Mynapi Waterfall Trek - Negotiating the Rivers of Human Terrain

 

 

I'm totally zombied out. Sitting in bed, looking at the sun dappled bamboo outside my window, I'm finding it difficult to express the experience I underwent yesterday. All through the drive back home, I kept checking in to figure out what I was feeling and drew a blank. Such as I often do when any event is overwhelming or extremely challenging. It had been a long and arduous day but I wasn't tired, even though my body was hurting. I was in a nirvanic – a beyond words, kind of space.

 

I woke at 5am to leave for Panjim by 6am, to meet Bianca and Bjorn and their team from Off-trail Adventures by 7am. I had to park my car at Patto Plaza, walk across to the other side of the Panjim-Ponda Road, meet the other trekkers at Heera Petrol pump and board the bus that would transport us to the location.

 

 

Strapped with a ten litre backpack, a fanny pack with my phones and emergency essentials, and carrying yet another bag with a change of clothes, more water and food, I ambled across, the ten minute distance, without demur. Ordinarily, I would have scouted for help, but I had signed up for a day long trail where I was supposed to traverse 18 kms, so this was just the start.

 

 

Picking up people along the way at Cortalim Junction, Verna and Margao, we reached Quepem at 8.40 am for a quick breakfast. Before leaving for the final hour-long bus lap towards the Netrawali Wild Life Sanctuary, where the expedition officially begins.

 

 

 Goa is so green in the monsoon that it's a delight for the eyes. And the emeraldic-leaf green of the paddy is a very special colour. Unlike any hue in my paint or thread palette. But, this agrarian landscape wasn't a patch on the virgin forests that unfolded as we tread the terrain of the Western Ghats.

 

 

 

It was my first hike of this kind and that too as I completing sixty years of age. It was ambitious but I had no idea of the agony my frame would go through as I negotiated smooth rocks, wet and slippery with slime, the possibility of leeches shimmying up my flesh unseen to suck warm blood and more. And, when I got home at 9 pm, fifteen hours later, the top of my thigh muscles were stiff – more like rigor mortis rigid, but it was my big toes that were wailing louder than the cicadas of the forest. Even the gentle touch of the light quilt I sleep with, was evoking yowls of pain. And to top it all, grasping at crevices to find a grip, at the very edge, before we glimpsed the Mynapi waterfall, I think I may have cracked the middle finger on my left hand. Or at the very least pulled a muscle. I had to put the full weight of my 65kg on hands and knees to scramble up. They're not used to it.

 

 

Today, I've tried to get up and about as I would a normal day, but if I sit or stand, it's really painful. My shoulders are speaking of their burden (which wasn't much more than a litre of water, light trekking sandals, a sandwich, a light raincoat-which was pointless to wear) and 10gms of salted Kaju. But, I'm inclined to think the load has more to do with feeling exhilarated by an situation and occurrences that tested me at so many levels and left me relatively immobilized. And, it is my inability to put this entire venture into any comprehensive perspective that’s keeping the mind in a spin. I've not really wanted to get on with my usual day or do anything other than look at the pictures and re-live those moments. Or search online for things like shock-proof sticks and dry bags so that I'm better prepared next time. And a better pair of shoes too!

 

 

 Yes, there has to be a next time. Being so close to nature, without the trappings of urban behavioural niceties, I felt the rawness of fear. I faced the power of the resolve: ‘I have to find a way’. I grappled on all fours, heaving myself up or slithering down on my butt. All very ungainly and un-lady-like, and in full view of strangers – all of them, mostly youngsters in their late twenties or early thirties. It was a no-holds barred episode. It was a getting in touch with yourself encounter like nothing else I have associated with. A revealing confrontation at that.

 

 

 

As we entered the sanctuary, leaving the bus behind, we strolled along a tarred, regular road but within minutes turned off to the left, towards the Mynapi falls. The signpost said 4.5 kms. Very doable I thought. Since the age of 34 years, when I'd become aware of the merits of some exercise, I've been striding exactly this much each evening - down Walkers Lane in Friends Colony (East), in New Delhi- topping it up with swimming and cycling, so I thought it was going to be par for the course. Yes, uphill for sure, because we were going to the waterfalls, but just a couple of years ago I'd done the haul from Gethia up to Nainital and back and also climbed up and down Matunga Hill in Hampi, at the crack of dawn, wearing plastic Crocs without a strap. That had been quite scary too because it had rained and the boulders in Hampi, well they’re something else. So I thought I was prepared. Doubt hadn't even entered my head.

