My travels, My life

The Slide

2012-01-27T14:59:00.003+05:30

He climbed up the ladder, one, two, three

The ground fell lower, three, two, one

The sky came closer, one, two, three.

Up went the kid, four, five, six

Down went the ground, six, five, four

Up was the Future, bright and bold

Down was the Past, dull and dead.

The kid sat at the top

And the slide took him down

In one smooth rush,

On a roly, jolly ride.

The wind hit his face,

The ground zoomed up -

And thud! He was back where all it began.

*********** Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 27-01-2012

Time, Frozen

2012-01-27T11:34:00.005+05:30

Flipping through Henri’s* pictures,

I see how desperate he was, like me,

To freeze time.

Fleeting are our lives - the ones you see smiling,

Crying, frowning, deep in thought, their inner selves revealed

A glimpse offered in these frozen images

And then taken away in the flood.

Faster, quicker than the flowing water,

Life flees, swirls and then disappears -

All that remains is a dash between

A year and another...

********** Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 26-01-2012

“through the act of living, the discovery of oneself is made concurrently with the discovery of the world around us. . ."

*Henri Cartier-Bresson, 1908 -2004

Gecko

2012-01-11T19:19:00.000+05:30

He moved swiftly, through the little gap

Between the door ajar and the wall

Hiding then, behind the desk, presumably

Catching his breath - but soon as I pulled the desk back

Like lightning, he took cover behind the pile of papers.

I grinned at him, he was young and little, a juvenile, and said -

'Gotcha, my boy' and with a quick brush of the broom

Escorted him out into the glaring sun.

That was yesterday, that was when I felt I could not stand

This suffocating sensation, the revulsion of solitude,

Yet shunning company, sans I am, of love and friendship.

Now, defeated, depressed and disconsolate, I welcomed him

As he skulked in a corner, nodding, licking his chops clean

Of the remains of a fly and looked at me, cocking his head.

'Welcome, my Achilles, welcome, brighten my lonely evenings.'

******* Balachandran V, Alappuzha, 11.01,2012

Note: 'Achilles' is an unforgettable gecko in 'My family and other animals' by Gerald Durrell, one of few great human beings that ever walked on earth....

Neelkanta

2012-01-06T20:02:00.001+05:30

Everytime I went to sleep

Behind the drooping eyelids

Where the pupils knock-

This bright, white glow of light.

I squeeze my eyes further shut

Focussing on the white light

Growing brighter and brighter

Till I sink into a deep slumber.

I remember it from decades ago

Till one morning, among the snow-capped mountains

One cold morning when snowflakes still fell

Someone tapped my shoulder -

Turning back -

He was smiling at me gently -

Unraveling himself from the shroud of clouds -

My mountain, my vision, the pinnacle

Of my greatest longing -

My Neelkanta!

********* Balachandran V, Alappuzha, 03.01.2012

I was in a bus when it struck

2012-01-01T15:19:00.001+05:30

I was in a bus when it struck

Twelve.

Waking up from fitful dozing

I heard the yelling and screaming

Of boys bypassing the bus in their bikes

Screaming, “ Happy New Year!”

I look around my fellow passengers –

We have yet a long way to reach home

There wouldn’t be much of a New Year celebration

For us; I love my fellow travelers.

I fall into a reverie, remembering New Years –

Ruefully, I remember those, drunken, partying kinds

That of lying in the middle of a highway at night

That of dizzying hopping from bar to bar

That spent on the top of a hill, shivering in the cold

That by the side of the sea where I would part with my love.

I remember the New Years, lacklustre, spent at home

Indifferent, blank to the gyrating glitterati in the TV

New Years spent alone, nursing a drink, bitter

Blaming self for the promises unkept , resolutions unresolved.

Chilling gusts of wind blast through the open window.

I remember those who were with us in the beginning of the last year

Yet no more, today, or ever, on another New Year day.

****** *****Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 01-01-2012

Hometown

2011-12-26T00:20:00.002+05:30

At the back of my mind

Lies an undigested piece of thought -

That I have to leave my home tomorrow.

My bike carries me through these streets

Along the familiar scenes, pauses

At the places so known to me -

The coffeshops, bookshops, my haunts -

The libraries, the gardens, my previous office

The corners where I have hung around,watching

The milling crowds, a few faces recognized and nodded at.

Faces from my past, faces that have grown old with mine.

The city has grown, its roads wider and cleaner

Trees and corner shops have given way

To malls and multistoreyed monstrosities.

I try hard to remember what were there before

The old, tile-roofed houses replaced

By towering apartments and star hotels.

I realize what hurts me, this dull ache

In the pit of my mind -

I cannot leave this town, this is my home.

However I may dream and yearn

For the snow-clad peaks and seas of forests -

Destinations to reach and then to leave -

To return to my home, this little corner of the world.

I leave for the hills, lands strange and far away

Safe, in the thought that there is always my home

To come back at the end of the day.

I realize why ghosts linger -

Like me now, in the shadows

Of this garden of my life.

************ Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 19-12-2011

A Bullet at the Himalayas

2011-12-25T17:14:00.001+05:30

In 2007 July, I went to Ladakh in my bike. A short version of the travelogue was published in the Malayalam automobile magazine, 'Fast Track' in December 2007. The longer version lay idle in my computer. Though a book publisher had shown interest in publishing it as part of a book, it didn't come through so far.

But recently somebody called me asked if I could share the story in his portal. It is a web portal in Malayalam called Nalamidam. Rasheed liked the write-up so much that he desisted from editing it and is publishing a 3-part serial.

Those who can read Malayalam, those who might enjoy reading about an adventurous motorcycle ride into Himalayas and into oneself, can find it here. To those who cannot read Malayalam - sorry, I am too lazy to translate it to English!

Hope you will enjoy the ride.

Merry X'mas!

********** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 25-12-2011

For Dog Lovers Only

2011-12-15T20:35:00.002+05:30

KUNCHI ( 1992- 2005)

TOMMY(1998 - 23-4-2010)

SANCHO

(Three generations)

The link given here is for a documentary, 'The Secret Life of the Dog', which sheds light into certain known and unknown aspects of human-dog relation. Its a fantastic video. Enjoy!

************

BALACHANDRAN V, TRIVANDRUM 15.10.2011

One Minute to Save the World

2011-12-13T10:38:00.000+05:30

The link given is for an award winning 1-minute long movie on Save the World.

Enjoy!

*****************
Balachandran, Trivandrum 13.12.2011.

B+

2011-12-11T09:28:00.001+05:30

The boys on the bike were coming up too fast -

Suddenly, right in front of me,

It swerved, braked and came to a stop.

In one swift motion, the boy in the rear

Swung his right leg up, slid off the bike

Said - ' Ta!' and left.

Shaking my head at the frivolity of youth

I look at the boy revving the bike.

Emblazened on his T shirt, across his chest

The legend -

B+

Be Positive.

I press down my foot hard on the pedal

And the bicycle surges forward.

I smile, hum a tuneless song.

I am Balan, my blood, B+.

In a seeming Satori, I realize -

Sometimes, the secrets of life

Are blended in one's blood.

********* Balachandran V, Alappuzha, 10-12-2011

Right and Wrong, Rong and Wright

2011-12-10T18:51:00.000+05:30

Sitting up on the bed bleary-eyed one depressing morning,

Cursing, asking myself, what the hell am I doing here

Away from home, away from the loved

Ruminating over the past, over the paths taken

The correct and incorrect, the right and wrong

Of the decisions, the choices I made in my life -

Suddenly I burst out laughing -

There is always some right in the wrong

And some wrong in the right!!

************ Balachandran V, Alappuzha, 10-12-2011

Ant on the Wire

2011-12-06T20:54:00.001+05:30

( for Abigail Thomas)

Along the wires

That connect my laptop to the mutiple pins

That connect my mobile to its charger

That connect the speakers to its charger

That connect my camera to its charger -

Wires, looped, coiled, twisted, splayed like intestines pulled out -

Along the wires walks an ant.

It could be walking (?) through an unending maze

Entrance and exit confused

A path directionless, destination-less .

What is the ant looking for - food, I presume

Though I would like to fantasize

That the ant is searching for -

Meaning of life? Ho ho ho!

Through the haze of smoke that drifts up from the cigarette

I try to look at the way I am going, the whys and wheres of it.

I wonder what I am searching for, what I am longing for.

Abigail* reminds me gently - there isn't any.

There is just the longing, that's all, just the longing.

****** Balachandran V, Alappuzha, 06-12-2011

I am reading an unforgettable, haunting memoir, 'A Three Dog Life', by Abigail Thomas. ( Harcourt Inc, 2007)

A Snake in the House

2011-12-04T20:38:00.001+05:30

In the background, I could hear the excited barking of my dogs; and voices faint, I assumed, that of my neighbours. Parvati sounded agitated - "There is a snake in the neighbour's house". More noises, the rapping of sticks, the slamming of doors - I pressed the phone to my ears. She said- "I can't stand this, snakes in the house, I am not scared of anything, but snake - ugghgh!!" "You ought to do something about it, why are you silent?"

I chuckle and tell her, well, finally, there is something in the world that scares you - "This is not funny, Balan!" I fell silent, remembering that Rat Snake long ago, slithering silent, scared, over the bed of dried leaves and disappearing into a hole. I remembered watching fascinated, its beautiful yellow head. In this 10 cents of wilderness right in the middle of the city, I have seen snakes, mongooses; a family of Palm Civets live right above my room, between the tiles and the wooden planks. From the small window of my bathroom, I have watched Kingfishers, Crows, Tree Pies, Tailor birds, Sunbirds, Small Green Barbets. Pariah Kites, Magpie Robins, Mynahs and Woodpeckers. Once in a while, a dainty little Shikra pays a visit. Years ago, Sparrows and Bulbuls used to be common; on the Mango tree, Golden Orioles would come and tweet. I still remember how excited I was one day to see a Forest Wagtail right beside the kitchen garden. No, not many birds come these days.

Parvati's voice woke me up - triumphant, she said - "Yes! They caught it and killed it, its a baby snake, I'm sure its mother is around. I can't stand this, I tell you, all these snakes and rats and cockroaches and geckos and mosquitoes and ants -"

Respectful of her phobias, I tell her gently that this is not Mars or the Moon this is Earth, this is our beautiful world with all the mosquitoes and snakes and rats and roaches. This is our world, of good and bad, beautiful and ugly, Hitler and Gandhi. Sad and joyful, this is it, Ammu. Just as you and I happen to be here, so too are they.

Switching off the phone, sinking into a reverie, I muse - as urban dwellings transform from homesteads and independant bunglows with a little patch of land to high-rise apartments, we grow more and more alienated from nature. Nature and wilderness is something you visit once in a while. Paddyfields, streams, ponds, the verdant greenery all are become rare and remote. Our lives are becoming barren and browned. As the greenery outside diminishes, so does that inside us. We become intolerant of every other being, including humans. Tolerance and acceptance of myself and my world as it is, in full understanding and respect for life, gives some value to our passing existence.

I turn my attention to the beautiful book I am reading, 'The Hidden Life of Dogs' by Elizabeth Marshall Thomas.

********** Balachandran V, Alappuzha, 01.12.2011

Smt Kunjamma Wd/o Late Sep Joseph

2011-11-25T20:37:00.000+05:30

Cheques, neatly printed, issued in favour of

Smt Kunjamma Wd/o Late Sepoy Joseph

Smt Nalini Pavithran Wd/o Late Sepoy Pavithran

Smt Chandramathy Wd/o of Late Swr Gopalan and so on and so forth

Cheques of the Army Welfare Board,

Doles, for the survivors.

