Have you ever looked a Pigeon in The Eye?

 

 

Have you ever looked into the eyes of a pigeon?

I was just settling down for some meditation this evening when two pigeons outside my window, caught my attention. It's just past half past six and each day at this hour, many pigeons congregate on the railing of an absentee neighbours's apartment. They line up on the rail, in between the curves and lines of the wrought-iron balustrade to sleep or rest at night. It's a crowded railing dormitory, where I can see more pigeons than iron. Feathers in shades of grey and the pigeons' creepy pinkish claws, overtake the otherwise green, painted grill.

However, these two pigeons were sitting aside from the congregation. They'd chosen the pipes outside the bathroom shaft on my floor and each was seated on the circular joints  of the wide, rainwater pipe which is fixed alongside the bathroom wall. The two pigeons were seated about a foot apart, one below the other. What caught my attention was the vacant look in their eyes. Since the pipes are not visible from where I sat, and are probably placed well into the walled area, all I could see of each pigeon were the beak and it's left eye. One small orb, the colour of which is sort-of raw sienna infused with golden yellow, is pierced at its dead central point, with a tiny black dot.

The human eye is so expressive and all the four dogs that I've lived and grown up with, their eyes were always so filled with expressiveness. Labradors, especially, have such emotive eyes. So, I was quite taken aback to see these dull-expressionless eyes, staring vacantly into space. Both were doing exactly the same thing and give or take a glance, the look was ditto.

I see pigeons everyday. I don't really want to see them because they make such an unholy mess, but they abound in such large numbers that I can't help but see them virtually every moment, every hour, everyday.  In the monsoons, their presence is particularly irksome because, the wetness of rain on their accumulated poo, emits a really foul odour. But, ten years of living with them, I've realised that ignoring them isn't going to help, so I've learned to deal with the mess. There's an elaborate cleaning system in place, but each morning the verandah is covered with their crap and fallen feathers. It never ceases to amaze me just how many feathers they shed each night or how much they can poop.

Because I didn't really want to acknowledge their presence, I guess I hadn't ever looked them in the eye. I feed them every morning and have written about their feeding antics, but looking into their eyes was something I'd never done before. It was an entirely new and surprisingly revealing experience.

Every once in a while, one of the two pigeons within my view, sitting outside my window, would tuck its face - lower it into itself, almost like cowering - but maybe that's the way they cuddle themselves to sleep? Anyway, the strangely vacant eye would close and all I could see was a light grey indent where the yellow and black orb had been. They don't have eyelids but a kind of veil covers up the eye with a sheath of feathers - well, I don't know this, but it looks as if the texture of the cover that eclipsed the orb is akin to that of its feathers.

I considered the possibility that the vacant stare was a process of winding down before a nap. But the other pigeon was actively looking here and there. It's posture was quite expressive - especially the neck region but the eye still had this petrified look. I wondered if they were in a state of 'terror alert' because they felt threatened in the cemented towers that had risen where once there had been trees. It's habitat, at least here in Gurgaon, had changed considerably from lush green farmland to painted green cemented facades and wrought-iron grills. No-one accustomed to the languid landscape of a delicately billowing green and yellow mustard crop or lush wheat fields could really feel comfortable in the urban clatter that is our life here today. No matter how much we tell ourselves that we adjust, I'm not sure that it's ever a comforting space to be uprooted thus, is it?

And  then I noted that the napping one, didn't nap for more than a couple of minutes at a time. It would retreat the light grey cover, into some pocket behind the eye, to reveal its petrified yellow and black retina again. Then it would lower its chin so that the feathers on the neck were ruffled by the posture. No long, elegant neck here, it was shortened and in pushing it into its body the feathers gathered, opening out in what didn't seem comforting, but a ruffled or agitated state. It was peculiar to observe how it appeared to cocoon itself - at least the neck, in a not so comforting state. But who knows, maybe it was comforting to have a part of its body thus enveloped by itself - like giving yourself a hug? It too doesn't look particularly elegant but it does work, right?

I kept my vigil, I wanted to look into those eyes again. I wanted to understand this apparent lack of expression. Unlike the human eye where the eye-ball moves and we can soften the gaze in love, roll our eyes in distaste and squint to see without one's spectacles, the pigeon's orb was stationary. It just didn't move. And through all the shenanigans of its companion a foot below, its eyes, and of this one I could see both left and right, remained petrified - and totally unchanging in their glance.

In our human state, at the core of one's being, is an unchanging space which is often called the Self. This is changeless and unperturbed regardless of what unfolds in our lives. The mind may rave and rant, throw tantrums or fall hopelessly in love,  but in this space it's all acceptable without demur.  This non-being space is not seen. It can only be felt. Somehow, the pigeon too seems to have been imbued with this facility -  to view the world with an unmoving stare. Albeit one that was petrified - almost implying that it had internalised its fear to such an extent that it's manifestation had become genetic and now applicable to the entire species.

Are we heading in the same direction?


With an increasing frequency of terrorist attacks, rape, murder and suicides, along with curtailed freedom of dress and expression, topping the long list of woes that plague the human life, is the fabric of our presence and its essence of love, moving towards an over-dye of fear?
 

