which I'm drawing the trip's course on. To my left, Kamran, a sailor and trader from Oman, is most attentive when I describe my encounter with his homeland and curious all the same about this expedition. He'll be out at sea this evening, aboard a ship that departs for Muscat from the Bedi Port, 7 kilometres out of our destination city. Having been away for a while, he says to me, with a dreamy smile, "Home is the nicest word there is." I suppose 'home' is a feeling. You can even find it when you're on the tarmac of a never before visited Gujarati town.

Everyone has a glass that's differently filled. Kamran says he's had his taste; he's pulling the plug on voyaging for the moment. I wonder how you decide when to wind up. There seems to be no such thing as enough. For some, the glass is bottomless. And all we want, is more.

In the nagar (land) of the jams (kings), this is where it all begins.

(I'm going to be rather exclusive and record purely those instances in which I stumbled upon that happy, blessed, charmed warmth called 'home'.)

In Jamnagar, I found home when Mr. Vanza, the elderly, vivacious owner of a Bandhani (a type of tie-dye textile) shop in Darbargadh, a European-style

crescent-shaped arcade -- pearl of the Old City, sold me three vibrant saris which I highly doubt I'd have bought, had he not been the darling dynamo that he was. Over a nimbu soda, I revealed to him my intended schedule in the state and the whole idea behind this tour. Spontaneous as he was, he recited a poem he's teaching Ami, his 4-year old granddaughter, to memorize.

God made little girls, With laughing eyes and bouncing curls, With joyful hearts and infectious smiles, Enchanting ways and feminine wiles. And when he'd completed the task he'd begun. He was pleased and proud of the job he'd done. For the world, when seen through a little girl's eyes Greatly resembles paradise.

As I scribbled it down on the reverse of my sari bill, I trusted Ami will keep this one forever. Because indeed, "the world, when seen through a little girl's eyes, greatly resembles paradise."

In Dwarka, I found home one evening on the Gomti Ghat, a series of steps leading down to the sea. In that moment, I felt like I was sitting at the very end of the earth, at the extreme western tip of the Kathiawar peninsula, in what is perceived to be one of the 4 most holy cities in India. The Mahabharata came back to me. I was in the city of the Yadavas; the land of Krishna and his people. And just then, a lightning bolt went through my brain. Perhaps I was a Gopika in an ancient birth. That even explains the tie that binds me to milk!

A celebratory dance was mandatory. I sprinted across the promenade to the Dwarkadhisa temple in the heart of the city, stood before the main shrine which houses an idol of Vishnu and presented a hymn called "Achyutam Keshavam" in praise of the blissful, infallible Lord, intermittently winking at Radha, his companion, for I had ascertained that she was my prehistoric avatar. A priest snuffed out my fumes of fancy with a polite request to make way for the other devotees, only after he had gaily put his hands together to applaud the offering.

In Naageshwar, I found home in the subterranean dwelling of one of the 12 Jyotirlingas of Shiva. I suppose it's the self-hatched kick you derive out of being in one of the limited, preserved wonders of Indian mythology. Under a burly statue of Shiva, a priest read out the story of this 10th Linga to me from the Shiva Purana, written in Sanskrit. I understood that the Jyotirlingam -- a radiant symbol of the almighty Shiva, is located in the 'Darukavana', which is an ancient name of a forest in India; now the land mass upon which this temple was raised. A demon named Daaruka attacked and imprisoned, in addition to many others, a devotee of Lord Shiva named Supriya. At his insistence, the inmates meditated upon the Lord. Immediately thereafter, Shiva appeared and the demon was vanquished. Naageshwar, the lord of the cobras; the very god that gives strength is said to reside here in the form of a lingam, where the aggrieved come to seek redress.

The priest, benevolent as he may have been, was quite the taskmaster. He implored me to stay until I had memorized three shlokas from the Vedic text. I couldn't refuse. He was too imioned; too keen to teach. In return, I had him sing the shlokas, in his sonorous voice, for my recorder -- the eleventh-hour groundwork to dance in Somnath.

Consigned to the island of Bet Dwarka, I found home on the ferry that took me there, from the port of Okha. Sharing it with 150 other commuters, jostling for space, put me, more than ever, into with the confounding reality of this densely inhabited nation. There was an alliance of engers voyaging on that

ferry in the piercing mid-afternoon blaze. An affinity that ricocheted, "we may be scrambling to find our footing, but we're all in this together."