Scrawling my signature over them, ticking, rapidly glancing

Back and forth at the PC and cheques

At the amounts, dates, and other details

I flip through the leaves

Cursing inwardly at the mounting work

And my aching eyes and having

To fix a glassy smile on my face – suddenly -

Before my eyes appear the mountains, the deserts

The gullies and ravines

I feel the numbing cold of the snows

And the searing heat of the sands

I see blood and gore and hear

The booming of cannons

And the sharp barking of rifles

And men shattered and blown to smithereens

I see Joseph and Pavithran and Gopalan.

I slow down the speed of my scrawl, pause

And consign the cheques gently into the basket.

********** Balachandran V, Alappuzha, 23.11.2011

Mannequins

2011-11-25T20:27:00.001+05:30

I am getting old, naked

Eyes cannot focus sharp.

I said, ‘Excuse me’ to a mannequin

That stood on the doorstep of a shop

And blushed to realize that I had talked

To a lifeless doll.

Strolling, alone, through busy streets

With full of clothes and jewelry shops

Ravenous, I peek at the ravishing

Papier-mâché or plastic or something else

Mannequins that man the entrances.

I like these new ones, what grace,

How lovely, live, how curvaceous are they!

That subtle lift of the breasts, tantalizing,

Teasing you, inside the scanty clothes,

Slim waists with a delicious hint

Of flat, smooth bellies and button.

One can always act as if

Appreciating the modern dresses

While swallowing, ogling hungrily

Wishing the dolls were real.

The mannequins, in their eternal youth

Don't look at you

But through you, to far away

As if looking in askance why

Life was not blown into them.

Strolling, aimless, through the busy streets

Full of clothes and jewelry shops

I look appreciatively at the young girls passing by

The foreign tourists scantily dressed

Their shimmering golden thighs

Heavy, full breasts and shapely behinds

All for a connoisseur to admire and enjoy.

They don't look at me, but look

Through me, glancing hither and thither

In search of life, pleasure and love.

Youth, for now, for now only, though it seems

Eternal to them.

I slink into the dark corner of a little shop

Lighting a cigarette, realizing that

for all I care,

The world could be full of mannequins only.

********* Balachandran V, Alappuzha, 25.11.2011

Monday Syndrome

2011-11-21T20:23:00.001+05:30

In the fleeting moments that fall

In between fleeing from one task to another

At the back of my mind, desparate, I wonder

How to freeze Time to an eternal Sunday!

********** Balachandran V, Alappuzha, 21.11.2011

A Blogger Passeth Away

2011-11-20T12:16:00.001+05:30

She was an opinionated, strong- willed, orthodox-leaning lady, no doubt. But she wrote beautiful English. She had a wry sense of humour. She was generous and true in her appreciation of what other bloggers wrote, so long as it didn't conflict with her views. She was sensitive; and loving.

I have never met Ms Kochuthresiamma P J in the flesh. I met her in the blogosphere. I learned that she had been the Professor and Head of the Dept of English at Assumption College, Changanassery. She always commented appreciatively on most of what I wrote, though my post on the Sabarimalai hoax wasn't much to her liking.

After battling with the 'Emperor of all Maladies' for 5 years, she finally succumbed a week ago. In her writings she often mentioned about the battle with the disease; every word shone with her courage and indomitable will. In her blog, 'Pareltank', the last post appeared, written by her son, a beautiful eulogy on his mother.

KPJ is my first blog friend to pass away. She leaves an inexplicable, disturbing vacuum. I have always wondered at such a situation, where the words left behind by a blogger remain for eternity (?) floating around in the ether. The late blogger is still talking to you, you listen to him/her with this eerie knowledge that it is deadspeak.

Someday, sooner or later, so would be mine too.

************************

Balachandran V, Trivandrum 20-11-2011

A Backwater Cruise

2011-11-13T16:56:00.001+05:30

On Tuesday, my old friends from Palakkad turned up at Alleppey. The last gathering with these guys, with whom I had studied in primary class in 1965- 67 at the Railway Primary School in Olavakkode was earlier this year, when we went to Nelliampathy; before that at Malampuzha. The reunion of classmates after 45 plus years was a memorable event. Abe, who is a doctor in the US, had made a short visit home and the old gang quickly got together and went for a day's cruise in the backwaters of Alleppey.

The cruise started only at 1100 hrs. We had hired a 3-bedroom houseboat through my friend Pradeep's contacts; There were about 14 of us. I was more interested in chatting up with the guys and the drinks than taking photographs. Daytime with its bright light is not much good either.

The package included a sumptous lunch, evening snacks, in- between Chicken Fry-s and Prawn Fry-s, dinner and breakfast. The houseboats are large, bulky. They lumber up and down the backwater lakes, ply till 1800 hrs and then drops anchor off some isolated strip. You are dropped back at Alleppey in the morning. With air-conditioning and luxurious beds, one can get a good sleep too. Otherwise the mosquitoes and other flying insects would smother you.

All of us are in our mid-fifties. Daughters have been married off, one guy already a grandfather. Many of us show the diminishments of age; BP, Diabetis, heart. One who was with us in the last reunion passed away a few months ago. Those in Govt. service have started retiring. Long ago we sat together in a classroom as little kids. Time, that eternal long-distance runner, took us through the years, how swiftly it all became past!

There is an old adage among my friends who dabble in photography as either serious amateurs or professionals - Do not mix photography with trekking or pleasure trips; photography should be done in a trip with its sole purpose as photography. So, these pictures are just a record of events. For those who want to capture the serene beauty of the backwaters, they should go to more scenic spots in the region, and that too in the early mornings and late evenings.

I had taken along my old Nikon manual system, but there were too many distractions to focus on shooting pictures. Anyway, the idea was to meet the old boys once again.

**************

Balachandran V, Alappuzha, 11.11.2011

The Outcast's Cradle

2011-11-13T12:48:00.002+05:30

I do not know whether they have something like this in other parts of the country, but the one in Trivandrum is near my home and now I saw this in Alleppey. Probably the Child Welfare Council has one in every district.

Once again, the highest evolved species of homo sapiens prove how unique and advanced it is in comparison to the rest of the species. I do not think even the most detestable rodents would do this - leave one's own flesh and blood to the streets...

To those who might not have reallised what it is - it is called 'Amma- Thottil' - Mother-cradle, where women may leave their unwanted babies, incognito. There is an opening beneath the picture, like the cat's passage or little door you see in western countries, inside which there is a cradle... In the evenings, thoroughout the night, a little lamp burns and whenever a baby is deposited, an alarm sounds, to alert the officials.

I try to imagine how it would be like to grow up without ever knowing who your biological parents were. It feels like an aching emptiness... like a rootless, drifting plant...

Is it a matter of irony or an instance of great insight into human nature that India's most revered epic, the Mahabharata has the incident of Kunti casting away her firstborn, Karna? Perhaps the very seed of the Mahabharatha War was sown by that!

**************

Balachandran V, Trivandrum 13.11.2011

While We were Away

2011-11-07T19:58:00.001+05:30

Now that I am just a weekend visitor and K turns up only once in a quarter, P has all the time to herself. She is evermore active than when we were around. She has enough and more work at the College, what with being the HoD of her dept., etc. She is involved with a couple of nature conservation NGOs; often she is asked to give a talk or conduct a quiz or preside over a meeting - she commits herself to all these and more with gusto.

And now with the men away, she has discovered new arenas of passion - Saree designing and Jewelry making - and she is making money too!

Sarees

The photographs were taken by me - sorry, not done justice to her efforts. I've asked P to get a mannequin to drape the sarees on to.

Needless to add, I'm goddamn proud of her!

Balachandran, Trivandrum, 07-11-2011

A roof over their heads

2011-10-22T19:38:00.002+05:30

I have seen it many times, the silent communication between a couple. Sunithakumari glances at her husband, Shaji; he swiftly moves towards her and she passes something from her clenched fist to his. As I say goodbye, Shaji comes closer and says - ' ith irrikkatte sarrae' ( Please keep this, Sir) and grabs my hand and tries to thrust the contents of his fist - before even touching it, I could see what it was - two or three currency notes of Rs.100/-.

I was the innards of Alleppey town, inspecting sites of prospective borrowers for housing loans. The govt had introduced a new scheme for the urban poor - Interest Subsidy Housing scheme for the Urban Poor - a subsidy of 5% less than the normal rate. As most of the applicants are either BPL ( Below Poverty Line) or EWS ( Economically Weaker Sections), the maximum loan that we were giving is Rs.1,60,000/- per applicant. Even though the quantum of amount is small, the work involved in processing a loan application is as same as a big loan. Bankers, understaffed and underpaid, curse under their breaths at the heavy load of work. I, for eg., have to process 57 applications within a month, that too amidst all the other duties I have.

But I enjoy it. It gives me immense pleasure to interact with these poor people, listen to them, discussing with them and be an instrument that provides succour. I tease their children, admire their little things, nod in agreement with their views; I am a tool, a catalyst in the realisation of their dream, their dream of having a roof over their heads. What I give is more than a little financial help; I give them dignity and self-respect.

" You extend your hand again and I am going to tear your application into two, do you understand?'. You offer me that bribe again and I will ensure that you never get a loan from anywhere'. Sunithakumari is aghast. 'Sir', she says, ' but everybody takes it, Sir, please don't be offended'. 'Maybe they do', I said, 'but not me'.

These are ordinary people; autorickshaw drivers, tailors, manual labourers, plumbers, workers in the coir factories, unpaid volunteers in the SHG programmes like Kudumbasree. People we might interact with everyday, casually. We would bicker and fight with them for the extra 5 or 10 rupees they charge, we would mourn how lazy and crafty they are. People whom we would like to forget. Yet, in Kerala, there is at present a silent revolution going on. Individuals and families who eke out a life are now supported by govt sponsored finance. Grass- root level neighbourhood groups are formed ( Kudumba sree / janasree) and involve in income-generating activities. The large majority of the members are women, who were till now mere housewives with no income of their own. These programmes have been very successful in empowering these women and giving them not only an income, but more importantly self-respect. Of course, there might be cheats and frauds among them, but in my experience with the poorer of our economic classes, I have found more honest people among them than in the middle classes.

Below are a few pictures of these families. They have built their dream houses till this level using their own funds and also with financial aids from the govt. And I - I am the last brush which would give their houses a coat of colour; and hopefully to their lives too.

Shaji is a manual labourer; Sunitha is a housemaid. A daughter studies for BSc Nursing, and the kid in 6th standard.

Mahesan is a tailor. Shyamala has studied up to Pre-degree and passed with First class but could not study further because her parents could not afford it. She works as a volunteer for SHGs, literacy programmes and in the National Rural Health Mission - unpaid. Their son is studying for BSc Chemistry. Mahesan proudly tells me that his son had a rank of 4000 in the Engg entrance, but they could not afford to pay the capitation fee. He says the boy is trying again, to get a higher rank so that he can get admission in Merit quota.

Anil is an autorickshaw driver. When he says he own his Auto and that he has fully repaid the loan for it, I can sense the quiet pride in his voice. Sandhya is a graceful, pretty woman; she supplements the family income by stitching Churidars and Nighties and blouses. I tell her about Parvati designing sarees and how she makes extra money with that. Sandhya is open-mouthed and asks me the details. That kid is a smart and lovable fellow.