Bird-Signs in the sky

This evening in the pool, looking up into the skies, grey and cloudy. I chanced upon the flight of birds, up, up, up and up, flying really high. Black silhouettes against a darkening sky, I couldn't tell which specie of birds they were. They could have been pigeons and more than likely they were. The height at which they flew, however did make made me question the possibility that it was a flock of pigeons. I'm no ornithologist, nor avid bird watcher so, I really couldn't tell and besides, what the species was, wasn't relevant. 

What caught my attention and momentarily stemmed the flow of my breath, making me gasp with delight, was the perfect formation they flew in. It was like the ones we have heard of and seen in videos and photographs of migrating birds. I'd never seen anything like it before - not been a witness to an actual flight. 

The pigeon abounds in the crevices and eaves of my apartment building in Gurgaon and I've often seen them flying around. It's a lovely sight to see birds soaring high into the limitless sky. And very inspiring too! But, I'd never seen them fly in such a perfect formation and one which was sustained, by the flock of birds that drew it in the sky, for a considerable distance and length of time. Like a choreographed and well rehearsed performance, their movements were perfectly aligned and timed to perfection. 

One bird, in the centre, was pointing the way as others panned out on either side, a little lag behind each bird, followed another and another and many more - at least ten on each side. They flew in a near perfect 'V' formation that never quivered in their flight, nor was it disturbed by cloud or breeze. It was a flawless 'V'

I lay on my back, in the cooling aquamarine water of the pool below, watching them intently, without moving a limb. I was mesmerized by this unusual sight, so minuscule to my vision, on the earth, miles below their soaring height. They flew from South-West to North-East and as I delighted in the spectacle, I said to myself: yeah! It's a 'V' for vict.....stopping short of finishing the sentence. Remembering the recent spate of terror acts, adding to the atrocities that are enacted each day, somewhere or other, on some animal, place, person or thing, how could any creature living on this planet signal to alien beings, angels  or spirits that reside in universes parallel to and beyond ours, any sign of victory? 

What has anyone inhabiting this earth got to be victorious about? So, they must have been sending out a warning to everyone out there, above, below and around them. To anyone who was tuned into their frequency, it could well have been a signal to say that it was time to take flight; for this world, or the region of the universe they were leaving, was a dangerous place to live in. Not one where nature in all its munificence was resplendent in victory, but one where her beings were filled with the venomous 'V' of violence.

But, the more I thought about it, reflecting upon what I'd seen and how I'd gasped in delight. I couldn't equate this response as one that had read a signal of distress. Maybe, what the birds were telling us, was that if we rose high, transcending the baser tendencies of our being - that therein lay our victory.

My Life in Colvale, Goa - Guest Post by Fashion Designer Wendell Rodricks

Our home Casa Dona Maria. I can create in peace in this 450 yr old home

I live in a big home in a small village. Surrounded by nature, I am always reminded of the divine and the beauty that has been bestowed on us. 

The villagers proudly point to my home and say ''Fashion Designer, Padmashree!'' I can hear them over the high walls and smile at their simplicity and sincerity. And I also feel their sense of pride at this oddball in the village. 

 

Wendell's signature colour - white - collection called 'Yoga Calm'

 

They have little or no idea that I use the village and the villagers to creatively weave the warp and weft that keeps me afloat in fashion. It is their passion for life that drives me to a similar passion in clothes. It is their harmonious voices at morning mass that keep me singing all day. It is their fervent devotion to Lord Ganesha that makes me pray to Him and overcome daily obstacles in this journey called life.

Thanks to 200 yr old mango trees, the light in our garden is mystical and delightful

 

Ray of Light entering the garden - January 2016

It is my village which weaves a kind of magic around me and has created what the world calls Wendell Rodricks. After two decades, there are many things I have learnt from observation. Like the fact that our pool should have been built a foot away from where it is now. Each monsoon, I watch hapless baby crabs and blind field mice floundering in its blue waters.

Crab tracks on beach dune - testimony that life is hidden all around us

There was once an old pig door near the pool. In those days, the pigs would trot in and out that door to roam the village and visit homes. I sealed the pig door when I bought the house as I did not want stray serpents, scorpions and mongoose sliding and swishing into the property. Not that they still don't manage to enter the property from other areas. We left a small hole between the laterite bricks to allow the rain water to drain into our garden as two similar spaces existed at the other end to drain the water into the fields yonder.

 

Pets are a source of joy. Zeus and Athena suntan by the pool

Gifted by neighbour - surreal double hibiscus within a hibiscus - this one is most exotic of the 8 varieties in garden

Plant gifted by my catering college professor - the purple is source of much joy.

Green Peacock Fern in his garden, glows with these hues in various corners of his garden.

I once asked my sister-in-law how the crabs and blind field mice born near the river traverse a path they have never travelled before to get to the fields. She told me that it is in their migratory DNA, similar to how the salmon swim upstream to give birth. No one guides them like we humans often are; they just know instinctively that they need to get to the fields. For three weeks every monsoon, we watch and wait. And guide the crabs and mice to the other end of the property so that they can continue on their way to their homes in the fields.

 

Beach in South Goa, renowned for its beauty, where I head off to, when I need a break

Every Sunday, when I do my gardening, I watch as caterpillars spin cocoons around themselves. A patient wait follows...as the pupa turns into a Giant Red Eye Butterfly. What a joy to watch what most people dismiss as insects and bugs. Have you seen ants collecting for the rains? They take away every morsel of food including nail clippings to re-enforce their ant hill.

