Mid-Monsoon Musings

          Daily downpours and the lack of sun have encouraged colourful mould and fungi to take over walls/windows/shelves/bags and footwear. In the bathroom towels and undergarments, in the kitchen pulses, onions and dried fish, also colonized.

          The road that divides the neighbourhood into plots is like God:  can’t be seen (submerged under water), but those in the know, tell us it’s there, has always been reliable. Outsiders have to rely on belief and faith when they are driving/walking on it.

          Trees known and strange have sprouted leaves. Creepers are adventurous. They climb up high teak trunks, wrap themselves around branches and twigs, hug other creepers along the way and knit canopies above canopies, fashioning dismal gloom below.

          One night, a guest gets her car-wheel stuck in a spot of soft mud. The revving sinks the wheel to bumper level. It’s nearing midnight. We phone the crane-service who, spotting opportunity, charges unreasonably. A neighbour sees what’s happening. There’s a puja going on in his house. “Cancel the crane,” he tells us. After the puja, we’ll help you.” We wait for an hour till the chanting is over, then, in minutes, young strong hands, legs, torsos, push it out safely.

          Villagers always help where Nature is habitually cruel. I’ve seen that in remote places in Rajasthan (blinding sand-storms), Uttar Pradesh (crazy creepy-crawlies and erratic electrical supply), Andhra Pradesh (drought), Tamil Nadu (more drought), and Kashmir...

          Kashmir.

Srinagar was my home for three years long ago. Right now in the news for sad reasons. In this season, in the rented house where my son toddled, the roses must be in bloom, pink and fragrant. I have no idea where the landlord’s (what a grand title; it means in this case the owner of a little house) family is, whether they’ve been since the 1980s. Whilst it rained in the rest of the country, in Kashmir, locals cut, strung on thin ropes and dried in the mellow sun, brinjals, white gourd and whatever else grew in their compounds.  Housewives must still be doing that today. The soil was/is so fertile, people said if you stood long enough in one place, your feet would sprout roots. Weaving carpets, carving on walnut wood, growing almonds and embroidering fabric were ‘industries’. Today, the headlines about Kashmir tell about spilt blood, of young men wielding guns, abandoning studies, professions, families. Some people I know are accusing the government for not having done enough, others are accusing the government for having done too much damage. I don’t know what the outcome of this mayhem will be. I watch/read about what’s happening in a detached way, distance blurring reality. My grandchildren will learn about it in their history textbooks. Quoting words said by Steve Jobs: ““You can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards…” (I’ve taken just a part of the full quote.)

           In my Goan sanctuary, surrounded by croaking frogs, barking mongrels, birds eagerly chasing lizards, insects running for their lives to avoid being eaten, I’m more concerned about the old fallen wall that needs to be repaired. Or the pot-holes that are causing traffic-jams in Porvorim. Or that Karwari fisherfolk are selling fish on my turf. My levels of stress, the triggers, are different from those experienced by parents in Kerala, where the rains are even heavier, where teenagers have been missing, and television guesswork says they’re turning to radicalism.  On the map Kerala might be closer to home, but it’s another world, no? Such things don’t happen here. Goa’s my comfort zone; Goa’s different. Ignorance is bliss, no?

          Washed clothes just don’t dry in this humidity. I squeeze the fibres till they wear out; finally I decide organic/cotton stuff is impractical and unaffordable for me. I also switch over to plastic, glass, synthetic containers. Steel? That, too, is made in a polluting industry and is hard to dispose of, no?

I once believed that I and members of my species were destroying the planet. Watching the rain, I change my opinion. Because ‘dry and comfortable’ = synthetic raincoats/ gumboots plus air-conditioners/driers. I think, the planet will outlive steel, cement, aeroplanes, refrigerators, GMOs. What can I do to destroy something so big and powerful? How arrogant of me to believe anything I did would give Earth even an itch. I get philosophical when the water table rises and rises and I’m confined to looking out of the window with little else to do but watch and “listen to the rhythm  of the pouring rain telling me just what a fool I’ve bin”… (love that song, sung by The Cascades in 1962, especially in this weather). Primal surroundings turn my thoughts topsy-turvy.

I pluck alloo, tero and some other leaves that I cook immediately to be eaten with hot-hot bhakryo. I ooh and aah over century-old, unchanged traditions—it’s shravan and my neighbours chant some prayers before lunch. I switch on a wonderful Miya ki Malhar on the flute. Sounds so good. But I also enjoy a trip to the new mall and take a ride on its escalators. Technology rocks.

It’s afternoon as I type this. The pair of bulls with the sharp, straight horns is returning from the fields. When they go there in the morning, they are reluctant. On their way back, they skip (ok, that’s an exaggeration, but they do walk faster). The fields have been ploughed, the seeds scattered, fodder collected, waste composted and the rain-gods are being kind.