Sarala works in the local coir factory. Sreekumar is a house painter. They have only one son - he is studying for CA. I explain the scheme to the boy and discuss bank auditing with him. The parents look on, proudly, how the 'Big Bank Sir' and their son talk in equal terms.

Rajesh is an artist. He designs and paints hoardings, works part-time in a shop that makes Flexboards. Sandhya - the way she looks at me, I feel her awe and a kind of worshipful admiration. Two kids, very intelligent and well-behaved.

I have met many more of these people. Each is a story of brave survival, a story of courage in adverse economic circumstances and misery. In their eyes I see the hope and dreams of bettering their lives. When I tell them yes, we will sanction the loan next week, I see that sparkle in their eyes and they have the most beautiful smile I have seen.

They have the confidence and the will; all they need is a little support, a few kind words, and concern and respect. Kerala is on the rise!

***************** Balachandran V, Alappuzha, 21.10.2011

Arabian Sea and Alleppey

2011-10-15T22:25:00.001+05:30

Getting up at 0600 hrs, I cycle to the beach at Alleppey. Its about 4 km from where I stay. Its is a pleasant ride. The streets by the canal with shady trees and the occasional vehicle that passes by are a pleasure to ride a bicycle.

The beach is expansive and open; most beaches are but the Alleppey beach has the look of a dainty, friendly maiden. Nothing pretentious, no touristy shacks - just wide open, clean sand and a sea that seems yet to wake up.

The skeletal remains of an old pier struck out to the sea looks like the desolate remains of a war-torn land.

Typical of the west coast beaches, Alleppey beach is clean and friendly; I say friendly because I have strangely felt that the beaches in the east coast of India, hostile.

On the roadside, a dog keeps vigil over his master's fish; or he could be waiting for the tidbits.

I pause before the anchor of a fishing boat. I look at it and wonder at the worlds it would have been to, the dark depths of the sea, a world I have never seen. I touch it and feel the cold of the seabed and imagine the fish nuzzling by in that silent world of the sea.

I have always been in awe of two communities; the fisherfolk and the tribals of the forests. They are the salt of the earth. Beside the boat, waits the anchor. This could be a scene from times immemorial; this way of life is eternal - as eternal as life on earth should be.

*****************
Balachandran V, Alappuzha, 15.10.2011

Steve and I

2011-10-09T22:25:00.003+05:30

Steve Jobs 1955-2011

Steve said - 'I needed to change somethin' , coz
What I'm doin' now ain't what I'd do
if today woz the day I'd conk out'.

I looked at his exclusive apple store,
where his apples were too good to eat.
Then he went out and bought drawing pencils
and started to draw letters like a kid in primary -
he asked me - ' How do you spell apple?'

He never could spell it right so instead
he drew a picture of an apple
The drawing looked so good I felt like
biting into it and bit.

Steve asked me -'Hey, kiddo, wotchyugonnado
if you gonna meet your maker today, uh?'
I gaped at him and said - 'Why, if this fuckin' day
is gonna be my last fuckin' day on this fuckin' world
I'm gonna go home straight and grab my dawg Sancho
I'll lie on the cool bare floor and pull him close and smell
his shampooed fur deep and it'll be warm and I'll go to sleep
I'll go to sleep till I die 'coz the last thing I'd remember is the smell
of my dog and the last thing I'd feel is the warmth of his love'.
**********

"I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: "If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?" And whenever the answer has been "No" for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something."

Steve was a guy I had greatly admired. I could never buy an Apple or Mac or Ipad or Ipod but have
touched them and fiddled with them all the time my jaw kept getting dropped.

Steve, if you are up there with the Grand Old Man, do design something for him so that he can make better humans. And Steve, apple is spelt A-P-P-L-E, got it? See you sometime!

******** Balachandran V, Trivandrum

Song of Songs

2011-10-09T10:06:00.001+05:30

My beloved spake, and said unto me,

Rise up, my love, my fair one and come away.

For, lo, the winter is past,

the rain is over and gone;

the flower appear on the earth;

the time of the singing of birds is come,

and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land;

the fig tree putteth forth her green figs,

and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell.

Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.

*********

The Song of Solomon, 2:10-13

King James Bible

Subjects of Love

2011-10-05T15:38:00.000+05:30

Whatever cynics may say, love remains the predominant emotion in life forms. For those of us who love, except for the rare oddities, love for parents, spouse and children is the most intense, deep and true. Again, cynics would say that it is so because you own them, possess them. For men, mother is the epitome of all, the last resort, the womb to which they want to go back; nothing is more secure than your mother's lap.

In my earlier poems (2004 -2007) the major theme was love - love for parents, for wife and son, for the dogs and distress at losing love. When I showed the manuscript of the collection to Prof.Hridyakumari teacher ( a close friend of my mother and one of the few women for whom I have great respect and love) said that she was surprised that there weren't many poems on nature and travel because, for her I was synonymous with the two. It remains my proudest day when she released my collection of poems and said many kind words; she even read out a couple and praised them.

I published less than 50% in book form; another 30% appeared in the blog or poetry website. Others remained in the dark. Once in a while I go through them and put it here, sharing them with you. They may not be of the top order, they may reek in sentiments - but such sentiments and emotions that I share with you are not uncommon. Why do I tell you all this? Because I feel that in spite of our different situations and nature, there could be one platform we could all stand together - the platform of love.

A Sense of Time

How silly is it of science

To say that senses are only five!

How insensitive is it of science

To censure those beyond the ken!

Eyes screwed up tightly

Head turned sideways abruptly

Lips clamped firmly

Trying to shut in momentarily.

Would it, please, go away

Images, sounds, the smells,

Words uttered, heard, this sense

Of pain, wrenching my heart?

Time exists only in our minds

In the recesses of memory

Facts of past and fictions of future

Time stands still only for those

Who cannot remember anymore.

Who cannot remember anymore

What it was like to feel the wind

What it was like to smell the flowers

What it was like to watch the dawn

What it was like to love and be loved.

Mother, could you remember, how

It felt when you held me up

The softness of my cheeks, the light

In my eyes that lit up your heart?

What, mother, did you feel

Listening to my gurgling laughter

The smell of my skin, soft

My fingers gripping yours?

Mother, my eyes are squeezed tight

But I still see yours wide open

Staring at the nothingness

That waited, patiently, by your bed.

Time must have stopped for you

Long ago, in the grip of the Disease

For me, now, Time pauses-

Momentarily, waiting for oblivion.

But, then, once in the twilight,

When shadows danced in and out,

You kissed my hand and looked at me

When memory flitted like moonlight

From behind the coconut fronds.

The time has come, mother

For me to give you one last hug

For me to lift you up

For once, first and the very last time.

How silly is it of science

To limit us to the obvious

When waves crash and shatter all

When whimpering, you wait for the next.

********************

Balachandran, Kottayam 30.06.2005

Feeding the family

2011-10-04T17:01:00.004+05:30

1. Seer Masala

In the kitchen I make Seerfish curry for my son. Seer fish ( Neyymeen/Ayykoora in Malayalam) is the prima donna among the fish-eaters' favorites in Kerala. K is home and I had promised to make him a curry based on Melange's reciepe (http://www.desimelange.com/2011/02/nei-meen-vattichathu-seer-fish-in-thick.html).

Buying fresh fish from the fishmongers at Pangode Market is an unclean experience; physically and mentally. One has to cross meters of slush that reek of fish and puddles created by the melting ice so as to reach the ladies who squat/sit there beneath the large muti-coloured umbrellas. However you may try, the bottom of your trousers would get soaked in the above said stinko. And the respectable ladies - whew! I am terrified of them and they scent my fear like baying hounds. I am torn in different directions by the calls and shouts of the ladies - by the time I get through, I am a nervous wreck and surrender myself before the most - uh - um - yes- most beautiful, most loving, most polite, most courteous, most generous ( Psst! One can never know, one of those fisherwoman might read this blog!) ladies and obediently buy whatever they may feel like offering and pay whatever they may deem to ask and accept whatever pittance of a discount they may grandly condescend to give, and rush out of the market and inhale a cigarette deeply and thank God for saving me.

At home, I take a printout of Melange's reciepe of 'Neyymeen Vattichathu' and check the fridge and meatsafe. For a change, everything, from Kashmiri chilly powder to coconut oil is available. I marinate as directed, keep it for an hour and cook the fish. Pleasant aroma fills the kitchen. Sancho looks at me expectantly and he gets the first piece of the fish curry. I take photographs, not good. K likes the curry, though for my taste it is still a bit bland; I like them searing hot, burning my fingers and throat. I watch K, pouring the thick gravy over rice and eat the delicate, succulent fish.

Melange' has become a family member now; how curiously strange that a totally unknown person, known except through her fantastic reciepes and astute comments in the blogosphere could become familiar!

***************

2. Peas Masala

(courtsey: the net)

Day before yesterday, our friend Christy and her son Aravind were with us in the evening. As dinner time came up, K volunteered to go out and buy food. Paththiri, Parantha, some chicken, some other chicken and yet some other chicken. K and Aravind come back swinging large packets. P asks - 'Ok,w hat have you bought for me?' Our faces blanch. It is the Navrathri season and P eats only vegetarian. 'Thats all right', she says, 'I will manage with lunch leftovers'. From the rich experience of 21years of wedded life, I know that it is not all right. We shall have to suffer its repercussions far into the future. So I offer to make her a curry. A quick scan of the fridge produce frozen peas, tomato, green chillies, ginger, curry and coriander leaves, Nambisan's Ghee. From the shelves I gather large onions, garlic, black pepper and homemade masala powder. Inside ten minutes, I defrost the peas, saute the Onion and chillies and curry leaves and rest of the spices ground, spalsh tomato sauce liberally, garnish with coriander leaves and lace it with the exquistely fragrant ghee. A pinch of sugar added and I serve it hot. Among the technicolor chicken, my Masala looks like a meek virgin. The curry is not as spicy and hot as I would like, because P likes it mild.

At the dining table, the non-vegetarians taste the Peas Masala and then abandon all the chicken curries in its favour and keep on uttering 'Yummmm... Yummmmm... Yummmm...'. P ends up getting only a small share of her rightful Masala, but is gratified and looks at me affectionately.

********** Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 04-10-2011

The Spice Country

2011-10-02T16:01:00.001+05:30

Beyond the coconut palms in the background is Punnamada Kayal, the venue of the Boat Race.

Kerala, steeped in history is also steeped in cliche's. One of the them is the 'Land of spices'. When the rest of India waddled in Middle Age, this little strip of land went international with its spices. The trade between Kerala and Europe, China and other nations of the world began centuries ago and brought foreigners to her shores. The fragrance of Kerala's spices crossed the seas and enticed the traders of the West to this land. Along with commerce came religion and then subjugation by the foreign powers.

Alappuzha, the 'Venice of the East' ( another one!) was one of the oldest trade outlets. To Alappuzha came the spices from the mist-laden mountains and went abroad. Alleppey still retains the remnants of its great past; the planned township, the large godowns, the ramshackle buildings of yore - all look at you and whisper to you its ancient, rich history. As if to remind the passer-by of its old grandeur, the roadside spice vendors display their products; as you pass by, fragrance of the spices waft up and remind one of one's roots, remind one that you belong here, this is your country.