Circling the strip of sand and stone on a Chakda, the classic Gujarati motor-bike rickshaw, I marked two temples dedicated to Krishna, one to Hanuman, one to every Devi, a pilgrimage site of the Vaishnavas, two Dargahs, a Gurdwara and ample peace. As I waited for the ferry that would take me back to Okha, sipping on a Nariyal Paani, I spoke to a spotted cow named Giri, the only 'moo'-er, amongst her other overfed friends, enticed by my pulpy coconut cream. Our sacred exchange couldn't better be summarized than in the words of Shashi Tharoor, "Western dictionaries define secularism as absence of religion but Indian secularism does not mean irreligiousness. It means profusion of religions." Giri 'moo'-ed back in agreement and gave a nod that is likely to have meant, "In India, we celebrate the commonality of major differences; we are a land of belonging rather than of blood."

In Porbandar, I found home in Gandhi's Haveli, the Kirti Mandir. This is the birthplace of "my father" as Tagore decorously named him. The one who "let my country awake" into this "heaven of freedom". How could I not breathe easy in the ancestral house of every Indian. Baapu's daily prayer, "Vaishnava Jana To" reverberates through every square inch of the sublime, stately memorial. Narsinh Mehta, the poet who aroused "my father", lays down certain ideals in a treasure of lyrics. I floated in and out of the umpteen rooms learning the vitality of a virtue called comion.

In the Sudama Temple, you celebrate friendship. From an age-old tale, where Krishna comes to the rescue of an unfortunate man, Sudama, of integrity nevertheless, anybody would gather that in order to have friends, you must first be one.

The priest, genial as ever, gave me a jumbo packet of Khadi Sakhar (Rock Sugar Crystals), decreeing, "Share this with your friends!"

In Madhavpur, I found home on the shore; in the buzz of being in a place that Krishna eloped with Rukmini to. I've worked out that this was the genesis of beach weddings. If the gods weren't trendsetters, they wouldn't quite be so supernatural.

Running the beach's length, I figured I could never have enough of the breeze and the waves and the sky and the sea. That's when you want to be packed off into an endless summer. Salt in the air. Sand in your hair. Sunburn on your nose.

In Veraval, I found home while driving by its long coastline. The blue, contrary to giving me the blues, energized me. This place has a booming fishing industry. I thought hard about becoming a fisherwoman. But if I were a fish, I would certainly never want to be fished out. Thus, brain wave dismissed.

In Somnath, I found home. Straight.

A legendary temple that is the vestige of persistence, having been built and destroyed and rebuilt more than a few times, stands tall on the banks of the Triveni Sangam -- the confluence of three rivers: Kapil, Hiran and a mystical Saraswati. Three distinct Blues convened to create the most attractive audience as I danced on a platform raised 10 feet high inside the temple premises. I had two boundless spectators on either side -- the very first Jyotirlinga, a symbol of the limitless lord of dance, Shiva and the infinitude of water in ceaseless pursuit of an ultimate destination.

The believers seemed amazed to behold a show they hadn't anticipated. The priest in Naageshwar must've smiled to himself when I swayed to his shlokas. I suppose there are a few moments in life that make the years of perseverance

preceding them meaningful. This was one of them. For all one knows, I had submerged into Indian Dance all this while only to present that acquisition here, in Somnath. Reminiscence of an Arangetram -- the ascension onto stage for the very first time. Like sensation encountered, once again.

Ironic as this may sound, coming from a logophile, dancing is indeed the loftiest form of expression. And when I had nothing more to say, when every movement I could dream up was exhausted, I stood there, on that celestial stage, overwhelmed by the rapture that brushed against me.

In Sasan Gir, I found home in the forest. The rare bird that said, "There is no WiFi in the forest, but you will find a better connection.", was utterly accurate. On a safari at the crack of dawn, I'd caught sight of Golden Jackals, Nilgais, Chinkaras, Striped Hyenas, an Indian Cobra and a Monitor Lizard -- the prelude to running into a family of Asiatic Lions, quite like my own. Mother: Chief. Father: Chilled. Two Cubs: In a brawl, wrestling unto intervention from the majestic lioness. A few minutes later they had allied to drive their mom up the wall with ground-breaking (read: head-breaking) monkey business.

And all through this episode, I could read a disclaimer at the bottom of my eye screen, "Absolutely, try this at home."

Running into the depths of these woods was comforting; a baffling alleviation.

Narsi, the forest officer, profoundly says, "Nature nurtures. I think it puts your senses in order. And animals, in their general state of being, are often more human than people can be."