 

Nature colours my work - Banana leaf thrives in my garden, for a good creation should be multiplied

No idea what this insect is, I named him the sausage leg insect

My verandah shelf has a book on birds. Each morning I watch and count the bird species that visit the garden to feast on the flowering plants and fruit trees planted solely for their ‘Royal Majesties'

 

The Yellow Chest Mynah is Goa's 'State' bird

 They love the mulberry trees. Every bird from a tiny bulbul to a giant hornbill feasts on the mulberries. On a spectacular day, I counted thirty bird varieties over breakfast. Incredible!

 

I took this pic off the net - reminder that we can all live in harmony

 And what do we do about the baby cobra that has ventured into the garden? Just let it be. It is nearing Naag Panchami and it has come to bless us. After a few days, the pheromones from the three pet cats will drive it away. One year I saw three cobras slide a foot away from me on Naag Panchami. Imagine! Everyone was at the temple and I was the blessed one whom the naag visited. The neighbours told me "You are truly blessed". And I can tell you that I do indeed feel incredibly blessed.

 

Our Colvale church sits on a river bank - a 425 yr old source of divine calm, where I attend mass every morning

I enjoy meeting the people in my village, Colvale, and especially my interactions with them. Dinesh, the fisherman, I love to chat with. I have his cell phone number so I am in constant touch and will rush out the front door to see his catch of the day. He points it out with pride, advising me on what to eat or not.  "These are bony fish. Don't eat them. But when you put them in the curry, you will see the dramatic flavour they impart," he will say. From Dinesh I have learnt the names of local fish - Chonak, Modso, Sheotai.

 

Best catch of the day from Dinesh our local fisherman

The vegetable vendor is an elegant lady with a beautiful blossom behind her ear. Her shringar is impeccable. She tends the fields and brings the choicest, crispest vegetables to our threshold. The colours of the vegetables are so vibrant that even the saturation slider on Instagram pales by comparison.

 

I love my home

From our ‘Balcao’ I see the world pass by. In a small village such as Covale everyone knows each other by name. And everyone knows what job or work they each do. Every village in Goa has  coconut pluckers, the Mango tree parasite removers, the painters who paint our walls with shell paint, the blacksmith who can fashion grills and gates to your design, the cobbler, the tailor, the carpenter, the 'ranpinkars' (who cook for feasts,  weddings, births and funerals) and lesser known occult practitioners such as the 'drishtikaar'. Our local drishtikaar is a voluptuous, always smiling lady. She arrives with three coconut shells and assorted materials of her trade. ''Why three coconut shells?'' I ask. "Nine eyes," she replies, pointing at the three markings at the top of each coconut. Then she swirls the fire into them with salt and red chillies, muttering what sounds like a prayer, with African lingo thrown in. I have learned that African slaves introduced us Goans to some occult practices, which continue to this day.  The drishtikaar leaves, with the hot, burning vessel, to throw the evil ashes into the river.

 

My favourite beach - nostalgia of youth and lack of crowds makes it serene

Having travelled from Mumbai, Muscat, Los Angeles and Paris, I have made my home in Colvale. I often wonder what I am doing here, among this colourful assortment of people, the Padre and the villagers. But, surrounded by nature and these people, this is now my home.

 

Wendell Rodricks spent his childhood in Bombay and started his working life in Muscat. He then moved to Los Angeles and Paris to study fashion design and couture. He returned to India in 1988 and quickly gained repute as a designer, working with renowned brands such as Garden Vareli, Lakme and De Beers. He established his own label in 1990 and moved base in 1993 to Colvale, Goa. A pioneer in the world of Indian fashion, Wendell is considered one of the most influential designers in the country and has received international acclaim for his work. Wendell also writes about fashion and lectures on world costume history. His book on the history of Goan costume, Moda Goa, was published in 2012. He is passionate about art, music, literature, food, travel and Goa's environment.

 

 

Madhya Pradesh - Narratives of Self Discovery

The other day, I was staring up into the sky, my back on the water, as I finished my swim. I saw hundreds of birds flying here and there and here and there, randomly. Some would disappear into some crevice or other and then charge out as if on some urgent errand and there really was nowhere they were going, nor any pattern to their flight paths.

I am usually so driven with reasons for anything I do; conforming to a routine of doing rather than that of being. Watching the birds fly so aimlessly got me thinking - about this journey called life. Where do we go, what is it that we do or why and what is the purpose of it all? Are we any different to these other creatures of nature that fly the sky?

And, it was a trip to Madhya Pradesh that I undertook few months later, which seemed to put into perspective the kind of travel that one does through life – of savouring the little things that come up.  I started seeing that it was in essence only about the journey, the people we meet, the sites we encounter and the images we form in our minds.  Can there be any other point? Yes, I know there is the existential quest of who am I, but can that ever be examined without the experiences we encounter; and then what?

Anyway, let me tell you about this journey to Madhya Pradesh, the middle kingdom. 

 

Landscape on the way up from Maihar to the Rampur Plateau

One day, quite out of the blue, I got a call from an old friend. She said: “Come see me, come to Madhya Pradesh and spend a few days at my art centre in Maihar”.  I asked her why to which she replied, “I don’t know, just come, I just felt like inviting you."