Garlic, Cardamom, Cinnamon, Pepper, dried Ginger, Turmeric, Clove, Nutmeg and Mace, Star anise, Khus Khus, Garcinia, Cummin seeds, Fennel seeds, and a few more. How many spices can you recognize and name? ( Click to enlarge the image)

Moonlight Sonata

2011-10-01T23:09:00.001+05:30

I do not think there is anyone – at least not many, who isn't passionate about something or the other; passionate to the extent that he wouldn't make a little pile of his love. Whether the item is antique motor cars or stamps, the hobby of collection is something that makes us human, makes us almost innocent, child-like. You collect a particular thing because you love it, because there is some undefinable feeling you have for it, something which does not have ulterior motives other than love. I am discounting the greedy who collects things for its monetary value, like gold. Of course, there are art collectors who flaunt their wealth through their valuable collections. I refer to ordinary people. Recently there was a news item which showed a man with his collection of cameras. He has hundreds; old field cameras to the latest digital ones.

As a child, I was encouraged by my father to collect stamps. I still have them, though stuck crudely in the stamp albums or pouches. By the time I entered college, the interest in stamp collection waned, but even now whenever I see a new stamp, I tear it out of the envelope and put it in my pocket; most of them get lost.

Then there were/are books. At the time of my marriage at 32, I didn't have any money saved; I showed P my collection of books and said this is all I have. And then, music. Whenever I think of my favourite genre of music, the old Hindi film songs of 1940 - 1980, I immediately think of my collections of Hemant Kumar, Mukesh, Talat, Mahendra Kapoor, Lata, Geeta Dutt and Manna Dey. Rafi saab is – well, I love many of his songs, but he was too cheerful for my liking! :-) But there is another man many Hindi film music aficionados belittle; Kishore Kumar. Though the majority of his songs were the boisterous, loud kind, Kishore Da has sung many unforgettable melodies too. From the many cheap CD s I bought over the years, I made a collection of my favourites of his songs. The songs are unparalleled. Those songs could not have been sung by any other singer of his day, better than Kishore Da.

Koi humdum na raha Koi sahara na raha! How many nights have I listened to him! In those forlorn, sleepless hours I brooded over loves lost, Kishore Da would sing - Dukhi man mere sun mera kehna...

Sorrow and solitude sometimes bring forth some of the most beautiful expressions – creations that leaves indelible impressions on the soul of the creator and the connoisseur.

Kishore Da sings – 'Koi lauta de mere bithey hue din...' 'Zindagi ka safar he ye kaisa safar, koi samjha nahin koi jaana nahin'.... 'tere duniya se honke majboor chala mein bohat door chala...

Later I found a Music Today CD with most of my collected favourites. It is called Ehsaas Gam Ka. If you are keen on some of the best melodies in Hindi movie songs, do get it, though I don't know if it is still available in the market.

My earlier poems were mostly the brooding kind. Lost love and loneliness were the predominant thoughts in them. Some were quite sensuous too. Among them, I like this one the best. It too, in some way, is about collections...

Moonlight Sonata

Lata¹ sings. My evenings, dull

In this drab little room, alone

While the music plays, light up

With Lata’s caress. Lata sings.

Lata sings. ‘This night, this time

Of the season, this laughter-

Forget me if so you wish, but

Forget not these and this night with me’.

My love! How can I forget

The light glimmering, the shadows

The moon reflecting on your moist lips

Your breasts, heaving, brushing mine!

My love! Remember? You spread

Your hair over my face, my hands

Moving gently over you, I kissed

Your ears, your neck and your breasts!

Then, as an owl hooted deep in the woods

Gently I lowered on to you, oh gently

Softly while the tree hid us from the moon

Together, that moment, etched forever in my heart.

In the garden, in the pale moonlight

The leaves giggled softly, the fireflies

Lit the sparkle in your eyes full of love

Sweat beads glistened on your face.

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

In this drab little room, alone, I recollect

Like a child collecting empty shells

In the sands of a deserted beach –

But how! They crumble and turn to dust

That the winds take to the skies over the sea!

Lata sings. ‘Burning, burning, the lamps

Die, along with me, with me…’

****************

Note:1. The first song was originally sung by Pankaj Mullick. Lata sang it at London, Yeh raaten, ye mausam, ye hasna hasaana mujhe bhool jaana, inhe na bhoolana.

Note: 2. Chalte chalte.. Jalte jalte ye chiraag bujch rahin he mere saath jalte jalte ( Meena Kumari in Pakeezha. Can anyone forget that scene?)

******************

Balachandran V, Alappuzha, 22.09.2011

The Basketball Players

2011-10-01T22:14:00.002+05:30

Outside my window, below on the ground, the Basketball players.

In the mornings I awake to the drumming of the ball on the concrete floor

And to the yelps and shouts of children playing basketball.

Lifting the curtain, through the haze of the mosquitoe net,

I watch them, lithe, graceful

Jumping and running like antelopes in the savannah.

Dribbling the ball, they run to and fro

Across the court, turning, twisting, ducking

Swiftly passing the ball, faking a throw

Blocking, trying to snatch, moving like cats

On a hot tin roof and then leap and lift the ball to the basket

Some bounce off the board, some slip neatly through the net

Only to be grabbed and loped again and again.

Alert, agile, acutely aware, the eyes of the children

intent on the game, playing to win.

How wonderful it is to be young, boundless energy, radiating health

Happiness and pleasure in playing a game!

Games, how many, of how many kinds, yet to play and to win

Some to lose, some to be remembered, some to be forgotten!

Slipping the curtain back, I turn around and stand still

Listening to the cries and laughter of the players

And to the thud of the basketball like the thudding of my heart,

Thudding, bouncing, thrown, captured and released to the air

Until the final whistle blows, until the sun sets and

Darkness envelopes my life.

******** Balachandran V, Alleppey, 29.09.2011

Good Morning, Alleppey!

2011-09-24T23:14:00.003+05:30

Like a Hermit Crab unwilling to get out of its shell, I had so far not moved out of my premises much in Alleppey, though I have been here for a month ( discounting 10 days leave due to Bronchitis and Onam holidays and hartals – which leaves about couple of weeks). The routine is – I catch the 0600 train from Trivandrum to Calicut, get down at Alleppy at 0830, go to my room at YMCA, breakfast and get into the office at 0900 – 0915, work till 1900-1930, walk around for an hour in the dark and slushy roads of the town and back in the room listen to music and yearn for the day when I can go back home. From next week, it is going to be full working weeks; no mid-week holidays. I have to settle down.

Yesterday morning the Hermit Crab crawled out and went for a walk at 0600 hrs. After weeks of incessant downpour, the skies have cleared finally.

The road in front of the YMCA. Alleppey/Alappuzha is coastal, flat country. It is a small town. In the west you have the Arabian Sea ( Beautiful beach), in the east you have the Punnamada Kayal (Backwaters) , the two connected by several canals. Alleppey is the narrow strip/s of segmented earth in between the sea and the backwaters.

How is this for a morning view? Of course, you will learn to ignore the stinking garbage on the other side of the road! :-P

Bicycles in front of a Tuition Centre

Flat, straight roads are ideal for cycling. Alleppey could be the town in Kerala with highest number of bicycles ! I am planning take mine to Alleppey. It is the best way to explore small towns.

At early mornings, a thin veil of mist rises from the water. In the open backwaters, in the vast wetlands and hills of Central Kerala, no sight is more beautiful than the winter mornings with mist. Wetlands are fast disappearing, lakes polluted, the morning mists thin out like ghosts...

I don't know for how long I am going to be in Alleppey. It could be a minimum of 1 year to maximum of 3 years. In my vague plans for future, I do not foresee service in the bank for more than another 2 years. I might take VRS. I am getting old. There are many things to do and places to go before I get weak in my knees.

In spite of my future plans which are as hazy as a back-lit photograph, I will come to terms with my present; the weekly visits home, the frantic, warm welcome from Sancho and Sally, the hectic work - and this little town. I might come to like this place with its decadence, its crumbling old godowns, shops whose interior hasn't changed since the 50s, where bicycles still outnumber motor vehicles, where you find men more in Mundu than trousers - where I will find many new strange things. I will come to terms with my life. I shall, like I said in an earlier post, glean happiness out of solitude.

******** Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 24.09.2011

An Old Song

2011-09-21T20:41:00.001+05:30

One of the few sweet memories I have of my mother is about the rare occasions she would bring out her old Veena. Rare? Once in blue moon, rather. In her girlhood, it was mandatory that girls should be proficient in either singing or dancing; my mother took up singing, but her voice wasn't that good so she switched to playing Veena. Which she did so beautifully. I still remember how haunting it was. I would sit before her and watch entranced, her long, gracefull fingers skimming over the strings, the way she would tease music out of the instrument.

And then there were yet rarer occasions I would catch her humming old Hindi film songs; songs from the 1940s, from her youth. One particular song she loved was - ' Hawa mein udtha jaaye, mera lal dupatta malmal'. As a diehard devotee of old Hindi film songs, it counted among my favourites too. A few years back I got a video CD with this song sequence. The scene was just as I had imagined it always. A pretty lass running about in a beautiful landscape with a stream and open country.

In the early 1980s I started my banking career at Chidambaram, in Tamil Nadu. Those were miserable days but it was at Chidambaram that I first learned how to glean happiness out of solitude.

The following is an unpublished poem which I wrote when I was in Varanasi in 2004. My mother was with me on her very last journey; in a clay pot, pieces of bones and ashes, her very last remains.

An Old Song

The tower of the temple loom up to the skies

Chidambaram, holding the skies aloft.

The mid-day sun, relentless, scorches

The last drop of pity evaporates.

The awnings of the shops like stiff, windless sails

Shiva in temple does his cosmic dance.

Devotees do a jiggle or two

Barefoot, on the hot, stone-paved yard.

In the corner where the jewel shops eat

Into the shops with groceries full

Stands an old woman with a cross, hung

Not Christ, but naphthalene balls and safety pins.

Her hair is dusty with grime and grit

Her ‘chela’ hangs in folds so loose

Her skin and partly exposed breasts

Swing as she turns, like flappy old sails.

She chants something – Paacha chana re?

Probably meaning, saying something

Calling out her wares or calling out to the Lord

Never will I know or couldn’t care less.

The old woman has fine bones still,

Her flesh, once firm, now hangs from it.

She is tall and her gaze scans all

The sky and the people moving about.

Standing in a shade, I watch her for a while

Her wares worth a few rupees.

She doesn’t sell for the while I am there

But still she chants- Paacha chana re?

Naphthalene balls for my moth-eaten life?

Safety pins to pin up the shreds?

A cross, when I am already hung

Rusty nails, stuck into my heart?

Time drifts - the day shifts from noon to dusk

The woman hardly lifts her legs.

I smoke, drink coffee, stare-a-blank

At the girls who pass in nonchalance.

Five and twenty years have passed

I still can see her as I did.

I am old now - so what happens

To the old of twenty, thirty years back?

The old, they drift, like grains of sand

They do not die, they just shift

Their legs from one world to next

Stand in their corners and chant or hum-

Like my mom-

Of her red Dupatta caught in the wind¹ .

*********** Varanasi 26/10/04

1. Lata’s old song – Hawa mein udthaa jaaye, more lal dupatta malmal …

courtesy: http://www.flickr.com/photos/kirenabarka/3403702767/in/pool-1010832@N20

Harleys on Highways

2011-09-18T09:52:00.000+05:30

This is a guest post. Nachiketh Balachandran, whom you all know as K, wrote it . Welcome, K; I hope this will inspire you to start a blog of your own!

I sit in a class of ninety.

But I am alone

All alone like a man in the middle of the ocean.