One rainy season in north India, the post-horrible-summer parched soil became mushy with the first few drops and I observed a strange phenomenon. It came alive. The mud began to jump and dance. I saw it under a magnifying glass (no mobile-phones nor cameras then to document it). A scientist told me: “This desert was once part of the sea. The ova of certain marine life stay inert until conditions are wet and conducive to them being ‘reborn’.”

Fascinating, the monsoons are.

Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in

Along the Curve of the Jhelum

          The news of the floods in Kashmir reminded me of this: In another century, (just a few years ago, actually), Sri Husband and I lived in a little stone house on the banks of the river that troubled Kashmir last week.

Ram-Munshi-Bagh was the name of the locality and the house incongruously called ‘Venus Villa’. To reach there from Goa, we boarded a steamer (24 hrs) or bus (12 hrs) to Mumbai, thence a no-pantry train to Jammu via Delhi (another 30 odd hours). We couldn’t afford airfare and KRC was decades away. From Jammu, a day-long journey by bus over the only pass (Banihal) through the mountains took us to Srinagar. Often, depending on the weather, we had to spend a night at Udhampur. Since plastic bags weren’t common then, and anti-motion-sickness pills not always effective/available, when a passenger felt like vomiting a window was opened and s/he let out the demons of travel-sickness.

Our lives depended on Banihal. From soggy, fungus-lined onions and the newly-available milk-powder for babies everything came via Banihal.

Through the summer, we walked along the ‘bundhs’ that contained the gentle Jhelum waters. Born of a Verinag spring, the Jhelum merged (still does!) with the Chenab, the Sutlej and lastly the Indus. Beyond the banks, we could see the snow-covered peaks of the pretty Pir-Panjal range lacing the distant western horizon.

I said to Shri Husband: “Their loveliness belies their formidability. Only the toughest can cross them or live in them through all weather conditions.”

Shri Husband’s retort: “Our soldiers do.”

The soil by the Jhelum was so fertile that if you stood long enough in one place, your feet would sprout roots. Ok, I’m exaggerating, but it’s true that plants, especially seasonal, flowering ones, grew very, very fast. The rose creeper that veiled the wall and roof of ‘Venus Villa’ budded and bloomed within a week of ‘Holi’ getting over and stayed beautiful till September. We have pictures… but how does one preserve to ‘show’ the memory of a heady fragrance?

My landlady (Shri Husband argues, ‘house-owner’ is a more appropriate word) taught me to make garlands of slices of egg-plant (‘shuddha shivraaks’ please note, the egg-plant is not related to the hen, it’s another word for ‘vaingem’), tomato, ‘doodhee’ and other vegetables. These were hung outside our windows and dried (like we dry fish here) to be hydrated and consumed in the lean and wretched winter months, when pipes burst because the water inside them expanded on freezing. We had to keep taps dripping just a little, 24x7 to prevent mishaps.

Winter memories include dragging a big lump of coal over a ‘kuchha’ road and breaking it (by candlelight since electricity was so erratic and nearly ‘powerless’) with a hammer into small pieces to feed the ‘bukhari’ and ‘kangdi’ that warmed us through Diwali, Christmas, New Year and the final exams of friends’ school-going children.

The turmoil of the past many years and improved transport and communications have changed Kashmir. Though unconnected, the Jhelum seems to have shown her displeasure rather severely in recent months. Hand in glove with heavy rains, she has wreaked havoc through fields and valley, homes and hospitals, sparing neither neonates nor nonagenarians. Politicians, never at a loss for words and ever at a loss to act, have yapped at each other and at Delhi on television.

“The only ones,” Shri Husband quipped, staring at the I-box news, “to silently, efficiently save life and limb without asking for praise or raise are the Indian Armed Forces.”

“God wears a uniform,” I said, loftily.

Shri Husband gave me a weird look.

I hastily added: “Not my words. Someone in Uttarakhand said that. I remember.”

Weird look turned to normal scowl. We were on our regular wavelength once more.

He: “It’s remarkable how we Indians from different parts of a vast sub-continent, who barely comprehend each other’s language or food-habits, work as a seamless team in the Services.”

Me: “By the time this column is read, landslides would have been cleared, by human…”

He: “…mostly military…” (the customary interruption!)

Me: “…hands and simple implements when big mechanized equipment can’t reach sites. Updated statistics will reveal number of lives saved and the loss of crores of rupees.”

He: “How many jawans were injured in the rescue operations will not be ‘advertised’. How many jawans missed going home to get married, be with their children through board exams or be by a dying loved one’s side will never be known. This is one Indian institution that bashes on regardless to do its duty, more than duty, come what may.”

Silence. A rare, comfortable one.