It isn’t as if we hadn’t been in touch since college, where we studied textile design together at the polytechnic, in mid-late 1970’s. Ambica, now owned and ran a successful art gallery in Kolkata. Art being the common denominator, we did have occasion to meet. But, it was Facebook that really kept the thread of connectivity alive and the way in which Ambica prefaced her invitation was the clinching factor. She has a way with people and is very affectionate; and that did the trick.

It was mid-December when she called. I had planned a Christmas open house on 22nd December, inviting neighbours and friends to share a Christmas cake I had baked - my first attempt. So, on 24th December, I flew to Khajuraho and met up with Ambica and her family and a whole new world opened up to me. The entire journey from Delhi to Maihar and back was enriching – to say the least!

My flight to Khajuraho was on time; well, just half an hour late, but

given that it was ‘fog season’, this was something to cheer. The flight was chock-a-block full.  I had a window seat and thought I would write in my journal but it really was too distracting with my elbow nudging my neighbour on the right and hitting against the plane wall on the left. So I just stared out the window instead, taking photographs of the snow-clad Himalayan peaks which I could see far-far away. The sky was a beautiful powder-blue and soft, white, woolly clouds, like a hand-knitted fabric, extended from below the belly of the plane - a blanket of cloud reaching far out into the distance. The snow capped peaks encircled an imaginary horizon [because I couldn’t see below the cloud cover] like a long arc bending from end to end of my vision. They were faint, yet quite clearly discernible to the naked eye, more so than the pictures my I-phone camera was able to take. I took lots of pictures simply trying to capture the essence of what I could see, but none matched up to the experience of spying those tiny peaks thousands of miles away.

It was this ethereal sight, filling me with a sense of serenity, which got me reminiscing about Ambica and our college days. One of the most vivid memories that I have are of  a bunch  of enthusiastic eighteen year olds working on an assignment of tie-dye – dying our samples, out in Ambica’s back-garden. She had invited us to her home in Sarvodaya Enclave and I think there must have been about ten of us chatting and eating and working. The lawn was a mess after we had finished. There was dye on the grass and strands of multicoloured thread everywhere. Her mother fed us, helped us untie the knots we couldn’t open and then cleaned up after us without any fuss. I haven’t forgotten this for the simple reason that I envied Ambica. My own mother, always a stickler for cleanliness, would throw a fit if I accidentally dropped poster colour [gouache] on the floor. Every time I meet Aunty I remind her of this and she smiles quietly, as if happy to revisit this memory.

 

Temple Complex in Khajuraho

Anyway, as the flight landed in Khajuraho, I switched on my phone when a sms informed me that madam had found a beauty parlour and was having a pedicure. Khajuraho is a small village in the Chhatarpur district of Madhya Pradesh in Central India but even so I had no idea that getting a pedicure was an unusual feat. The SUV she had sent to pick me and my baggage, wound its ways from the airport through a complex passage of lanes and by-lanes, too narrow for the SUV, and suddenly Ambica emerged from a curtained doorway - not exactly relaxed but peeved because the beauty-parlour recommendation hadn’t quite met her expectations. There was no loo, no running water and the beautician retreated intermittently to her nearby home to get some hot water in buckets – some pedicure she had!

We then proceeded to the Taj Hotel for a late lunch and onto the temples which I was very keen to see but Ambica wasn’t. She’d been there too often and said it no longer held any charm for her. I refused to go alone and reminded her of the voluptuous drawings she had done at the national museum [another college assignment] and suggested that she should do some here while I wandered off with Satendra, the guide we had hired. Ambica always drew well with a firm, unhesitating line, and her figures were more than ample. The sculptures at the temples in Khajuraho should have been an inspiration but she now devotes all her attention to nurturing artists rather than indulging in art-making herself, so she reluctantly tagged along with me.

I know that Khajuraho is well documented and every tourist  visiting in India has been there and nothing I can say will shed new light on it. But for me, it was my own discovery of this ancient site that enchanted.

 

 Satendra [09893938015 satendrasrivastava@rocketmail.com] was knowledgeable and his first few sentences gripped my attention......the erotic postures on the temples? Yes, I found them most interesting, but not titillating although Ambica may like to disagree since I focussed the camera lens with such intensity on as many as I could capture. Something she teased me about for most of the trip.  I was intrigued by the complex poses which seemed impossible and generated a sense of awe for the flexibility that could actually twist bodies into such contorted and complex postures.

 In her book on ‘Indian Erotica’, Dr. Alka Pande says that theses sculptures focus on earthly sensuality and divine love. There are sculpted apsaras painting their eyes with kohl and other alluring postures of shringar. I spied one removing a thorn from her foot in such a convoluted pose that anything less than a yoga master would have toppled off. This was no mundane event, it was being enacted as a ritual of enticement, or so it seemed.  Dr.Pande says that the maithuna couples [lovers] are symbolic of transcendental union and are not ‘coarsely representative of sexual intercourse’.  From the Tantric viewpoint, they depict the rise of sexual energy from the ordinary to the higher plane where the kundalini is awakened. Although they have been “misinterpreted as mysterious pagan rituals”, these figures, in her estimation, are not meant for “sexual enjoyment” but clearly suggest Tantric asanas for attaining self-realisation through union with a female/male partner.