I sit here, thinking;

Thinking about my past, my future

And how this miserable present will pass me.

I hope. I always do.

For a better life;

A life of the Angels

The Angels who wear black

Who hear only one sound

The sound of their Harleys.

I will ride with the Angels one day

To the ends of the world I will ride -

To peace, to pleasure, to freedom.

********* Nachiketh Balachandran, Bangalore 17-09-2011

Numb

2011-09-17T22:53:00.000+05:30

I look with glazed eyes
At this virtual piece of paper I call my blog
My fingers languish, hovering over the keyboard
What to write, when you are empty, lifeless -
Words dry up, thoughts freeze -
Is this the beginning of a winter?

********* Balachandran V, Trivandrum 17.09.2011

Onam

2011-09-10T20:15:00.001+05:30

Amma (1927- 30/6/2004) with K, 1992

Last Wednesday evening I caught a bus from Alleppey to Trivandrum . I couldn't get the train because of the holiday rush. The bus took nearly 5 hrs to traverse around 160 kms. En route, one passes the many small towns on the NH 47, which is clogged with traffic. The streets of the towns choke with people and brightly lit shops; people are in a frenzy of buying - vegetables, fried chips, dresses, household items.

P and I spend a quiet Onam. K could not join us, because they don't have Onam holidays in Bangalore. I browsed, brooded and cuddled Sancho. Wrote a couple of poems(????).

Browsing through the old files, I discovered the following poem, which is unpublished - that is, neither in my collection ' Signs of Love' nor in the magazine that occasionally put one. It is a bit old, ( written in 2004) but connected to Onam, so I thought you might like to read it.

In Kerala, when somebody asks - Engane undu Onam? ( How's Onam?), those who have had a death in the family during the preceding year would reply - 'O, njangalkku onam onnum illa! ( No Onam for us). There were two deaths in ours this year.

But then, that too shall pass. So, dear friends of the blogworld, let me wish you all a happy Onam and a great year to follow!

Onam, alone

Onam*- festivities and happiness,

Dresses in colour, TVs and fridges

Cars and bikes in a spending spree.

Respite from a life, lived mundane.

Onam, my first, without my mother

Forty-six Onams I spent with her.

Her age not counted in mouthfuls of rice¹

Her last was a ball for the crow to eat.²

Onam- a week a year, from one to next

Sky so blue and fields so green.

Clouds have gone, weather is mild

Onam will come, the dead will not.

But trees do flower, waters do rise,

Hills turn green, despite the droughts.

They mightn’t be the same, yet they are,

Despite the deaths, life doesn’t end.

Somewhere, in some house, a baby is born,

Somewhere in a newborn, relives my mom.

I wouldn’t know her, I wouldn’t see her,

But somewhere, somehow, we would meet.

I’d hold her hand, touch her head,

Hold her cheek close to mine.

I’d sense her soul from the smell of her skin

The smell, the feel, of my mother’s milk.

I’d tell her I loved her,

Love, neither shown, never given.

I’d talk to her in words so sweet,

Bitter were those unto the last.

I’d hug her, with all warmth and love,

For never did I know the touch of her heart.

I cared for her with all my heart,

But walls did grow, watered with hate.

A horse, whipped, without reason,

A dog, kicked, howling in pain.

Whimpering in fear, uncomprehending,

Yet I took care unto her last.

Ah! Time! Come to a grinding halt,

Shift a lever in reverse mode.

Stop at the day when I sat on her lap,

Gave her a kiss and hugged her close-

And slept- as I did, once, in her womb.

**********

28.08.04. Onam, Trivandrum

*- Onam is an annual festival in Kerala, southwest India.

1. At forty-six, I have eaten forty-six Onam feasts- forty-six mouthfuls of rice.

2. In the Hindu rituals, a ball of cooked rice and other offerings are given everyday till the sixteenth day of death- left on a banana leaf, you clap your hands for the Jungle Crow, the symbol of the departed spirit.

Mirror images

2011-09-08T23:39:00.003+05:30

At the fair, at my favorite stall with distorted mirrors
I look at
A squat me
A fat me
A looong me
A twisted me
A me I think me
A shattered me
A stretched me -

Suddenly-
the images begin to speak
They raise a finger at me
and says I am you you are me
I am you you are me -

I hide a smile -

They too...

************* Balachandran V Trivandrum, 08-09-2011

What I would love to be but will never be

2011-09-08T15:32:00.001+05:30

Sadhu with dog in Himalaya-1938

In the pages of an old LIFE I chance upon
This, the portrait of my innermost me.

A me that I might never be, never see
A self that is the farthest from me
A life that is furthering from me
As I run, run away from me...

************ Balachandran V, Trivandrum 08-09-2011

Dreamers to Note

2011-08-28T20:33:00.001+05:30

If you have a dream, do not share it

With those you share reality.

They will never understand.

If you have a wish, do not utter it aloud

Wishes are like butterflies, they die too soon.

If you have a vision, friend, close your eyes

Lest others snatch the light.

Close your eyes, fellow dreamers

Close your mind, hide it

In the farthest, deepest recess as possible.

One day, we will call for a conclave

Where we all will sit in a circle

Around a hearth of love

Huddled inside a cloak of trust

Our faces lit up with the glow of faith

We will giggle, rub our noses together

Kiss the nape of our necks

And tell us all about each other

And hold our hands tight, tight, tight...

Till then - do not share your dreams -

With those you share reality...

*********** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 28-08-2011

Caught Behind

2011-08-26T20:25:00.001+05:30

Every time I am caught

With my back to someone's camera

I look aghast

Refusing to believe, to accept

That the unfamiliar posterior of a human head

With dirty grey wisps of hair

Like an odd-looking horseshoe

Stuck on a hairless scalp

That reflects the light of the camera flash

Is really me

Hiding behind an anterior

I thought I knew all my life -

A view of myself that I will never see

With my own eyes...

***********************

Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 26-08-2011

A Season of Change

2011-08-14T08:16:00.002+05:30

Ask any Malayalee ( I don't like the term, 'Keralite' – as if we are kind of elite) about the best season home – to the majority it'd be the New Year season of the Malayalam era, the begining of the month of Chingam, that falls in mid-August. That's the time we go on a spending spree, sellers vying each other with 'offers' and freebies. The climate is pleasant and would be so till Jan - Feb. The festive season. It has been commercialized ad nauseum. Like a streetside hooker, we sell Kerala to the tourists who throng the land. The beaches, backwaters, mountains, Onam, the boat races – oh, by the way- I have been transferred from home (Trivandrum) to Alleppey/Alapuzha, the land of boat races and backwaters. Got to report on Tuesday, the 16^th of August.

I was due for a transfer, but I had secretly hoped ( but never believed) that I would be posted somewhere nearer home, somewhere commutable daily, considering my age and seniority. But the Highnesses thought otherwise. Trivandrum – Alleppey is about 3 and a half hours journey by train, less trains in that route, and bankers no longer work 10 to 5 routine; most of us work late. So, commuting daily to Alleppey is out of question. P will have to be alone; rather, with Sancho and Sally. Fortunately, we have a maid who has temporarily agreed to stay the nights. It is a touch-and-go situation, but - Forward Ho! I have to resist negative thoughts, refuse to look at the disadvantages, the inconveniences of this shifting. I think of the lesser privileged and comfort myself, convincing myself that things could've been worse, they could've posted me farther away. I think of friends in foreign lands, the soldiers in Ladakh, those who had to forsake the comforts of home for survival.

I sniff the air, and feel the change of season. For me though, it is a season of change. I do not resist, I let the tide carry me. I sniff the air. I hope that like my soujourn in Kottayam a few years ago, which was one of the best seasons in my life, Alleppey too would welcome me. On days I cannot come home to P and Sancho, maybe I will roam and explore the old town. I might ride a boat into the backwaters, drink toddy and eat Duck roast and Fish Fry. I might take photographs of that beautiful land, Kuttanad and the vast Vembanad lake and backwaters. There might be new temples to peek into, for their exotic murals or carvings. There will be old beautiful houses to gape at and be awed. There will be the breeze that sweep in from the lake. There are new, strange, mysterious smells wafting down. I sniff like Sancho.

But - I have to watch out for the mosquitoes of Alleppey and - Filariasis to boot!!!

********** Balachandran V Trivandrum 14.08.2011

Tierra del Fuego

2011-08-07T16:11:00.005+05:30

Tierra del Fuego, Land of Fire! How further long

How many days and nights – or would it be months and years

Or – would it be never, I shudder to think.

How further long would you come to me in my sleep

In my waking hours, in my walks in the mountains

How further long would it be when I touch you finally?

Tierra del Fuego, you have remained a dream

Decades old, when unable to resist you, I tore off a picture

And kept you in my treasure chest, locked in the depths of my heart!
I yearned for you so much, Tierra del Fuego!

You were a kindred soul in my tempestuous youth.
Your trees twisted in the storm

Storms, passionate and intense,
Raging waves lashing against the cliffs

Snow-bound peaks, aloof, saying, ' No, no further!'

Yet I could see in you a heart wanting to be loved, wanting

To be understood, silently asking, ' look at me, I am not just

The ravaged, savage land that you see' - I knew you as I know me!

In my dreams you burn, your snows and blizzards and open vast lands

Your cruel seas, screaming winds and gently flowing streams!

My fingers tremble, my heart flutters as I see you, as I see men standing -

All I have are your pictures, I chant your name as I have, as I will for years!

Tierra del Fuego! Look at me. In my dreams I do not climb your mountains

I do not fish your streams, I do not scamper over your craggy landscape.

Somewhere, somewhere in you, I stand leaning on a rock, looking out

To the land's end and beyond the seas, in my dreams I caress

A stone, moss-covered - I slip it into my pocket, close to my heart!

*************** Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 07-08-2011

Uno momento

2011-08-06T20:52:00.002+05:30

Try to visualize this.

The time is 1931 hrs. I sit in my room, at my table where at the left extreme end my old Sony music system with its huge speakers idles; next to it is a PC – a mongrel if there can be – the monitor is a massive 17” Philips and the CPU is the mongrel. To the right of the monitor, in front of the Inkjet printer, in that cramped space, my love, my little Dell Netbook – I have not fallen in love with any computer till date, but – I love this baby.

To my left, a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey, gifted by one of the few real friends I have, Sreekumar. He acquired it during his recent European tour- 3 larges down, I am wonderfully tipsy but things are so clear that i can type out letters on my little baby Dell without – well, not too many mistakes.

At my feet lies Sancho, I keep my feet warm on his fur. P is not home; she is expected by 2300 hrs, I have to go and pick her up from the railway station far away near the sea.

Jameson true Irish whiskey is too good. Why, it is a close rival to my lord of all lords, The Glenlivet Single Malt Whiskey – now, dont you dare say a single word against Glenlivet! Bliss – has only one other name – Glenlivet Single Malt.

Outside it is quiet, the silence broken only by the pitter-patter of a drizzle. K calls me from Bangalore. He is stuck in the Forum Mall in Koramangala it is raining heavily there and is browsing at the Landmark. He gives me a missed call. I call him back. K says he is hungry and discovered he didnt have any money and came to the ATM in the Mall. Full of burgers or whatever, he says – 'Acha, there is this book you might like, 'Himalayan Vignettes', all old B&W photos of Himalayas, 2000 bucks do you want it I can buy it for you'. I ask him to tell me the name of the book and author, search flipkart and they offer it for 1600. K wants to buy that for me I tell him no i can get it from flipkart.