Truly, the forests constitute the heartbeat of a country and it is our duty to ensure that the heart continues to beat.

In the villages of Sirwan and Jambur, assigned to the Taluka of Talala in the Gir Forest, I found home in the very fact that an East African tribe had made this theirs centuries ago. Upon Narsi's request, Hazra, an Indian of African descent spoke to me about her community of Sidis. With a distinguishing appearance of curly hair, dark skin and African features, Hazra, said she thinks of herself as more Indian than African. The Sidi, well entrenched in our way of life, speak Gujarati -- their mother tongue -- and are Indian in food, dress and behavioural traits as well.

It is only in song, dance and spirituality though that they seem African. Hazra adds, "The Sidis have retained something of their African spiritual world in the form of musical instruments, dances and spirit possession cults."

In two villages in Gujarat, 600 households come together to form one of India's least known communities -- The Sidis: A beautifully dignified lot.

In Amreli, I found home in the peanut, cotton, sesame and millet plantations until, a two-lane village appeared, somewhere in the thick of the fields. This was Dhasa. Frozen in time since my granddad started out from it, nearly 80 years ago.

At first, I didn't know how to react. When I let the feeling penetrate my being, it was funny. You're face to face with your roots. Actually, you're sort of standing below your family tree. (God knows there's one in the courtyard of our ancestral home.) The one you drew at an art class in Grade 2. This place is the marrow my abnormal, queer, eccentric, lunatic, erratic, exotic but pretty fantastic family emerged from.

I had set out to find home. And this was it. So, is my search over then? All this while, I had been in exile. Some insurmountable force kept me from going back. And now that I was home, I felt victorious. Victorious, yes. Not content.

I must pursue that transcendental idea against all odds; the one that arrives when I look around as a lonely outsider.

Treading those two lanes of Dhasa, accompanied by a buffalo and pup, warmed me up to go grab some more of the world by the lapels. I see where my granddad got it from.

In Palitana, I found home in the Jain temples on the Shatrunjaya hills. That marble could be carved to such perfection was unfathomable before I had seen it here. That the reward for scaling over 3800 steps was a spectacle as astounding as it is tranquil seemed rather disproportionate. That every pious Jain aspires to climb it at least once prompts no wonder, for the sanctity it offers is rare.

It was here that I reflected upon the value of an aspect called silence in our lives. It's so hard to find. And when a physical space gives it to you, it becomes sacred, inevitably.

This quiet pause is sometimes necessary. A necessary renewal of strength, of sobriety, of propriety.

In Sihor, I found home in Suri's hut. One part of it was a boutique with copper, brass and bronze utensils on sale. Another section: her workshop. She had saved

a fragment of the space for herself -- a tiny kitchen, bedroom and one very precious possession -- her father's sitar. With gentle pride she says, "He was a local sensation. Nobody in Sihor could play the Sitar like he could."

Suri lives by herself. At 26, she doesn't want much. And that's why she accepts, "I have plenty." Her father, it seems, gave her enough to make her feel enough; to look for refuge in no one but herself. As she sat parcelling up the miniature Tamba vessels I'd take back in recycled newspaper, we spoke about the road ahead. She starts, "I shall be busy and to be busy is to be happy."

Suri, bright and promising, is on the district hockey team and trains for a couple of hours every day with a dream to ultimately play big league games. She makes a living out of moulding metals and alloys. In her spare time, she reads Gujarati literature and cooks her favourite, Rava Sheera.

Suri has that something. Like the thread in a crystal-bead necklace. She holds it all together.

When I tell her that, she disagrees. The pretty, petite sculptress counters me, "I may be easy to be with most of the time, but I'm in no sense of the word an easy person. I'm afflicted with this restlessness of spirit that not many can identify with."

When we tread the unavoidable area of marriage, she recounts her father's words, "Marriage is not a necessity; there should be no compulsion to get married. You should only get married if you find someone you ire, who will help you understand and fulfil your life's purpose. If you're able to find that one person, then marry him." She's quick to add, "I'm no different from any other woman, and the wrong man would turn me into a screaming shrew in record time."

I think, somewhere, Suri taught me how simple it is to be happy; that independence is something you give to yourself.

In Bhavnagar, I found home on an early evening walk through the Vora Bazaar. The vegetable market, housed in the quad of a dilapidated but painstakingly carved wooden building, was a burst of colour I didn't realize how acutely my camera craved. The farmers posed with their produce and I clicked. A picture perfect granny selling onions was most upbeat about being photographed. When you're this photogenic, who wouldn't be?!