 

 

 

As we entered the forested area, I could hear an uprising of some insects. It was as if they were wailing that their coveted greens were being invaded. I was told they are the cicadas – extremely small but very noisy. And yes, they could really cook up a racket. I was looking around eagerly, at flowers and the tall foliage, growing higher than us. Reminding myself to keep my gaze focussed on whoever was ahead of me lest I lose sight. We bent lower than low, crouching under boughs and leapt over fallen or felled tree trunks lying in the path. Trampled over a seemingly unending carpet of leaves, red, green, brown, blackening as they composted themselves back into the earth. The light on them glinting as if shining off silver. It was an overcast day, but no rain yet. I couldn't imagine what they'd look like on a sunny day. Even as the tall forestation probably doesn't let in much light anyway. But the mulching leaves fascinated me – especially the blackened ones.

 

 

 

An adept trekker classmate of mine had shared a few tips. She'd suggested changing into sandals as we crossed the rivers and streams, advising that it's best not to keep your feet in wet shoes and socks all day long. But we came upon a narrow rivulet within fifteen minutes and it was barely four feet wide, so I didn't change. I couldn't bring myself to stop to change and revert back into Keds after a minute’s stride. My socks and shoes were now wet and we later strode 3-4 kms in the river itself. With uneven rocks, often jagged and pointed, where I needed to lodge my feet in whatever gaps I could find, I cannot envision the state of my feet without the protective covering of my socks and shoes. Even though the wet and confined feet did eventually lead to unbearable pain and a mild infection necessitating antibiotics and loss of toe-nail. t didn’t make sense then, to fiddle around with footwear mid-way.

 

 

 

At first we rambled alongside the river. Vicinal to the soothing resonance of water rushing downhill. Gurgling and splashing as she fluidly opposes boulders and mud banks, insistently carving a path despite all the obstacles in her way. I was loving every minute so far. Then we crossed to the other side because the topography was relatively easier. At one point all we had, to place our feet on to cross a hilly edge, was a thick vine. Bianca kept encouraging us, saying it's very strong, don't be scared. But I was. Having her at hand-holding distance, should any of us topple or if it gave way, was little consolation but as I put one foot on it and then the other and crossed that two-foot space, and it didn’t break with my bulk nor after ten or more who came before and  after, I realised just how strong they were. And later, grappling for support among the boulders, as the flow of the watercourse got rougher,  I scanned the foliage on my side, looking for these vines to hold on to.

 

 

We kept crossing the gushing stream back and forth - guided by Bianca at the front, Prashant in the middle and Bjorn at the tail. I chose to stay with Bjorn. I couldn't contemplate attempting the hazardous slog through the water, flowing with quite a strong current at points, all on my own. I'd already slipped once and his strong, youthful arms had saved the day. So this is what I banked upon the rest of the way.

 

 

Every time he thought there was some stable ground, and let go of my hand. I took a dunking. I must have fallen at least five times. But being at the end, also gave me time to stop and take some photos. It was dicey taking my iphone out of its protective cover.  I only attempted this once in a while. The photos I have are mere trinkets of what I saw with my eyes, endured with my body and the unbounded beauty which gave me the strength and spirit to keep on track.

 

 

The youngsters that were part of this group didn't think this old aunty, would actually manage that final steep cliff which led up to the water fall. And honestly, if I'd thought about It, I wouldn't have. And when I do reflect back on the trek, it's this moment that keeps coming back.  I'm filled with such a sense of daunting. It was treacherous, to say the least. I'd be terrified attempting it again, knowing what a close call it is. That hard rocks and fast flowing water, awaited my fate some fifty metres or more down below.

 

 

But Bianca had come back for Priyam and me, the stragglers who were being assisted by Bjorn and Prashant. Just thinking that she's gone up with the others, descended, back-tracked to find us, then scaled up ahead of me, showing me how to do it, gives me the shivers. We were so close to the waterfall, in its full flow at the monsoon. I could hear the flowing waters, I was wet with its far-reaching spray And so was the almost ninety degree vertical cliff-rock we ascended – without any mountain-climbing skill or gear. It was just a short stretch but what a task it was!