 

Apsaras

What Satendra had to say was curious. He said that the Chandela kings, who claimed to be descendants of Chandra kulla [moon born], were rulers of this central part of India from 9th - 13th centuries A.D. At that time society was apparently, deeply inclined towards moksh [liberation from the cycle of birth and death] and celibacy was the chosen route to achieve this.  Therefore the Chandela kings introduced erotic sculptures on the temple facades so that when people came to pray, they would also be sexually aroused and thus hopefully procreate. Satendra said the rulers feared that without this, life would come to an end and with it their dynasty too.

Sounds plausible, but as I noted and the guide also pointed out, the postures were very yogic, as opposed to merely titillating. The complex poses seemed akin to a meditative act through the body, where intense concentration was needed. His was an unusual perspective which I tried to verify through the guide book, but they had the usual stuff about the name Khajuraho being derived from ‘Khajoor’ or date palms and that in early records it was actually called Khajurvatika – garden of date palms. The guide book cautioned that though erotic, these sculptures are not pornographic to excite “savage passion” but that they are sublime and sensual. I have to say I was confused.

 

Shirshana

Alka  Pande says that the “couples in erotic postures belong to a secular theme” where the “artisans gave full vent to their imagination....... beyond the kamashastra prescriptions.” One such example, on the north wall of the Vishwanath Temple, is based on the yogic posture of Shirshana or headstand, where two female attendants support the couple in a coital pose, on either side, while the male fondles their genitalia. Looking at this sculpture, standing in front of it, in Khajuraho, feeling the stone, taking in the carving with my senses, I was in filled with admiration. Was it at all possible? What kind of expertise in yoga would be needed to achieve this? Who were these people, what must it have been like to have lived in that era? It seemed to be so open-minded an uninhibited compared to the times that we live in. Were these couples married? What was their relationship? I had a million questions running through my mind. 

 

Friezes on Temple facade

 Engrossed with my camera and Satendra’s informative titbits, I could have spent a whole day there. Some of the friezes also depict animal passion in humans in the form of bestiality [Lakshman Temple] which, Satendra said, was indulged in while away on battle [with horses], adding that some friezes also cautioned about such excesses. He pointed out one such sculptural narrative which begins with a woman having intercourse with a dog, someone from the local village is a witness who goes and tells the whole village and then a King is seen dispensing justice/meting out punishment. It was defaced and one could barely discern the figures, but once pointed out, it was quite amazing to make the connection. Sculptures on the temple facades also depicted scenes from everyday life such as dancers and musicians, hunting scenes, animal fights, armies marching to battle, sculptors at work; teachers with their pupils and other activities. 

 

Defaced Frieze

Ambica rushed me through the large complex of temples and we didn’t even have a cup of tea. She insisted that there wasn’t time as the journey to Maihar would take us about three hours by road, travelling through the famed Chambals hills, renowned for the exploits of  Phoolan Devi, the Bandit Queen. She didn’t want to undertake this journey in the dark. But dark it did get. And having been terrified enough by her, it took all of my courage to insist on a loo stop, bang in the midst of the dreaded hills. It is one of the perils and quirks of travelling through the Indian countryside where there are no public conveniences and we are compelled to answer the call of nature; in natures own unkempt back yard. Phone-torch in hand, gingerly but desperately, I wandered off into the nearest ample shrub, crossing my fingers that no snake would slither by. The rest of our journey, we chatted like school chums with so much to share. Catching up like this was really fun. 

 

Art Ichol Art Residency under construction - Chambal Hills in the distance

Getting to Maihar in darkness meant that I was unable to see exactly what the location was or where this neo-colonial bungalow, which has a history of its own, was positioned. Unable to sleep because of all the excitement and a new place, I could hear a stream of constant traffic. Plus, it seemed that a railway line was very close by too and around 12.30 am, someone started playing the dhol and then I could also hear a chorus of bhajans. I was later told that the house was bang on NH 7, a railway-line ran alongside the back of the house and there was a mandir nearby too.

I can’t seem to leave behind the railway line and mandir noises. This cacophony of the chaotic Gurgaon urban-scape of Palam Vihar had followed me here too!
 

When we reached Maihar, from Khajuraho, I met Ambica’s husband Sanjeev, their older son Adit, and Charles Kim, a student intern from the US. It was cold but we sat outdoors, around a fire, drinking wine, exchanging stories and singing old Hindi film songs. But at night, while sleep escaped me, I was still in Khajuraho. I loved the temples. It was really awesome to see every inch of the external stone walls, covered lushly with carvings of such exquisite detailing and near mathematical precision. I have not really studied stone carving much, so was not aware of the kind of skill involved, but looking at those temples made me  think they were totally fabulous, and wonder, how did anyone create something like this? I also mused about the fact that I knew next to nothing about the Chandelas and the Bundelkhand region I was visiting, and anything studied in school was long forgotten.  I finally slept with the thought that life, when looked at through the lens of history was fascinating. As an Indian, all of this was part of my socio-cultural gene.  I wanted to know more, explore how much of this was still part of our ethos, how this may or may not have influenced the Indian woman of today, and why or how these ideas had been sanitised through time. But, unfortunately, I have done little in this regard since I returned, almost a year ago.

 

View of River Tamasa from Writers Retreat - under construction. Old bridge seen in distance.