As for me, it was a bit disappointing that I didn't have a Polaroid to gift her instant proof of just how mesmeric she was. When I informed her of my lapse, she was quick on the draw, "You keep the photograph, in return for being the reason I smiled today."

I guess, when you're not perfect, you can still be good.

In Lothal, I found home upon laying eyes on a caravan of camels knocking about the salt pans. And ogling at this scene, I grasped why there is no known antidote to the travel bug. Nobody would ever mind being infected by these sights. They take you high up into a cloud of felicity.

Amongst the excavated remains of the Harappan civilization, the art was particularly engaging. I would have been quite pleased to be an Indus Valley kid with my terra cotta toys, beads and animal figurines.

Now, now, where's that time machine?

In Ahmedabad, I found home while strutting through the lanes of the walled old city at cock-crow as my friend, Imam, a student of architecture and conservationist, described intriguing chunks of history and put the flashlight on hidden architectural gems for me.

Imam, committed to his city with the heritage property restoration work he has taken upon himself, said, "It is incredible how easily Ahmedabad has embraced the new while being rooted in its traditional structural designs. We're the only city in India with private homes designed by the 20th Century modernist architect, Le Corbusier and a management institute designed by Louis Kahn. We have some of the finest examples of Islamic monuments, Jain temples and wooden constructions dating back to 1411 AD, when it was established by Sultan Ahmed Shah, on the banks of the river Sabarmati." He insisted, "The only way to experience this milieu of an ancient living culture is to walk through it."

We began at the Swaminarayan Temple in Kalupur, the very first of its kind and snaked through streets with shrines and smaller temples, the home of Kavi Dalpatram, the aesthetic Old Stock Exchange building and a lot of Pols.

The Pols, 400-year old self-contained neighbourhoods, sheltering large numbers of people are virtually small villages that function as an all-inclusive, composite whole, an aggregate of different communities. The stone and timber constructions were protected by gates, cul-de-sacs and secret ages, clever and essential in times of threat, which I was very kicked to wind in and out of.

You enter a Pol through a tall, arched entrance, high enough for horse-drawn carriages to through. Once inside, it's like a residential fort. The architecture is original Hindu domestic-style, with jharokas or balconies, timber-latticed-jalis

and wooden staircases leading to the higher floors. Imam blithely adds, "In one pol, there are as many as 10 to 50 households, often relatives in one large family. A celebration in one home, such as a wedding, is a celebration for the entire pol!"

Before us was a tightly condensed civilization going about daily chores, with chaotic bazaars crisscrossing narrow streets, embroidered by carved bird feeders or chabutaras, community wells and tarrying cattle as much at home as artisans in their small workshops.

As I petted a vagrant puppy, Imam fills me in, "This city could be a lot cleaner than it is. The problem really lies in people not realizing that they can't litter like they did a century ago. It was okay to discard your trash on the road then. 100 years ago, if someone threw a banana peel out of their window, a cow would merrily come eat it. All our waste was biodegradable. Today, the composition of our garbage has changed. Now there are plastic and other toxic materials everywhere. It's repulsive."

He's quick to add, "We're trying to change things around here. When people recognize the worth of our heritage and the obligation to preserve it, we'll be dirt-free. Our children are our only hope. We take them out on heritage walks and have them participate in cleanliness drives. They go back home and tell their parents, "Hey! We're cleaning the mess you made; you better not make any more of it!"

I think that's a super idea. But that's not all. To retain a splinter of our past, Imam even teaches the kids old-world games with ancient toys. I thanked him then, on behalf of anyone who values our history.

It seemed to me that the human residents weren't the only ones who wanted to be

part of the conversation. We had goats bleating to punctuate every interaction with the Pol-dwellers.

A welcoming, elderly, Gujarati lady told me that within the homes are many cottage industries, making an array of pickles, papads, khakhras, farsaan and naastas that are indispensable at meals and tea time.

Talk of food and I was hungry. So, we ended at the Jama Masjid -- a testament to the heterogeneity of our society, with level contributions from Islamic, Jain and Hindu architecture.

Breakfast was eaten at the vibrant food market in Manek Chowk after greeting the Raja and his Ranis in their respective Hajiras (tombs).

In the quaint evening bazaar at Law Garden, a rather comical character sold me two puppets. They're a Dandiya duo. Evidently, it's always Navratri in this part of town.