 

 

 

At an extremely crucial point, one foot lodged as firmly as one can on a  narrow and precarious crevice and the other reaching to find its foothold, from behind me Prashant says "look up, look up, you’ll get a sneak preview”. I didn't want to take my eyes off the risky geography I was tackling. I didn’t have a secure foothold either but, I'm a sucker for waterfalls. There is something so magical about this cascade of water pouring down from the height of hillsides. Be it the Canadian Niagara or the famed milky Dudhsagar on the Goa-Karnataka border, I have made my way to them delighting in their majestic watery vistas. So I did look up - just one moment of perilous viewing before Bianca urged me to take the next few steps up, hold onto her hand and heave myself up to see it, in all its cascading glory. A bride’s lushly crocheted lacy veil, trailing through the steep rocks covered on either side - a mossy carpet of green, a vertical and hazardous church aisle with a deliciously refreshing aqueous pool at its base.

 

 

We had been walking for over three hours at this point. It had been arduous to say the least. Not because the hike was taxing in the physical capacity, but because it had required every vestige of courage, presence and sheer utter focus -  such that is not factored into the rituals of daily living. At one point Prashant and a few others pulled a log of wood, from the water, for us to move from one point to the next. And in one of my photos I can see him giving a young man a push to garner enough height to rise up. It was tough. I was relieved to have reached the scenic spot. I was ravenous and drained. So the first thing I did was to eat my egg and cheese sandwich, gulp down some Electral before I off-loaded my backpack and fanny pack to crawl my way down into the water. I wanted to get right under the fall but was advised not to as, being so forceful at this point, it also carries small stones down from the mountain.

 

 

I bathed and crawled back onto the mud splattered, wet and slithering rocks, on all fours. It was a kind of primordial reconnecting with one's animal self. Uncaring of anyone's gaze, of the mud on my butt and drenched hair- looking nothing like the carefully crafted urban visage I'm accustomed to recognising as myself. It didn't matter. I sat on a stone-free muddy spot, momentarily  secure of my seat and gawped at the flow of water, conjecturing with Joan and Jaffrey as to its height. Was it 300 metres, was it 200 or more, we couldn't decide but it was beautiful. Not as awe-inspiring as the Niagara, nor as wide and as gushing a river of milk as Dudhsagar, but tucked away in this nook, away from the prying eyes of the casual passer-by; away from the reach of those that don’t value nature’s bounty enough to refrain from despoiling, it was a sight to behold. Especially since one had trudged a difficult path to do so. I was exhausted but enthralled. I was mesmerized by this proximity to nature that had compelled a propinquity to my own  - that sense of provocation I have always been prone to. That never giving up attitude - no matter what. That slow but steady stride and this love for being among rivers and mountains and the grace of green that surrounds it - the natural habitat of the planet. Facets of my own nature that,  I don't often recollect, nor consider much, unless life mirrors them back to me, this way.

 

 

 

Priyam and I had taken our time getting there, so we had less rest than the others, before Binaca herded us off again. No, we didn't go back the way we had come. I think I would have died had we to do that, but the ascent up from the base of the waterfall was steep. Ultra-steep and there was barely enough mud to give our feet traction. At one point, unable to muster the spirit to haul myself up with the depleted strength of beleaguered thigh muscles and leaning on equally dog-tired arms, from behind me, Nalita gave a push up from my bums. It was effective and a relief not to rely on my fatigued form alone. It was an extremely narrow track and we had to keep moving single file. I was in the middle, not the end as before, so had no option but to keep travelling. But my vitality was flagging. I hadn't eaten much breakfast because not only was it early, I wasn't sure of how I'd fare in a bus through the Ghats on a full stomach. A sweet bun (local Goan bread) and tiny glass of tea had been enough. And with sips of water and the occasional salted Kaju, it had brought me to the falls.

 

 

 

 Lunch was going to take time to create its own energy. And the muscles were beginning to ache. Not to forget the toes. My god they hurt. But I kept moving until the trail widened a bit and the others could pass. When we stopped, Bianca took one look at me and said my lips were white. My remaining water was turned into Electral in a jiffy and I sat on a jutting rock, resting and sipping. I relaxed enough to see the misty view of the Ghats through the vines and took a picture from that spot. Too tired to lift my butt and move ahead of the dangling vines, I let them define the view – that was after all as I was seeing them, wasn’t it.

 

 

Joan, Lucy, Prashant, Jaffrey and Bjorn stayed with me till I felt able to resume the track. My legs and hands were trembling. They said we're half-way there. It's downhill now and that gave me courage. But I realised this wasn't true. Bjorn used the half-way there phrase three times later and when I said “but that's what you said an hour ago”. He smiled, telling me only right at the end, that is the only way to keep people going. If you think the end is in sight, you muster strength. And it's true. That was probably how I kept proceeding. Even after a massive cramp in my feet and legs, when I finally changed into my sandals and gulped some salts. It was only then that I  took a longish break. So long, in fact, that when we reached the bus, Bianca was beginning to wonder if she needed to get some medical facilities to us.