I spent four days with Ambica and her family. She wanted me to see everything - Amariya, the writer’s retreat that she was building on the banks of the River Tamasa of Rishi Valimiki and Sita of Ramayan fame, which flows down from the Kaimur [Vindhya belt] mountain range through Rewa and Satna in Madhya Pradesh travelling to Allahabad. The new Ichol Art Centre that was under construction on the other side of Maihar - facing the Chambal hills which we could see in the far distance. 

 

View from Rampur Plateau

The Rampur Temple plateau which has a breathtaking view and then she also insisted I listen to the Maihar band - the only Indian classical band in the country, doing their riyaaz [daily practice] early one morning. 

 

So much to see and take in, I felt over-stimulated and barely able to cope, but her enthusiasm was infectious and I went along. We would come home for lunch each day, eating out, basking under the warmth of the winter sunlight. And there was this spacious, antique bed laid out on the lawn where I would sun myself each afternoon. Relaxing after the tours, I would inevitably be staring up at the yellow and white painted arches with colourful Bougainvillea cascading down. I thus pondered upon all that I had seen, heard and felt, trying to figure out how it all fitted in, whether it did or not or how.

Maihar Band

 I had taken this trip just as impulsively and intuitively as Ambica had invited me. A journey had begun and an endless narrative was unfolding. Whether or not there was a purpose only time would tell and maybe we would devise one. But for me, then, as now, the journey was the essence – a narrative of self discovery, through history, memory and more – inhabiting the middle kingdom.

 

Genmaicha and an Uninvited Guest

Opening the window to savour the spring morning air, I settled down to write. There was a pot of Japanese Genmaicha tea by my side to accompany this daily, early morning, routine.

I hadn't been feeling too good. Things had been crowding my mind and I needed to be more sensitive to what was churning within; it had been making me nauseous these past few days. So I opted out of my usual Darjeeling tea. The caffeine in it stimulates me. And the green Sensa leaves with the roasted rice, which makes the essential Genmaicha, would help me de-toxify. Sans the caffeine in that regular cup of chai, I could hope for a subtler state of mind to observe more closely what was going on inside my head. I had also decided to fast to aid the detox process.

Sencha has a flavour that's close to that of a salt-less broth of boiled veggies and is an acquired flavour.  I like it:  the toasted rice adds such a wonderful aroma to Genmaicha and also enhances the otherwise ascetic taste of green tea.

I first tasted this in Japan in the late 1980's and revisited the flavour on another visit in 1996. The hotel we stayed in Tokyo had a supply of powder that served as green tea. You could heat the water and make yourself some. And that is what I did each day.

My taste for Genmaicha and preference for it over the Sencha green tea, I acquired on a trip to Boston in 1998, where my younger sister used to live. She introduced me to it and I carried back a supply of circular tea-bags made especially for the American market. But they didn't last long.

A lot of people in Delhi drink green tea these days and you can buy it almost everywhere - flavoured with mangoes and apples and more. But this isn't the same green tea made with the Japanese Sencha leaves. Most of it is made with young Assam tea leaves or Darjeeling - of the Camellia variety. But Mittals in Sunder Nagar always has some of the authentic stuff. Not the powdered variety but the leaf. And Vikram Mittal is ever-obliging to get some if he doesn't have it in stock.

My mornings are precious for the serenity of being awake while most people are asleep. But this morning a bird flew into my bedroom. I was charmed.

It’s impossible to capture them on camera usually, so I sat very still. I took out my phone and, was busy photographing it, when I realised doing this could go on forever and captive or not, a bird is a bird whose wings will always flap. I didn't get very good images either. This was partly because fabulous as the i-phone camera is, it doesn't have my Nikon's 42x zoom [which was in another room and I didn’t want to miss the moment or scare the bird by opening the door etc], and partly because the bird was moving constantly!

Very quietly, I got up from my bed and ventured closer. I walked slowly and without my chappals, as soundlessly as I could, but it darted here and there and kept hitting itself against the glass. I reached out to open the window wide, but when it took a leap of wing, it was always on the side of the glass that wasn't open - the wrong side.

I think that this family of birds is quite silly. They are also a nuisance for those of us living in high-rises because they crap and mate in every nook and cranny and eat almost anything, including cement and my lovely green-plant leaves. I try and get around that by feeling them bajra  every morning, which is why they sit on the ledge outside my bedroom window each morning.  Sometimes they knock on the window to remind me that I am late in feeding them, but none has ventured further than that and neither do I encourage it.

This morning, this hapless pigeon popped into my room uninvited, however unwittingly. And I was as surprised as it was. Whether or not I liked these birds, the fact was that it seemed so lost and I could sense and see that it wanted help. It was, after all, in my domain, so instead of distastefully shooing it away; compassion got the better of me.

I tried to reassure the creature. I spoke softly.  I measured my tone of voice to calm its ruffled feathers. Saying as gently as I could, "Give me a chance to hold you." I didn't want to grab it and chuck it out. And even if I wanted to I couldn’t have.

The pigeon grey with those mesmerising and constantly changing hues of teal into purple and grey, which graced its neck, kept me glued. I still wanted a picture but the pigeon felt trapped, so my priority was to set it free.

It was scared. In that state of panic it fluttered and hit the glass, in a desperation I didn’t think it should have felt (after all, I was trying to reassure it and set it free). The vicious sound of its beak banging against the glass coupled with those fluttering wings was distressing.  I became aware of a sense of fear welling up inside of me.