Ahmedabad by night is just as striking. This time we ended our walk with the Naubat. It's a traditional orchestra which announced the arrival and departure of the king, welcomed dignitaries, marked the beginning of wars and special occasions such as the birth, death or marriage of the royals. They were also the time keepers of the city. In tribute to Ahmed Shah, the current generation of musicians, to this day, plays the Nagada and Shehnai at the Naubat Khana, a drum room above the entrance of the Raja no Hajiro, at 2300 hours IST to make a symbolic announcement that the gates of the fort-city are now closing.

This is one place that has a firm grip on every age.

Didn't feel the need for a time machine here.

In Gandhinagar, I found home in the Adaalaj Ni Vav, a five-storey low step-well. Sitting on a sandstone platform halfway into the structure, Imam recounted the 15th Century legend associated with it, "Rana Veer Singh, a Hindu ruler of the Vaghela Dynasty reigned over this territory. His kingdom was attacked by Mohammed Begda, the Muslim ruler of a neighbouring kingdom. The Rana was killed and the land was occupied by the invader. Rana Veer Singh's widow, the beautiful Rani Roopba, although deeply grieving the death of her husband, agreed to the marriage proposal made to her by Begda on the condition that he would first complete the building of the step-well."

"The Muslim King, besotted by her beauty, agreed to the condition and built the well in record time. He then reminded the queen of her promise to marry him. Rani Roopba, who had achieved her objective of completing the step-well started by her husband, decided to end her life, as a mark of devotion to him. She circuited the well with prayers and jumped into it, giving the Vav an aura of heartbreak and tragedy."

Imam pointed out the illustration of these events on the walls of the well and tenderly added, "I doubt anyone could've described this saga better than Hafiz, the Persian poet -- "Even after all this time, the Sun never says to the Earth, "You owe me". Look what happens with a love like that, it lights up the whole sky." When you love truly, you die daily. I suppose the Rani died the same second the Rana did. She just stayed on to fulfil a purpose, ed on from him to her."

The tear-jerking angle aside, I was more inquisitive about the utility of the well. Imam could tell and pulled through his soppy state, "Such step wells were once integral to the semi-arid regions of Gujarat as they provided water for drinking, washing and bathing. They were also apt venues for festivals and sacred rituals

back then. And that's a service it offers in the present as well."

A Havmor ice-cream in each hand soon after the Vav was just the ticket. Now, more than ever, I was on all counts, in Gujarat.

In Danta, I found home in the villa of a royal family -- The Bhavanis. The colonial holiday home, situated on a small hill, overlooks the town of Danta on one side, the Old Palace on the rear and the forest on the other side. As illusory as this might sound, I hung out with the Maharani and Maharaja for a major part of my stay. At mealtimes, they fed me delicious Rajput-style home-cooked food and told me engrossing big-game hunting stories of the rulers of this erstwhile princely state.

Their son, Naval Singh, a 'naval' officer (true to his name), was visiting as well. A rugged-looking but breezy chap (now that he was on vacation for a few weeks), he's the have-it-all mountain beast that grew up, exposed to daring and danger. The knight errant was the coolest company I'd found on this trip. There were a lot of laughs with the jovial noble.

We took the royal horses out and rode them through the Aravallis, the oldest plateaus in the country. On an evening walk through the jungle, we bumped into meerkats and herds of antelopes. At dawn one day, Naval and I scaled an adjacent hill with Ratan, their sheepdog. The view from up there was spectacular. And this, to me, was probably the most chimerical phase through this search for home.

The most far-fetched flight of my imagination wouldn't have put me in this scenario -- up on a horse, on a hill, with a knight.

One would think, in Ambaji, I'd find home in the revered Ambe Maataa Temple or atop the sanctified Gabbargadh. But contrary to community sentiment, although they are both undeniably hallowed sites, I found it in the most flavoursome, wholesome, fulfilling Gujurati Thali at the Reva Prabhu Sadan, a time-honoured, garden rest house for pilgrims, right in the centre of the city.

Anthony Bourdain once said, "Good food is very often, even most often, simple food." There were literally, 5 things on my plate; the 5 most ordinary Gujarati food items. Nonetheless, extraordinarily well-prepared. I believe God came to me that day, in the form of food. And one of the chefs, pressing me to eat more resonated my thoughts, "Food is holy. It would be a sad waste of opportunity to eat badly."

"By no means, when it's this divine.", I added, no holds barred, with a wink, letting him unreservedly serve me a plateful.

In Patan, I found home in 'The Patola House'. Patola is the name of silk saris unique to Patan. The youngest weaver of Patan's Salvi family spoke to me about the ancient Indian fine textile, treated with great reverence by textile scholars. "The legend associated with it is rather amusing. King Kumarpal, a 12th Century ruler of the Solanki dynasty, commissioned Patola robes from Jalna (South Maharashtra), a new one for every daily pooja. When he learnt the King of Jalna was sending him worn clothes, he went south to attack and defeat the southern ruler. The victorious king invited and then brought back 700 Patola weaver families to Patan." And of these families, only the Salvis continue to practice this invaluable craft, conserve its history and tell its story.

The most marked piece in his collection is a Shikarbhat Sari that took 3 years to weave. It mirrors the scene of a king's procession -- A ceremonial elephant with a royal palanquin on it, surrounded by peacocks, tigers, horses and monks. Resplendent in red, this one can compete with the world's finest couture.

Patolas have survived through 35 generations. One sari is made when 2 artists work on it for 4 to 6 months, 5 days a week, 8 hours a day. I reckon the treasures they will create keep them inspired to toil at them.

That striking red lingered before me even when I visited the Rani Ki Vow, the step-well of another Queen. And neither the cool air as I descended towards the water, nor the enamouring stone carvings of gods and consorts, allowed a Patan Patola to flee my mind.

In Sidhpur, I found home in scanning the city's Islamic architecture, developed during the Mughal rule of Akbar. Over the years, these fairytale households became the magnificent mansions of the Bohras. When I look at the photographs I took, they seem anachronistic, capturing the Dawoodi Bohra trading community in a condensed lozenge, away from the rush of time.

Every house is a rainbow, engineered most intricately and symmetrically. A lady of one of the houses told me, "The glorious past, rich in influences, resides here, unsure of its present and future reality -- a typical situation in the process of accelerated modernity. Each room is an individual story, full of anecdotes and details of a broader tale."

As I cut across into a sooty street outlined with more such objets d'art, a camel appeared, unannounced. We stood side by side, camel and gypsy. May be, just for that moment, someone else should have had the camera.

In Mehsana, I found home in the hush of a Jain Temple, brooding over the concept of religion and travelling the road between who you are and who you can be. The Mahabharata says, "Man reaches perfection by the honest pursuit of

whatever calling falls to his lot in life, and this is really the worship of God. The occupation may be one which he is born to in society or it may have been forced on him by circumstances or he may have taken it up by choice, but what really matters is the spirit of sincerity and faithfulness with which he does his life's work."

I suppose Ancient India was great because it was keen to learn; to risk; to progress; to create. Perhaps, our only religious philosophy should be, "So little done; so much to do." But how do you find your true calling? Where does it come from? It's intolerable. The permanent uncertainty. And you're stuck! Between who you are, who you want to be and who you should be. And then one day, you let your head go where your heart wants to go because you realize how impossible it is to live without failing at something -- unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all -- in which case you fail by default.

I guess you keep asking yourself, "What would you do if you knew you could not fail?" Whether or not your true calling comes to you, a spurt of courage sure does, with the judgment that something else is more important than fear.

I heard Erin Hanson say:

"There is freedom waiting for you, On the breezes of the sky, And you ask, "What if I fall?" Oh but my darling, What if you fly?"

In Modhera, I found home in The Sun Temple, a perfect platform. The brightest star had risen and we both danced on the Surya Kund, an inimitable example of geometry.

I think I know what Elisabeth Elliot meant when she said, "I want to live a life of reckless abandon for the Lord, putting all my energy and strength into it."

To dance at god's doorstep, for the lord, bouncing from one miniature shrine to the next in a large rectangular stepped tank, uninhibited, unrestrained, off the cuff, was purifying, altogether.

Every once in a while, a dancer, an athlete of god (as Einstein puts it), sees how handsomely blue the sky is when the sun is shining. And you smile at the wildfire inside you.

In Vadodara, I found home in gorging on crunchy, cheesy, Samosa sandwiches, peppered Khichu, 'Live' steaming Dhoklas, tangy Kala Khatta Golas and guzzling Cold Cocoa, luscious chocolate milk with chunks of dark chocolate in it, from distinctively local roadside laris (stalls on wheels).

In the lordly Laxmi Vilas Palace, I met a mounted Tiger on guard, looking daggers into a widespread lawn blanket he could go like lightning into, any minute, from the veranda of the armoury where he was positioned. The taxidermic Royal Bengal Tiger only elevated the lustre of the residence of Vadodara's royal Family.