 

 

 

 

But the snails and flowers and unbelievably beautiful caterpillars and millipedes that dotted the landscape diverted attention from the rigour and pain. And then at the last lap it started to rain quite heavily, but the tree cover was so dense that I didn't feel much on me. We reached the bus dripping wet from head to toe. We'd crossed a few more brooks and gushes. Washing my face with the cooling freshness of the water, even our feet felt great to wade through them. It took some of the tiredness away. And the entire journey was dotted with such, always available refreshing, moments - even in the midst of hardship. It was quite an eye-opener to see just how much of what one needs is really always at hand.

 

 

 Tired, relieved, but mostly chuffed at having completed the journey in one piece, I changed my clothes and got onto the bus when everyone burst into applause. Joan sat down next to me and said "can I please take a selfie with the legend" and she's got one of me looking wan and exhausted - my hair like nothing I'd ever dare post in a photo. But then I didn't care. I couldn't. These social niceties were out of place where one's endurance, grit and resilience had been tested. When the body strong was more valid that body beautiful. When triumph was an obstacle course completed and not how presentable I looked at the end of it. If only one could make this more relevant in terms of the rigours of living. Not to care what experience does to our self-image, was a profound realization.

 

 

 

At the end of the whole journey, when we got off the bus at Panjim, Yogesh, Priyam and I sauntered up towards Panjim bus stand. Yogesh is a young strapping lad and he was the first one to reach Mynapi. He'd been so pickled by it that he told everyone again and again. Clearly all of us had markers of achievement along the way, each one a personal triumph. I shared that my limbs were aching but that I wasn't tired and Priyam exclaimed that's exactly what she was feeling too. A question of mind more thrilled than the body could cope with, said wise Yogesh.

 

 

It was Priyam' s first trek too. She’d come from Mumbai to hike up to Mynapi. But she was much, much younger and it reassured me to know that she was experiencing similar pangs of discomfort as I. She also shared that while she watched and waited as I struggled with the last leg but extremely treacherous and precarious ledges before reaching the waterfall, she’d thought to herself, this may well be her last day on this planet. Thankfully I hadn’t had the time to think about this, that I had preceded her, and urged by Bianca, didn’t stop to fear. Those tremors came as an afterthought.

 

 

 

We'd walked on the edge of experience. We'd staggered on the very ledges of life. Our accomplishment lay in embracing the foreboding that nature posed on our way and reaching home safe and sound. Barring a few leeches that had sucked the blood off Lucy and Jaffrey, the soon to be wedded couple, and a few others,  there had been nothing untoward and tragic that occurred. We all carried that sense of elation within – a palpable excitement of living through it - a shared journey, shared rigour and shared joys.

 

 

As I mulled over this extraordinary happening - I considered why this has been so rewarding but the other challenges where we have had to touch our primate selves in similar ways - the emotions that life can evoke in us, that others can raise in us - the rigour of relationships and more, why don't we feel this same sense of exhilaration, accomplishment and sense of our own power in them? Why do we cower and demur from these triumphs; making these expeditions in nature  hallowed goals. Quite honestly, it has to be the daily march through the dark alleys of being, traversing the rivers of human terrain which are the quintessential encounters we undertake that, test the spirit equally, if not more. Requiring as much of a leap of faith. Don’t they, every day?

 

Harvesting Shenanigans

A rice-sifter at work

Every day, I pass through the same route, the same fields and villages, on my drive from Verem to Siolim. For the last six months, this route has been de rigeur because of the renovation work that’s in progress in my Siolim apartment.  It had been happening and stressful, then abandoned by a careless contractor,  re-started after a two month hiatus and much effort, and now I am toiling hard to get it completed. It’s been a testing phase. But, despite the anxiety of it all, over the change of seasons during the months from April to October, I’ve seen subtle variants in the landscape and activity en route; particularly in the villages of Pilerne and Saligoan.