How would I hold it, its claws are so pinkly creepy. What if it hurts me? When living creatures, including human beings, perceive themselves under threat or feel defenceless they tend lash out and that that is what I have seen them do. So I was afraid. I didn’t know quite what to expect! I quelled my sense of unease and bent lower, as softly and as gently as I could. I stilled my mind, made it resolute to catch the bird. But I was squeamish and wondered how they caught those terrified chickens in the slaughter house. The thought of that throbbing feathered thing, struggling in my palms, in total distrust of me [I must seem like a giant to this tiny creature], began to disturb me .  I started feeling the fear in a way that was unnerving.  How could I be so afraid of a frightened bird, of such minuscule dimensions? Noting this was not reassuring for me. My own negative self-talk was beginning its rancour.

But it was trapped in my house, trapping me in my own fear and I had to do something. I kept whispering, "Let me help you, please help me set you free. I’m not going to hurt you, I‘m a friend here. Just stay still for a moment, I'll just hold you and promise not to hurt you. I just want to set us both free."

But I couldn't bring myself to get a hold of the pigeon. I just couldn't grasp that fluttering body, so restive, so scared. I moved back after a while. And it leapt up into the air, hitting itself on the wrong side of the window, yet again. I thought I should try and slide the glass and open the side it seemed to prefer. I was, however, surprised that it didn't even seem to sense the open spring air wafting in from the other side.

I had to lean over. There was no way I could do it without the menacing movement of arching my large frame over that tiny and terrified soul. And sure enough, in its defence, it lunged at me, terrifying me further. All through this I was silently chiding myself for allowing its fear to rattle me. But it did.  And I wondered if it could not sense the breeze on the open side of the window, could it  sense my fear?  Or was it too caught up in its own anxiety of not being able to return to the skies again?

It had now reached a point, where I could not get back to what I needed to do with my life until I had dealt with the bird - set it free. My mornings are precious and writing at that time is sublime, effortless and insightful. Almost as if in the quietude of mind, rested by sleep and the silence of a world still not fully awake to itself, my souls speaks easier to me. I was getting upset with the pigeon - this hapless creature that had invaded my space.

The earlier charm of capturing it on camera, getting that closer look at its feathers et al, was giving way to irritation - just slight, but it was there. I kept reminding myself, the bird was a messenger. The universe had sent this feathered friend to help me, to show me the way. I tried to look back in mind, of thoughts it could be addressing, which wasn't easy to do when I was also trying to concentrate on the task of helping the flapping bird fly out. But the idea calmed me a little. And that sort of helped but, I still couldn't bring myself to hold those fluttering wings. I was chicken and not very proud of myself for it.

There had to be a way! There was no-one else around. Mahipal would not be here for a couple of hours at least. I had to put my mind to it and get it done. This was something I had to do for myself today. And then I found a piece of card - it was always there but just then its whiteness gleamed and caught my eye. About eighteen inches or so, not quite a square, it was light enough not to hurt the bird yet large enough to encourage it to leap, guiding with its form, to fly up in the right direction.

And in that instant, with the help of that white card, carefully holding it such that it didn't touch the bird but just nudged it in the right direction, I managed to do it.  

 The grey pigeon flew out of the window. With its peacock coloured neck and that clear dot of white on its pincers and those creepy looking pink claws, it found its way out into the sky. For a moment it was stunned. Or so it seemed, for it turned back for an instant and I imagined this was in disbelief, that it was finally free.  I mean could there ever be regret for an experience where it engaged with me only in fear?

 I was relieved. I could now reclaim what was left of the early morning calm. But my sense of relief was brief. Not only had the bird disrupted my precious routine, I now had to tackle that fear in me that had been excavated in engaging with it!

Yes, excavated - not embedded by the experience just narrated.  Unknown to me, fear existed. The bird had been a messenger from the universe - a catalyst for me to be able to see this –  for only then could I set myself free.

Now that the bird had returned to the skies, it was my turn.

A Season for Tears

It was sometime in the middle of September, a year ago, on a Friday, around 4.00pm. I’d just had a cup of Earl Grey tea, edited some pictures on Photoshop and done some mundane stuff on the internet before I headed down to the swimming pool. I recollect seeing the sky in the far distance looking very dark and grey but it was at the edge of my landscape, in the far horizon and I did not really dwell upon it. The sky had been overcast most days since July but it had only rained in dribs and drabs. In any case, an overcast sky was not something to cause concern, especially not in the monsoon season. 
 



 

The water in the pool looked as deliciously aquamarine as always. It is a colour I am particularly partial to and reminds me of my Caran d’Ache colour pencils, through which I discovered my penchant for this hue many years ago. Zohrawar, a neighbour’s two year old was trying out his new motor-boat. Once I came into the pool he went to play with his toy in the kiddie’s pool, so I had the larger pool all to myself. I did a couple of lengths and then saw grey clouds rush overhead. I paused, hung onto the edge of the pool to watch this spectacle as the sky darkened. I was enchanted by the shades. How many shades of grey can there be, I thought? And for every five that I counted, nature added another two, or so it seemed. I stopped counting and just watched enthralled. 