The Museum next door exhibits the works of a prodigy; a sensation; an artist of a stature India had never known before -- nor after! Raja Ravi Varma. His paintings captured the imagination of the Indian people in the colonial period. Among other priceless creations, the man's path-finding visualization of Indian mythology put a face to every deity's name with his depiction of scenes from the great Indian epics and other ancient literary sources in the masterworks. The Maharaja of Baroda acquired dozens to decorate his palace.

By 1900, 'Ravi Varma' pictures were indispensable decorations or religious icons in every 'cultured' home of India. He put in place a pan-Indian system of visual aesthetics. A new vocabulary of imagery became so deeply ingrained into every aspect of Indian art, that later, visual art, be it applied or the performing arts, or even cinema and later television, had to adhere to the canon of expression introduced by Ravi Varma's work. Gods and goddesses had been visualized through his paintings; those images were deeply engraved in the Indian subconscious.

Arguably, there have always been two 'Raja's in Vadodara, ever since a legend took birth in the kingdom of Travancore.

In the sites of Champaner and Pavagadh, every structure is imposing. The gorgeous hill and the Kalikamata temple crowning it. The elegant interiors of the mosque, evocative of an era when Sultans reigned over this terrain. The stronghold of the Fort, a sworn sentry to the historical city. They throw you off balance.

I believe there's a home in each one of them. A shooting lens would, beyond a shadow of doubt, find it.

In Surat, more than anywhere else I've ever been, I found food. Authentic,

delicious, delectable, divine Gujarati food off the rekdis (roadside kiosks). It was tantamount to finding home. The Suratis fed me Locho, Handvo, Undhiyu, Ponk Wadas, Sev Khamani, Dal Vadas, Khaman Dhokla, Khichyu, Tomato Bhajiyas, Ghari, Khaja, Fafda, Chaat, buttery Paranthas, Mawa Kulfis and eventually, antacids as preventive action.

The industrious 'Bunder-e-Khubsurat' (a Farsi phrase for 'beautiful port') harbours the delightful trio of diamonds, textiles and food. It doesn't get prettier than this.

It was in Rajkot that I put a tag on the countless hours of rushes I'd shot throughout this odyssey -- "The Cow Constituency". I had run into so many cows here that it couldn't be titled otherwise. Driving through green fields, by and sometimes, into cattle, had a very country, rustic, 'homey' feel to it. I realized how much I love torn jeans, windows rolled down, hair all blown around, days: sunny, nights: starry and a melody that sounds like a memory.

A Jalebi Ghantiya street vendor packed me off to a famed Gola maker in the city, only after I had eaten an "adequate" (for a dinosaur, perhaps) amount of my favourite Indian dessert and its fellow Farsan.

The Gola was a mighty meal in itself -- a jumbo bowl of crushed ice openhandedly bestrewn with cream and dry fruits and chocolate and Kala Khatta syrup.

Holy Cow! This constituency is consummately to my taste.

In Kachchh, the largest district of India,

I found home in its heartland -- Bhuj. As I devoured an awfully well-prepared Dabeli, Prakash, its maker, told me the miraculous story of this city's survival after it was ravaged by a corrosive earthquake. "Nature had turned merciless.", he said, "When we thought we were broken beyond repair, the Indian Diaspora, wholeheartedly, lent a hand to help us make a comeback. We drew on the positives. The earthquake made groundwater more accessible. Massive agricultural projects were initiated. The people, amazed at the abundance of water in a desert region, gradually, conquered their grief and rebuilt their city. The fort walls and some of our historical structures are still being mended."

I knocked about, Lake Hamirsar and its surrounding temples, popping in to say hello to Vishnu and his avatars, Mahalakshmi and Hanuman; the Purana Bazaar, buying metal key chains and colourful bangles; the palace and its house of mirrors, thanking the heavens the earthquake didn't completely mar these and the exclusive precinct of vegetable vendors, hammering out a deal with a nimbuwala on the half a dozen lemons he somehow persuaded me to buy. Well, he was happy to have made his first sale of the day. And so, I was happy for him.

Every cottage in the neighbouring village of Bhujodi flaunts traditional handicrafts and textiles. A nimbu paani made from my morning bargain was good company as I went from one artisan to the next, weaved heart and soul into their craft.

In addition to the Dudh, Ghee and Dahi, I was knee deep in Bajri and Jowar Rotlas greased with White Makhan, Gol, Ringna no Olo, Sev Tameta nu shaak, Shrikhand, Puran Poli, Bateta Palak and Bhakhris. What's more, a juicy Jalebi never eluded me.