As I type this, I realize I am getting tipsy, making too many spelling mistakes, lord, am I happily drunk!

I tell K about a T shirt I bought for him at Manali, which says – 'MY DAD IS AN ATM'.

I browse. http://www.oldindianphotos.in/ I am transported to the past, in this virtual Time Machine. I brood over old photographs, India in the 19th and early 20th century and I look at these pics of Himalayas and people and I take another sip of good old Jameson may he live forever, IRISH FOREVER!

Between the letters that jump into this little 10.5' screen and my mind, I remember you – Anil, Doc Antony, Bindu, Melange' (will you stand up please and identify yourself and stop torturing me with all your exclamation marked receipes which I will never be able to try out in my kitchen, you are tormenting me with your Choora curry) Dr Kavita Saharia ( will you take a look at my potholes in the molars where all the peanuts and chicken get stuck forever) and Ousu, who almost seems to be reliving my life 30 years ago and – Bikram, I ENVY YOU for your bike ride to Scotland - Jesus H Christ, as some characters in the old James Hadley Chase used to say – my friends I love you all and I am into my 5th ? 6Th? I am beautifully, pleasantly drunk but still sober enough to correct the spelling mistakes and i told you I love my Dell Netbook and NO, NO Microsoft and Bill Gates, I love my UBUNTU!

Suddenly. My friends, let me tell ya somethin'. I am an old bum soaked in whiskey. Naah! I love my shots, hadn't one since 15th July and I am more of my real self, not the brusque, aggressive facade that I keep, I am me, the bald old man of 54, who loves dogs and mountains and P and K and all the friends and Tierra del Fuego and Ernest Hemingway and the little insignifcant moments of joy.

I light another Gold Flake King size and I am happy as i take anothe sip. Sancho puts his foreleg on my lap the signal that he is hungry and I have to feed him and Sally.

My good ole friend, Doc KVS calls I had invited him to meet Jameson today evening with me but he could not come I tell him how good Irish Whiskey is.

In another few minutes, my friends, curtains fall on yet another happy moment of my life!

Jameson or not, thank you, planet Earth for this gift of life!

Cheers!

Balan. Trivandrum 06.08.2011 2051 hrs

A Tribute to Friendship

2011-07-31T18:44:00.003+05:30

http://fineartamerica.com/images-medium/friendship-jiaur-rahman-online-watercolor-paintings-exhibition.jpg

In the rebellious youth of yore, I declared to my mother - 'You love me not because I am Balachandran V, but because I am your son. As an individual, I demand respect and love for what I am. That is something neither you nor my siblings and relatives can ever give me. That is why I value friendship more than blood relation. You are bound to love me, whereas friends are not. There are no obligations in friendship'. Words to such effect delivered oh-so-pompously, self-righteously.

I can now imagine how hurting those words would have been to her. I can understand that shadow of pain that crossed her face, because now as a father I realize that I love and respect my son not only because he is my blood, but for the good fortune that I have in knowing him, in nurturing him - it is like watching a tree growing; you love the tree not only because you gave it water and sunlight or for the shade and happiness it gives us, but also for what the tree is, for the very being of that tree.

Anil's latest post, 'Matters of fact', in which I figure rather too prominently ( glaringly, like my bald head!) is about friendship. Friendship, I now know is not something that you can have with only those other than blood or familial relations, but your spouse and offspring too can be friends.

Suddenly, I am engulfed in a surge of great joy - I realize that P & K are among my best friends!

Below is a poem I wrote long ago. I reproduce it here for all the friends in my life. From Cheriyan in the US, one of my oldest friends that I am still in touch with ( we haven't seen each other in the flesh for - 45 years!), Pradeep, Venu, Shibu, Abe, Jacob, Balu, Rahul, Anil, Sreekumar(s), Vincent, Dr Sreenivasan, Satheesh, Gopi, Parameswaran, Unnikrishnan, Suresh, Mohan, James, Bindu, Dr Antony, Arun, Ousu, Kalpana, Sumi, Thomman, Kavitha, Melange - (I realize there are too many to write, so those names omitted, pl forgive).

I look at the panorama of the circle of my friends and I see that it extends, extends, extends....

Thanks for being around, guys and gals! This poem is for each of you.

A Library of Love

My friend! What brought us together?

Was it the love for each other’s presence?

Was it the comfort in each other’s being?

Was it the glow in our eyes and hearts?

Was it the joy, the warmth and mirth

Was it regard, respect, the reason

Or was it because we just felt at ease?

Was it just the way we were?

Weren’t there times when it came to an end,

Weren’t there moments when we flew apart?

Why to each other did we take

Why each did we value, more than others?

What made you my friend, my friend?

What was the chemistry, what was the fusion?

What, pray tell me you see in me

What made you say I am your friend?

It couldn’t be just the love for music

Or for mountains and musings on life.

It couldn’t be just the interests same

Or sharing the simple joys of life.

Something did happen when we met

When we said hello and looked in the eye.

Something right did fall in place

A seed, a bond that then grew in time.

The rides on bikes! The walks on hills!

The spray of rain, lashing winds!

Numbing cold! Gasping breath!

Evenings cool, a warm drink in hand.

Sun at dusk, sun at dawn,

Moonlit nights and starry skies.

Green clad forests, snowy peaks

Chaotic cities and villages calm.

Long were the paths together we trod,

Lord! How short, how short was it all!

How much further would we have

To walk on, think on, side by side?

My friends! There is such gladness in my heart

That I could be all I wanted in life.

Each of you filled a void in me

Each of you were what I weren’t.

Each of you were what I wished to be

And each of you had a little of me.

What would it matter if we had to leave

When we have filled each other’s cup?

My friends! Like my books you are

Always kept within my view.

Just within reach, always at hand,

My friends, my little library of love!

************************

Balachandran V, Kottayam 28/07/2005

The Aaloo Paratha Route to Himalayas Part III

2011-07-27T20:12:00.001+05:30

In the beginning, I had some misgivings on writing about this trip. When the prime objective of reaching Leh could not be achieved, what else remained, but to write about the rest of the trip – and about the Aaloo Parathas and Momos that I ate? And the company of dear friends?

But that would be the story of my life, too. I haven’t achieved in life what I’d have loved to; dreams remain, like that of going to Tierra del Fuego, some day. Or ride through Scotland in my bike as Bikram has done. Or spend a month or two in the Amazon river. Or turning the entire world green with one wave of my magic wand. Or finding a home to all the street dogs of the world. Or – well! When you get to middle age, when you see your dreams and fantasies charred to ashes, when you see your aspirations remained mere aspirations – when, due to reasons whatsoever, you realize your mediocrity – that’s when you really start living, having accepted finally who you are, what your limits are. Long, long ago in the turbulent youth, I used to exhort my friends – ‘Break your limits!’ Now, decades later, I have accepted my limits. Of my dreams – I smile gently to myself, light a cigarette and watch the smoke rings wobble in the still air.

Having decided to make the next attempt to cross Rohtang on 11th, we lost 2 precious days of our itinerary. We languished. We walked to Manali town and did some indifferent shopping. Manali’s shops cater to the freewheeling, gullible tourists. Most of what you get in Manali, you can get in New Delhi for half the price. We investigated - what else, restaurants. Near the Hadimba Devi temple, we drank excellent Lassi, ate Momo and Fried Rice at ‘Green Forest’. Waiting for the food, I take photographs of the beautiful Roses. The small teashop near the Old Manali bridge was our favorite haunt. We have been saying too many goodbyes to the old man who owned the teashop. But the pick of our choice was ‘Chopsticks’, a Tibetan restaurant in the Mall Road. There was a very pretty Tibetan girl sitting in the counter, so pretty that one might cry. She looked as fragile and lovely as a Rose petal. Sitting at a table near her, I watch her beautiful slender fingers drumming on the desktop. Her straight hair falls across her face whenever she prepares a bill. I eavesdrop. She is talking politics and China. She smiles and like a springy doll, nods her head up and down in agreement with her friend.

The food is excellent and the service, friendly and courteous. I gorge as usual on Momos and Thupka. Bit expensive, but sumptuous and very tasty. Ananthu has an obsession with Chowmein or Chopsuey or such other gooey stuff. Doc is enamoured with Veg Manchurian. For starters we have chilled beer and Momos. Gopi orders some fancy chicken curried with bamboo shoots and shares it with me. Satheesh is a vegetarian and dunks his head in his delights.

You might wonder why I am not so enthusiastic about Manali. Till this trip, I hated this place. Because it was here in 1995 that I was robbed of my entire camera system, the Canon A1 and three other expensive lenses. It was a disastrous trip. I had badly wanted to come to the mountains, but P, would not let me go alone. There weren’t any friends to join. Desperately, I managed to rope in a partly willing acquaintance, whose carelessness resulted in my loss. The equipment was worth about 40,000/- then, an immensely huge amount for the likes of me. I had painstakingly built it up, saving money so frugally. I was devastated. I roamed the streets of Manali for 4 days, staying in a decrepit hotel in the village and hung around the Police station. I still remember the Police Station; on the front door were pinned notices, of missing persons. Young foreigners who had ventured out into the vastness of Lahaul, Spiti and Zanskar and disappeared forever. In fact, it was those faces that finally calmed me down.

As our hopes to reach Leh seemed to flounder, my friends jokingly accused me, saying that it is the curse of Hadimba Devi and Lord Manu, the presiding deities of Manali, for hating their town.

There isn’t much to see in Manali town, other than the Hadimba Devi temple. You can walk around, do window shopping, ogle at the scantily clad foreigners, visit the Tibetan monastery, the hot springs at Vashist and if you have children, go to Solang Valley for a round of paragliding (3 minutes in the air for Rs.1000/-) or bungee jumping etc. You can do river rafting in many places downriver. In the outskirts of the town or in an undisturbed corner, you may discover a quiet nook and watch the Beas.

So went Ananthu, paragliding. We elders thought it best to humour him.

Feasts and drinking bouts later, the next day, the 11th July, we set sail again for Leh. Matters were more abrupt and clear this time; the road was blocked right at Marhi. We were told that the Pass would be open by 1200 noon, we waited till 1600. It was obvious to us that even if we were able to cross the next day, i.e, the 12th, we would reach Leh the latest by 13th evening (which would mean rushing through the 3 Passes and missing all the beauty of the landscape). High Altitude Sickness would take its toll on us without a day’s rest – and we have to catch the flight on 15th morning.

It was a gloomy group that trundled back to the same guesthouse once again. Doc said that it had become a second home to us.

Booked bus tickets back to New Delhi for the 14th evening; our return flight home was on 16th morning. Over rum, whiskey and vodka, we discussed how to utilize the remaining days. Options were few; we decided to visit Jalori Pass in Kulu district, about 80 kms from Manali. Turning left from the mouth of the tunnel at Aut, we pass little villages like Banjar. At 10000 odd feet and lush with Pine trees, Jalori Pass and the climb to the Pass is pleasant. Aalu Parathas again and we walk into the forests for a 6km trek to the --- lake and temple. We are making do with what we can. It is an easy walk with a couple of climbs.

We walk in the incessant rains and thick mist. Stopping to catch my breath, I notice the white paper stuck on a tree. It has an arrow pointing in the direction to the lake. Below it says – ‘ Better alone than with bad company’. I ask Satheesh, panting beside me –‘ Who is my bad company, myself or you?’

***********************

PS: I check the ‘net for news on Rohtang Pass; as on July 24th, the Pass still remains unpassable.

********** Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 27.07.2011

The Aalu Paratha route to Himalayas Part II

2011-07-26T19:50:00.004+05:30

In the newspapers today, there was yet another tragic news. Three youngsters in their early 20s, software engineers working in Infosys ( that is one of the ultimates, isn’t it?) died in a car crash. Two others are seriously injured and fighting for their lives. One of the deceased was the daughter of a Malayalam movie director. She was 23.

We dream, plan and then execute. So it is for our future, so it is for our little journeys. We secretly believe that nothing is going to happen to us; tragedies are for the rest of the world. I have not traveled far and wide, but well, more than many of my age and situation. I cannot honestly say that I have been free of dread; fear of accident or loss of life, though it is not for myself but for the sorrow that could befall those who love me. But, honest, this fear was unknown before I got married and had a child. I used to be reckless ( P says still am) in driving as well as in decision–making. Now whenever I go for a long trip, I am torn between the desire to move out and the pangs of being away from my family.

Risk is inherent in every act. So many have died choking on food, while driving cars, while swimming, while – well, sleeping, as my brother-in-law did last week. But the risk factor doesn’t deter us from what we want to do, does it? The degree of risk, of course varies. One assesses risks on the basis of one’s capabilities to overcome. I’d be stupid if I were to jump into the ocean and swim the Palk strait or something. But give me a Royal Enfield Bullet Bike – I tell you, if you can provide me the logistical support, here I am, ready to ride the bike to the ends of the world!

The young kids who died in the car crash would have never dreamt that their lives were going to be so brutally cut short. Who’d think of death at 23, unless you are a schizophrenic or something?

But we got to live. We got to live as if we will never die. There is always a chance we will be alive the next moment, next hour, next day, next year…

When we started off from Manali on the 9^th of July, we had no inkling of what was to come. Gopi and I discussed about the places we should go, the things we should do at Leh. ( us being veterans of Leh, all the other three could do was to chaff at the reins). Starting off at 0500 hrs ( I had frowned at this late hour – I had suggested at least 0300 hrs- always start early and reach early in the mountains. Never travel in the afternoons. My Thumb Rule #1) we reached Marhi, the watering hole below Rohtang Pass. Far above we could see the long winding queue of vehicles. At the tea shop where we had our Aalu Paratha, Rajma, Omlette and Amul Butter, we were told that the traffic block up in the Pass has been there since yesterday. In no time we cover another 8 kms and joins the traffic block. The time was 0730 hrs.

(Aalu Paratha #2, with Rajma- wiping off the last bit)

The narrow roads of Rohtang Pass had deteriorated in many places due to the monsoon showers. Slush and mud and glacial streamlets running down and the invariable landslips that were hurriedly cleared by the GREF marred the roads. The large majority of the traffic constituted of tourists going up to Rohtang Pass. That was the last point of the tourists who would walk the glacier, frolic in the snow and pose on Yaks. The rest were the trucks, buses and other vehicles like ours going beyond the Pass to Keylong and further to Leh. In their hurry to get ahead, there were two, at places three, lanes of vehicles going up. There was no sign of downcoming traffic.

Time moved on. Sometimes we would inch up a few meters. The only vehicles that were coming down or moving up ahead were the occasional bikers. They would stagger through the mud and negotiate the treacherous path while the bigger vehicles looked after them with envy. I look at the riders all helmeted and jacketed and carrying loads and the mud splattered on their boots and trousers and the haggard look and the burning concentration on the rutted path and the deep thumping of the Bullets and the wind – I had done this 4 years ago, almost to the same day. How I would love get my hands on one of these bikes!

1730hrs. We discussed. As per our original plan, we were to reach Leh in two days, spend 4 days there and catch a flight back to New Delhi on 15^th morning. We had two options; either to stay and see the night out and hope that the Pass will be cleared the next day. I personally had no other option in my mind. Those who have been with me in the mountains know how transformed would be my personality in the heights. I am no longer the wishywashy Charlie Brown I am in the plains. I am in my elements up there. I tell my friends to store up water, buy whatever food available ( there are Corn vendors, 'Biscooth' vendors who have come up to the Pass from the villages down below- a coffee costs 20 bucks, an omlete, 40! ). Somebody called up our friend, Hari, a former mountaineer in New Delhi. Hari advised caution. Somebody called up Gopi's friend in Manali, the trekking instructor; he advised - return to Manali.

We inched up our way till 0030hrs midnight. By then, the intermittent drizzle had strengthened. It was very cold and windy. We were nearabouts 10000 ft. Then we reached the exact spot where the largest landslide had occurred. Between the partly cleared rocks and the chasm on the other side, there was just enough space for a car to squeeze through. The few policemen posted out here were there since couple of nights, sans food and sans sleep. Bulldozers tried to push the vehicles sunk into the mud, up the incline. Four-wheel drives could go up, but cars like our Innova slid backwards, dangerously close to the edge of the road beyond which there was nothing. Then the skies opened up.

We are shut inside the car. In the darkness, to my left I can see the tons of rocks and mud that had slid down from the mountain side. To my right, again, nothing but the chasm. 'This could be it', I told myself. I have been caught in landslides in Himalayas before, but not this uncomfortably close. Then a policeman came and rapped at our windows. 'Go back', he said. 'it is too dangerous to be stuck here now. The rains can bring down another landslide, get away, get away', he said. Our driver, Prem Thakur, is an unbelivable expert. He managed to reverse the Innova – I could hear the tyres slipping, the engine screaming, as we slid closer and closer to the edge. Men came out from the night, from the other vehicles and manually lifted the car and turned it around.

Even Gopi and I were shaken. We were a bit too close – to death. Smoking my umpteenth Gold Flake Kings, I imagined the little obituary in Malayala Manorama... But never say die; I suggested that we go down to Marhi and wait the night out there. Anyway it was already 0100 hrs and we could snooze in the car. We could come up again in the morning. But I was voted out. We returned to Manali, to the same beautiful guesthouse and slugging a couple, went to sleep... We decided to wait till the weather improved and the Pass opened up and try again the next day.

To be continued ....

The Aalu Paratha route to Himalayas

2011-07-25T19:17:00.003+05:30

(Morning view from the guesthouse, Old Manali)

Part I

“Life is a journey, with unexpected twists and turns”, began the friend and I retched inwardly. It is such a cliché, stale but so dully true. It would also sum up my latest trip to the Himalayas.

To stretch the metaphor, what is more important in the journey of life or that to the Himalayas, is the company you keep, the route you take and how you travel through.

My wanderings in the Himalayas began more than 25 years ago; I visited its different regions regularly, mostly alone, with family, then with a friend or two or organized treks and bike rides. I still prefer to do it alone; though I wouldn’t really say so about my life – the happiness I owe to my family and friends and the society at large is much more – or different- than I would’ve got, if I were alone.

From Jalori Pass deep in Himachal Pradesh, there is a short trek of 6km to a little lake and a temple. We walked through the pine forests in incessant rains and thick mist. Signs and inspiring words pointed to the destination. I come across one – ‘ Better alone than with bad company’.

But I had great company. Dr KVS and Satheesh , friends since 23 years, Gopi, fellow biker, mountaineer, professional wildlife photographer and Ananthu, Satheesh’s 15-year old son. What we had in common was love for nature and a passion for Himalayas. Even Ananthu was on his second trip to the snows.

Our destination was Leh, in Ladakh. I had been to Leh twice before, on foot and on bike – this trip was to be in a car- I wasn’t keen on the mode of transport but again, for the sake of my friends I curbed my desire to bike it through.

Aalu Paratha

The Volvo bus, which left ISBT New Delhi at 1930, stopped at one of the innumerable roadside dhabas near Sundernagar in the early morning. We tore into our Aalu Ps that shimmered in the sheen of slowly melting Amul butter chunks. Chena Masala, a double-egged omelet, Dahi (curds) and a pickle with unidentifiable pieces of vegetables embellished the breakfast that had us running to the loo in no time.

Reaching Manali in the afternoon, we stayed in a guesthouse in Old Manali that belonged to a friend of Gopi. (To those who haven’t been to Manali – there are two Manalis, the town frequented by Indian tourists and the village by foreigners. Manali is a typical touristy hill town – which to choose depends on your tastes and interests.) The next day we spent walking to Solang valley about 13 km away. Manali at 1950mt is ideal for acclimatization if you are going to higher altitudes.

A few kilometers into the trek, Dr KVS declares he has had enough. The path is quiet and beautiful. To our right flowed the Beas, rushing down to Manali from the high mountains.

We are a mixed lot, physique-wise. Anathu, youngest at 15, is a lanky, athletic fellow, who skims over ascents as rapidly as he fires questions to every answer he seeks. Gopi, 36, bachelor, certified mountaineer, trekker, solo biker, photographer, French linguist from Pondicherry, keeps generally to himself as he ascends the hills as if on an evening stroll in his seaside town; except of course, in the evenings he goes garrulous about Latin America and Eduardo Galeano, aided by the warmth in the belly. Satheesh, 45, heading one of the largest NGOs in the country is 100 plus, though he claims he was a champion sportsman in his younger days. Doc and I in our mid 50s are the stragglers. I am more experienced in Himalayas than my friend – the advantage is in knowing what to expect and how far one may go. Mountains make you aware, not only of the mind, but the body too.

Momos

Ever since I ate my first steamed Chicken Momo somewhere deep in Sikkim in 1988, I have been a devotee of Tibetan cuisine. Like the land and its people, Tibetan food too is simple, bare but nourishing. Be it the Momo or their music, one is transported to the vast, seamless horizons, the bare brown mountains with snow-capped peaks. The bright red chill chutney that comes with Momo – I bite off an end of the Momo and carefully stuff its cavity with the chutney to the brim, pause – and with a yearning, anticipating yet another moment of bliss, carry the Momo gently into the cavity of my mouth – tongue catches fire – messages of extreme pleasure are sent to and fro between the brain and the sensitives nerve-ends in my mouth. Fulfilment as my teeth meet the meat and grinds it gently, with great relish.

In that little tea-shop in Old Manali, we are served plate after plate of steamed vegetable Momo. These are excellent, succulent, home-made Momos, so easy on my stomach – one forgets the number of Momos consumed. I share mine with a street dog. We eat, belch, wait and eat again as Ananthu goes rappelling across the stream. Mid-stream, the operator swings the rope and Ananathu is buoyed till he skims the surface of the gurgling stream. We wait for the next day when we would ascend Rohtang Pass, and across to Lahaul valley and Leh.

( TO BE CONTINUED….)

The Door to Tranquility

2011-07-21T21:04:00.002+05:30

One of the best designed landscapes in our city is the electric crematorium at Thycaud. It is called 'Santhi – kavaadam' or the door to tranquility.

My 6-year old grandnephew gripped my hand. We were standing behind my nephew who was about to start the last rituals. Attired in a wet dhoti with a band of red cloth tied around his waist, my nephew stood still. Then one of the assistants pulled out a thread from his father's dhoti and tied it to his. Behind him, we stood touching the one in front with our hands. And then the assistant broke the thread. The symbolic end to what connected the dead person and the rest of us.

On top of the white shroud that covered my brother-in-law, a handfull Vettiver roots lay. A few pieces of sandalwood were strewn over. A lump of camphor was kept on it and lit by my nephew. As the camphor caught fire, the door of the electric crematorium lifted up with a groan. Though we stood a good 5 mts away, the blast of heat from the furnace reddened our faces. Then the trolly on which the body lay was slowly pushed forward.