 

 I wondered if it would rain today. I’d often hoped it would rain when I was in the pool but it always would begin raining only after I had swum, changed and was ready to go back up again. But my luck changed today. The coach and swimming pool attendants ran inside leaving me with the clouds, the now darkened shade of aquamarine water in the pool and leaf green Ficus hedges around the pool, waiting in anticipation. Even the pigeons had taken shelter, hiding in crevices and windows of the building; some, perched on a cable wire suspended high up on the thirteenth floor. Five of them appeared to be either jostling for space under the eaves or to maintain balance on the cable TV wire hanging precariously from one window to the next. 

At first, it just drizzled. It looked like little steel pins were piercing the water, radiating perfect circles around each point of entry, falling all around me. I thought of those days in school when we used a compass to draw circles for our geometry classes; piercing the paper with one end of the angular tool while a pencil took its cue from this and drew a large or small circle depending upon how wide I stretched the two straight lines of the compass apart. But here, there was nothing other than a delicate raindrop piercing the centre. The rest was a matter of course. The circles radiated out and then vanished as each rippled into the other, blending almost seamlessly with the larger mass of blue-green. 



 

And then I could hear loud plip-plops as larger droplets fell from the sky. I watched with delight as the aquamarine around me which, I am told, also represents the colour of the heart chakra, was jumping up to catch the drops. As the rain intensified, the water from the pool rose up higher with each drop that fell into it. And the heavier the water that fell into it or the larger the droplets were, the whiter the rising splashes seemed.  

Then the rain poured out of the sky and a refreshing, transparent, vertical curtain of water dashes fell upon me. It was heavenly to watch millions of pearly drops dance on the surface of the pool. There was no question of swimming now. I could not take my eyes off this mesmerizing scene.

 

The sky grumbled and lightening tore into the layers of darkening greys that had built up in preparation for this downpour. As the sky darkened even more, electric lights were switched on in many apartments inside the building. People, birds and even the stray dogs stayed away as I stood alone in the aquamarine water, watching nature’s tears dancing with joy at meeting each other in the pool. 

I love to cry. No, I am not a manic depressive; I just find tears very refreshing. I’d rather cry any day than deal with the stress of feeling frazzled and angry and all the rest of it. I know that crying is not everyone’s cup of tea but I find it hugely cleansing, especially when the tears flow effortlessly. But sometimes things get very intense and crying seems like such a luxury, so I envied the joy these rain droplets seemed to reflect in their relief at being able to surrender to the inevitable. 

There is lightness in being able to surrender. I have even experienced weight loss when I can fully express myself. There is this wonderful oral folk-tale “Tell it to the Walls” which A. K. Ramanujan has translated from Tamil into English. I first read it in 1993 and have re-visited it many times since. It speaks of the cathartic function of unburdening oneself, even if it is to a wall, and of the relationship between obesity and keeping one’s sorrow to oneself.

As a young girl, well into my thirties, I used to be plump/fat. I would hardly eat. It seemed that if I smelt food or just looked at it, I would put on weight. I was brought up on the ideal that it was not considered good to speak of the unpleasant things that happened to one, especially not to anyone outside the family. The old adage – “laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and your cry alone” - was the mantra one was encouraged to chant. Or, grin and bear it, because someone else had a far tougher life and sometimes it seemed everyone else’s woes were greater than mine. Until one day, about 20 years ago, when I could bear it no more and everything I had been through just started to tell its own tale. I could not stop myself from speaking. I lost whatever inhibitions I had earlier and also lost twenty-five kilos in less than three months.



Everyone was majorly concerned, but I had never felt better. I let the doctors do all their tests and when I was asked to have a CT scan done as they could not find anything wrong in the numerous tests already conducted, I drew the line and refused to go through another test. And then I read this folk-tale and was reassured.

Ever since I have tried not bottle things up again and have more or less maintained my weight. I relish my tears. It is not easy to face the pain one is feeling but I know that it’s better than adding pounds and the dip in my morale when I see this on the weighing scale. I love old Hindi movie songs. The words and music are so moving, and I love singing the sad ones or watch them on TV and cry. When life gets crowded and the pain becomes an ache in the shoulder or back or some other part of the body, it’s harder to feel it emotionally, and at those points, I often resist these measures too. There’s too much work to be done, how can I cry, I tell myself. My brain screeches overload and then the silliest thing will bring it on. I feel lighter and often get a lot more done than when I was trying to be brave pretending that things were under control. There is so much relief in surrender if one can come to that point, and the exultant dance I witnessed was inspiring me to revisit this state. Nature has a season for tears; surely there is something to be learned from this? 

As the rain abated, the pigeons came back to the water’s edge and their dull grey feathers took on the reflection of the pool’s aquamarine. This was an everyday occurrence but when the sun is shining bright, the shade of blue they reflect is different. It’s delightful too but it was this atmospheric, deeper shade of blue along with the greyness of their feathers reiterated by the clouds in the sky, which charmed. I had watched the rain, shared in her joy at finally being able to descend the angry skies. I saw a million liquid pearls dance before my eyes and wondered if this was how the oysters caught the jewels we humans adorn ourselves with. I have often considered my own tears as jewels to embellish my life with. Not literally but through my creative expression; However, while this is refreshing it is not quite the same as being able to cry.

Later, as I walked through the garden passing by the gleaming green bushes, I heard a whispering of relief among the leaves. And the sensuous fragrance of the Champa flowers too had been heightened by the refreshing rain.