Down south, home lay in, being locked in a tickled stare on the uppermost terrace of the seraphic Vijay Vilas Palace; a camel ride at sundown on the placid

Mandvi beach; circumnavigating the silvery Boter Jinalaya with the moon aglow and in knowing how lucky I was to set eyes on something that made saying good bye so hard.

Up north, after a breakfast of Fresh Mawa at The Khoya House in Bhirandiyara, in the turf of the jackals on a Black Hill or 'Kalo Dungar', I saw my first glimpse of the Great Rann of Kutch. At the India Bridge in Khavda, I had almost touched the desert. The Border Security Forces, however, only let me get a whiff of the Indo-Pak border. A cordial Jawaan with a fetching smile directed me towards Dhordo, where I ran amuck into the amaranthine white sands. I felt summer rain that day. It was rolling down my face; tears of joy; drops of water pierced by sunbeams, as I danced every Garba step known to me.

And with every cartwheel, it was settled, - This was home. I was home.

Far out west, a good way off the Tropic of Cancer in Nakhatrana and Ashapura, the abode of the goddess of Kutch, in Koteshwar and Narayan Sarovar, there are temples with ancient legends clinging to them. I sat atop one, rising boldly from the sea, for an aerial view of the staggeringly endless Arabian waters and a pack of dogs raising hell in it.

It was here that I inwardly made much of the resilient people of Bhuj. As it turns out, you can be torn to shreds, scrape yourself together and let every sliver shine. When you're this tangled, you let your strength be perfected in weakness, straighten out and greet the day.

Fortunately, a Jawaan at the naval base on the terminus of land told me to bide my time until twilight to spot the glare of light from Karachi. When I did see it, I couldn't hold out against the old chestnut -- 'So close, and yet so far'.

That could've been home too. An extension of this one. Sadly, the lines drawn make such rumination unavailing.

Back in Bhuj, feasting on my closing Dabeli, I recount my Kutch patrol to Prakash. Looking pleased, he told me a fable, "Walking through a jungle, a tiger spied a mouse sitting wistfully by a bush. He asked the mouse what was wrong. "I am so small", the mouse replied, "and all the other animals look down upon me". "Then", said the tiger, "I can help you. Just stop being a mouse and be a tiger instead". A nation's frontiers, stories of the moral fibre and moxie of humanity, often affirm the inexhaustible supply of women and men prepared to persevere and die on their feet rather than live on their knees."

I realized then that Prakash had, inadvertently, told me the story of my motherland -- The one that called out to me. And when I responded with an arrival, it gave me far more than a scent of its earth, for keeps.

After all, a word wizard called Kavi Narmad drove me to "hail the pride of Gujarat" long before I had driven into my home.




Myth.

SO, WHAT'S THE STATUS?

Upon my return from this short-lived decampment, a whole slew of darts lined with the same question were hurled at me from everyone I know, including Astro, the stray dog who races and paces me on Marine Drive, and looked hungrily into my face for an answer.

On the morning, I couldn't quite suffer the dog's surveillance exercise any longer, I made one decision: To go back to work. So, I wrote the boss an email as confounding as the condition of my brain. To thwart any further bewildering electronic correspondence, he made a one-line response, "Come back to work tomorrow and we'll figure it out."

I opened the door to his chamber the next day to find him reading the last page of "Book One". When he was through, he asked, "So, you're a storyteller?" Not knowing whether he was being rhetorical or purely sceptical about my capacity as a word slinger, I kept my trap shut.

Restlessly he asked, "You've heard Mambo no. 5, haven't you?" I nod, incapable now of even ing what grade of befuddlement I had reached. Had 'The Chase' driven him to a dazed imbalance as well? Had I tampered with another flawlessly sane soul?

Jiggling me out of my woolgathering, the boss exclaimed, "That's your song!" He lifted up his voice into the chorus. I still couldn't read between the lines. Bouncy as ever, he came back, "Oh, you hazy child! You want 'a little bit of' everything. Actually, 'a lot of' everything."

"Exactly!", I nearly jumped up on the stack of legal journals.

"So, go write your story. The kind you would like to read. And, if "The Chase" is your story, it must forge ahead. Have I ever wanted to take that away from you? Absolutely not! And if one day you find that anyone does, then do not bow your head. Do not know your place. You rarely win, but sometimes you do."

And that was the very moment 'Book Two' sprung from.

Status: Yet unknown.

Scribbler, at sea, I guess. And cracked at that.

Cheers!

Myth.

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