How eager were the flames! How quickly it ate up the red pattu, the white shroud that covered my brother-in-law! The door came down and ground to the concrete floor.

Shanku, my little grandnephew I love so much, tugged my arm and asked me – 'Can I ask you a secret question?' Shanku is always sharing secrets with me. 'What happens to Appooppan ( grandpa) now? Will he turn to ashes?'

I stand before many. Parents of my friends, my own mother, relatives, friends, young men – once, even a little 2-year old. In the hollow, worthless knowledge that nothing exists beyond that door, in the barren, arid, comfortless zone where no fake beliefs and holy men and religions dare to step forward to me in pretensions of solace, in that state of limbo, I caress Shanku's head, bend down and kiss him.

********* Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 21-07-2011

Back to Sea Level

2011-07-19T22:55:00.001+05:30

Trivandrum, nearly at 0 msl. So be my spirits. As soon as I switch on my cell phone, calls come in, informing the demise of my brother-in-law. Not that I was particularly attached to him, but it sort of dampened things, like the intermittent drizzle...

Just to let you know that I am back from the mountains. It was a mixed experience. Couldn't reach Leh due to the landslides at Rohtang Pass, but the company of good friends and the choice of other lesser destinations made the whole vacation a memorable event in my life.

What with the cremation and rituals etc etc, it would be some time when I post about my trip. But I slouch before my little netbook and wonder if I should, at all. Watching the cold corpse of my brother-in-law being pushed into the freezing chambers of the mortuary ( He passed away on Saturday, but his son in US would reach only tomorrow, Wednesday) like a slab of dead flesh, the plate slides in smoothly, the door shut and locked -

I wonder I should call it a day here at my blog. Sometimes it is as unpleasant as the real world.

Sorry for the depressing words, folks. I might take a little time to bounce back to my old self...

Growing Up

2011-07-05T23:50:00.005+05:30

About 6 years ago when K was in school, he asked me to help out in writing an article for the school magazine. We discussed his idea; I made him write out what he wanted to say and then re-wrote it. Words might be mine, but the thought is his.

In a corner of the drawing room in our house, one can see faint pencil marks on the wall. It starts at about 2 or 3 feet from the floor; short dashes against which, if you look closely, you can see some dates. 15-7-1994, 15-7-1995, 15-07-1996, etc. It ends at 15-7-2002. Not that I have stopped growing up, but my mother would have somehow forgotten to do it anymore.

I look at my parents' wedding album. My father has black moustache and thick black hair and is trim. My mother looks very young. Both grin at the camera widely. But now after 15 years, they look so different from that old picture.

From sometime in January 2000 till 30-6-2004, my grandmother ( father's mother) was with us. She lay on a bed or sat propped up on a chair. She had Alzheimer's Disease and she couldn't walk because of a broken hip that never mended. She had forgotten everything. For hours she used to lie, staring blankly at the walls. Sometimes she would look at us and smile. Then one day she died;quietly.

In the family photo album, there are pictures taken when I was a little baby. There are so many photographs taken throughout all these years. I look at them and see how I am changing. I am in my teens now. I will be an adult in another few years ; I will get a job, marry and have children – and one day I too will be gone like my grandmother.

The toys I played with when I was a small boy is of no interest to me now. I hardly watch cartoons in the TV. Instead, I listen to music or play computer games. I guess I am growing up. As I realize that, I realize that I have growing responsibilities too. I realize that along with all the fun and joy, I also have to learn to bear pain and suffering.

There are many things I would like to do, many places I would like to see. I have to take one day at a time. But I have to look ahead too, so that I can plan my future. Whether things will turn out the way I want or not, I can always plan and think on what I am going to to do with my life. Because this is my life and I have to decide. I am sure my parents, my teachers and my friends would help me out, but the final decision has to be taken by me. It is very serious. It is very exciting also.

Like the lines of one of my father's favourite poems by Ernest Henley, ' I am the captain of my soul, I am the master of my fate'...

********

Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 05-07-2011

The Invisible Cyclist

2011-07-02T20:46:00.003+05:30

The sudden spurt of pleasure in bicycling a couple of months ago nearly had a premature death, what with my old lower back pain's reappearence. The roads of Trivandrum, esp., around where I live are not the best for biking. They are in a horrible state of repair. Moreover, after 5 minutes in any direction you have an incline, which in my surge of enthusiasm, I tried riding up which in turn strained my poor back again. And living in the heart of a city...

Now that I have to leave for Ladakh on 6^th July, I thought I will give whatever preparation I can for my muscles and took up bicycling again.

Have you recently rode a bicycle in your city? At the peak hours? You should, if you haven't. It is as if the cyclist does not exist. He/she is invisible. The cars, buses, motorcycles and autorickshaws cannot see you. Maybe they cannot be blamed, because there are hardly any cyclists in the city streets. I was forced out to the verge of the street into the ditches and potholes several times; there of course you have to deal with the pedestrians who totter directionless onto your path, talking into mobile phones.

My only weapon is the Klaxon, faintly remembered by the older generation here as that of the call of the fish vendor. I give it a couple of squeezes and it goes – 'PEEEYOOO! PEEEYOO!', jerking the passersby out of their reverie. I am looked upon as a strange creature, this anachronism from the past.

Yet, there is great pleasure in the anonymity. I ride by, like an old man on an evening stroll. My face is frown-free, my lips have a smile, I hum an old song – Ye Apna dil to aawara, na jaane kis pe aayega..'

I see hoardings I have not noticed before, I notice the rear of pretty girls walking by with great appreciation, I appreciate the brilliant red of a brand new VW Polo. I am all humility and pleasance to the rude motorists who curse me for straying into their speeding paths. ( I just now looked up the WordWeb dictionary for 'pleasance' – it says - A fundamental feeling that is hard to define but that people desire to experience). I am in no hurry, ladies and gentlemen, my apologies. I smile at them and see puzzlement in their faces.

In the streets of Chalai Bazaar, (it is a fascinating area), I am submerged by the crowds, swallowed up by the waves of humanity and internal combustion engines. I can see everything, right from the little puddle in front of me to the new shopping mall that has come up. Yet I am totally anonymous and free. The realisation of being non-existent to the rest of the world is so exciting, so liberating; more so, because the rest of the world is craving mad for recognition. I guess – if what some people say is true, that the dead aren't gone away, they are around you all the time – I guess this is exactly what the dead would be feeling, the bubbling joy of being unseen but seeing it all.

Perhaps we all ought to go on a retro. Take up bicycling. Chill out. Take your right foot off the accelarator, ease the right palm on the grip of the throttle.

******** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 02-07-2011

A Solo Ride

2011-06-23T13:56:00.005+05:30

It had been quite some time since I went for a long ride in my bike. Those who are not familiar with long distance motorcycling would not know the pleasure, the sense of elation that riding a bike gives, whether on express highways or mountainous roads. Unlike in a car where you are boxed in and without the direct experience of the surroundings that you pass by, a ride in a bike, despite its comparative lack of comfort, is an exhilarating experience.

Last Saturday I went to Kodaikanal on a solo ride on my bike. The destination was not Kodaikanal per se, but a village called Mannavannur about 32 km further from Kodai. Other than the solo ride, the objective was to scout for some land for our Nature Conservation NGO. We are looking for suitable locations in different parts of the Western Ghats to establish Field Stations to conduct studies, monitor the forest area etc. We already have started working at Attappadi and in Peppara Sanctuary in Kerala. Being partial to cold weather, Kodai was a choice.

I started off at around 1500 hrs from Trivandrum, rode to Madurai via Nagercoil, over a distance of about 330 kms. Reached Madurai in about 6 ½ hours, met up with the other two friends who had come in a 4 wheel drive and went to Mannavannur on the next day, which is nearly 200 km from Madurai. Over the next three days we went around looking for suitable plots. The land is too expensive, quoted at Rs.5,00,000/- per acre. But more than that what was most despairing and shocking is what Tamil Nadu has done to its forests.

What seems as forests are not natural; they are just plantations of Eucalyptus and Wattle. These once grasslands and natural forests which had served as the source and catchment area for rivers have been now sucked dry. The only shrubs that you find in these forests are the exotic weeds such as Lantana and Eupatorium. Almost all mountains are covered with it; the rest have vegetable cultivation. There are hardly 7 or 8 species of birds in common sight. The only wild mammals are the Gaur ( Bison), Wild Boars or a few Sambar deers that stray into the farm lands. The landscape is a cold desert, green in colour. I pity those tourists who throng to Kodaikanal. The government has retained small patches of natural vegetation in the key tourist areas. Anyway, what do the tourists care?

Our contacts at Palni Hills Conservation Council, an organization which has been working on conservation of Kodai and surrounding areas told us of the disturbing situation. The Government is hardly interested in conservation and look upon forest land as only a revenue generating resource.

Three days later I rode back, not even stopping at Kodaikanal. I took a different route –via Betelgundu, Perayur, Rajapalayam, Shenkottai. It is shorter and much more scenic than the Express Highway from Nagercoil to Madurai. I took exactly 12hours – which includes 1 ½ hours of butt (bum) breaks.

Riding bike with time constraint means less photos. Yet I took a few, just to note the different landscapes – the highly windy, dry route through Nagercoil – Tirunelveli; the monoculture- cursed mountains of Palni Hills, the rich farmlands beneath the shadow of Western Ghats – and then Kerala.

As I paused at the bottom of the Ariankavu Pass that separates Kerala and Tamil Nadu, a few drops on rain fell on me. Malayalees take their land for granted. I don’t think there is any other part of the country as endowed with natural beauty as Kerala. Yet we continue to destroy and plunder it, in the name of tourism and development.

6 -lane Express Highway

Old railway line near Ariyankavu, Kerala

Farmlands en route Rajapalayam

Ipomea

Daisy

Everlasting

Sheep Research Farm, Mannavannur

A respite

Kerala! Near Ariyankavu

Common House Sparrow - nearing extinction

Forests of Tamil Nadu!

Klavara Village - the mountain sides are full of Eucalyptus and Wattle

A Dog & a Doc ( Dr Sreenivasan, my friend)

Forests!

Looking for Land

Jungle Crow

********** Balachandran V, Trivandrum , 23.06.2011

Five Ways To Kill A Man

2011-06-17T07:36:00.002+05:30

I would like to share with you a poem by Edwin Brock.

Five Ways To Kill A Man
There are many cumbersome ways to kill a man.
You can make him carry a plank of wood
to the top of a hill and nail him to it. To do this
properly you require a crowd of people
wearing sandals, a cock that crows, a cloak
to dissect, a sponge, some vinegar and one
man to hammer the nails home.

Or you can take a length of steel,
shaped and chased in a traditional way,
and attempt to pierce the metal cage he wears.
But for this you need white horses,
English trees, men with bows and arrows,
at least two flags, a prince, and a
castle to hold your banquet in.

Dispensing with nobility, you may, if the wind
allows, blow gas at him. But then you need
a mile of mud sliced through with ditches,
not to mention black boots, bomb craters,
more mud, a plague of rats, a dozen songs
and some round hats made of steel.

In an age of aeroplanes, you may fly
miles above your victim and dispose of him by
pressing one small switch. All you then
require is an ocean to separate you, two
systems of government, a nation's scientists,
several factories, a psychopath and
land that no-one needs for several years.

These are, as I began, cumbersome ways
to kill a man. Simpler, direct, and much more neat
is to see that he is living somewhere in the middle
of the twentieth century, and leave him there.

Edwin Brock *****************

Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 17.06.2011