Then Shri Husband, in a thoughtful and sombre tone, watching (on-screen) the MLAs of that same troubled state involved in fisticuffs: “In spite of the jokers in the Vidhaan Sabhas, this country is doing well thanks to the workers of the Railways, the Postal Services, the Telecom chaps, the truck-drivers, loaders, the high-tech private sector and…”

I butted in: “…the poders who give us our daily bread?”

And together we laughed at a long-forgotten memory: in ‘Venus Villa’ near a bend of the Jhelum, too, early in the morning and in the evening, on a cycle came a bread-boy delivering the hot, fresh, local ‘roti’, quite like our chap here.

   

Have Wheels, Will Travel.

          We drove approximately 200 kms from Srinagar to Daksum with our few-months-old son perched between me and Husband’s back, on our second-hand motorbike. Plastic jerry-cans of boiled water, packets of milk and washing powders and four dozen cloth nappies (disposable stuff tenna hanga mell naashilley) were tied to the vehicle. At temperatures hovering around zero degrees Celsius, the rough roads were covered with slippery ice through which we could see the carpet of needle-like pine leaves. The trees zoomed up twice higher than the Benauli Cocos nucifera naarls. The ghats were steeper than any in the Sahyadris, and much longer. Chai-dukaans were many kilometres apart; no habitat in-between.

Kurkure, Fruity and bottled water were decades away. We drank directly from the curvy Jhelum; at the time, we could do that from the Zuari and Mandovi, too. A crumpled map was our guide and the beautiful Pir Panjal range our reference.

          It was hard to describe to my Aji in Palolem what the rest of India, what snow, was like. The advent of running water, electricity, tourists and television has banished that ignorance.

          When in Jodhpur, we explored the Thar: Uttarlai, Bikaner, Mt Abu (where we encountered a bear on an early morning walk), Salawas, Ranakpur, Shekhawat. An annual measly couple of centimetres of rainfall brought out of the clayey soil millions of tiny prawns. None ate them. Tey shivraak loag survived on goat’s or camel’s milk, the hardy plants that grew around there and pulses.

          Parts of Uttar Pradesh and the North East gave us a feel of Goa: giant jackfruits, mangoes, bananas, pineapples, peroos, chickoos, roots that were roasted and eaten with rice and dark-skinned folk with bright, white smiles.

But the fish were river creatures. Sea-maal was sold at weekly haats (bazaars). Trucks brought in surmai, paamplate, lobsters (before the five-starred kitchens and exporters raised the price) from Jamnagar, Kakinada, even Vishakhapatnam. Perhaps they still do and in better condition, since modern freezing facilities are better.   

Some enterprising Goan Christians had settled in such places and set up shops selling dried bangdey and homemade chaurees. They used to visit their ‘native place’ once a year to get ‘stock’. Anyone visiting Goa got more. Keralites were in the same league.

Our longest drive in distance (1550 kms) and time (five days) was in a 1967 Fiat with a 44-kg hyper-ventilating dog who wanted to sit on the front seat. Friends at Gwalior, Indore, Pune and Nashik provided cheer, meals hot and packed, and beds.

We shed our heavy winter coats enroute, crossed the ravines of MP without event, saw thousands of tons of onions being transported... learned later that Jalgaon has the world’s largest factory to make onion, garlic (think pizza) and banana (for desserts) powders for export.

Last week we drove to Pune via Kolhapur. Even if we hadn’t carried our own water and food (to save money, time and plastic-garbage), we wouldn’t have been inconvenienced. Neera stalls and food ‘joints’ dotted the roads.

Strangely, there were super-speciality hospitals, too. Two of them were not for trauma care but for cardiac treatment. Who expects heart emergencies in the middle of sugar-cane fields? The boards mentioned ‘research’. Clinical research? Ethically done? Anyone checking this? Racing wheels churn up all sorts of thoughts.

Petrol pumps and green boards with arrows were conveniently located. We needed to ask for directions only when we entered the city and the GPS couldn’t figure out which road was closed for digging. Easy when compared to previous years, when driving through forested or sparsely populated areas could be dangerous (and hot, without air-conditioning). The Man once met an elephant one dark and lonely night in far-off Hashimara, West Bengal. Still not certain which of the two was more startled.

We entered Goa via a road with more ditches than surface because one sadist told us it was ten kilometres shorter to Panaji.        

When the road smoothened out, familiar features came into view: crosses, bars, speakers broadcasting religious music over a temple mast, aaboli and jaswanti hedges, women squatting near bus-stops selling tarle, pedvem, lepem and the occasional visvonn, buses packed with labourers going home, boards inviting tourists to hotels, advertisements for boat-‘cruises’ and ‘authentic’ Goan food... and then we saw one for “bikers”, for those interested in wheeling it to see porcupines, otters, bison, hornbills, pangolins, etc.

Away from the hype of the beaches, ‘rocking’ festivals and ‘drinks’, anni ek Goem asa, of which I am eager to learn about… on wheels, or on foot.