 

Fields flank both sides of the Pilerne Road,
 from Mansher to Pilerne

 

Goa in May is surprisingly arid and dusty-dry. All the lush green that one associates with its landscape is a grimy shadow of its post-monsoon panorama.  Driving through winding roads that circle the gently undulating landscape, I’ve seen dry fields being ploughed in readiness for the rain. Watching, an otherwise laidback populace suddenly swing into action as soon as the pitter patter started, and  village men and women began sowing seeds for the paddy crop. Many fields don’t get worked upon because farming is labour intensive. And, according to locally rumoured calculations, only ten percent of land, in most of the villages of Goa, is cultivated. I’m told that the younger generation of landowners find it tedious to farm and hired labour is expensive. Rice is staple diet for the Goans but, those who opt out of farming find it easier, and cheaper, to purchase their requirement from the market. And their fields have lain barren year after year, three to four years in succession. Some locals say that the stretch from Verem to Pilerne got flooded when the Nerul creek flood gates got broken, some four or five years ago and no farming has been done since. Reportedly, it took the panchayat years to repair the system gates,  and once out of the habit of farming, these folks never mustered the energy to resume. Whatever the reasons, out of every four fields with billowing paddy green there are four more that have billowing weeds that look a lot like paddy to the uninitiated, like me.

 

Some fields are paddy and some are not!

 

 

For those die-hards who continue a dwindling tradition of farming, it’s a dedicated job.  In the middle of scorching afternoons, I’ve seen upturned plastic crates used as stools.  Placed in the middle of the large tracts of low-lying fields with not a tree for shade,  a lone, seated man or woman would keep vigil, shooing away birds and cows. Around this time, scrawny scarecrows also began to dot the landscape.  Made with the  traditional cross of sticks, these stick-figures were meagrely dressed with flapping plastic bags in pink, white and blue. On one such scarecrow, a discarded electricity meter was used to represent its face. And, it did look foreboding from the distance.

 

View of the fields off the Pilerne Road,
between Verem/Mansher and Pilerne
Towards the tail-end of the Monsoon Rains

 

For a city-bred lass like me, these things are novel and interesting to note. I’ve never had occasion to watch any kind of agricultural process and have only heard from domestic help about the rigours of kheti-baari. For me, being in the midst of this sowing and harvesting, of rice, was a first.  And even though it wasn’t always possible to stop, while driving, to satiate my curiosity. I couldn’t prevent myself from asking people I met during the course of my day, the many questions that would go through my head, as I passed the activity in the fields.

 

View of the fields off the Pilerne Road, between Verem and Pilerne

 

On the few occasions that I’ve stopped to chat with the farmers, I’ve learned a few things that local gossip couldn’t tell me. I’ve also seen dead snakes the exact colour of the glistening leaf-green paddy crop, crawl out of the fields onto the tarred road, crushed under the wheels of a truck or bus. I’d wonder how these farmers negotiated such hazards, to be told all kinds of scary tales, deepening my dread of the reptile family.

 

Freshly Threshed Rice Fields off the Saligaon Road, on my left as I drive through to Nagoa

 

May turned to October. Dussehra and Diwali have been celebrated as has Ganesh Chaturthi and Narakasura Chaturdashi. Visitors and holiday-makers throng the streets of Goa. Traffic is nearly as impossible as in  Delhi and the number of bikes is maddening. But, precisely because of the crush, in these past few weeks, the large tracts of open fields are especially soothing. In paying particular attention to them, I’ve also observed the harvesting in progress.

 

 

As comical as the human scarecrows were, at the start of the farming season, with their clapping hands and other shenanigans to distract bird, dog and cow from devouring the newly sown seeds, I’ve also noted similarly weird antics while the grain is being harvested. Just as one enters the tail-end of Saligaon leading to Nagoa, there’s a large tract of cultivated land and along this scenic route, I’ve seen some bizarre goings-on. From the point on the Pilerne Road heading towards Mapusa, where I turn off, to pass through Saligaon,  green fields lie on both sides of a generously curving road that allows me to see them from a distance and all the way through till I pass by, driving into the built-up, residential area of the village. 

 

 

One, hot, October afternoon,  I saw an ample-bodied, middle-aged woman, with short cropped hair,  wearing a calf-length, printed dress (looked like mill-printed polyester) clapping her hands and shouting out something, while intermittently waving a cloth in the air. First with one hand and then the other and alternating the two in rapid succession. This went on, right from the onset of the fields coming into my view, until I drove passed her, a good few minutes later. I have reason to believe that she did this non-stop for a good many hours and had been sitting out in the heat for much of the day, keeping vigil on the grain being threshed in the field before her.

 

 

The next day, I found her seated at another field along the same road. It could have been another person because I didn’t note the facial features earlier. But, from the body structure and attire, it seemed to be the same woman. This time, she sat on an upturned crate, at the edge of the field, on the verge of the roadside, while a handful of men stood mid-field of a small plot of land, threshing the crop, manually. She held a black umbrella over her head. It was an overcast day, but it hadn’t rained, so I was wondering about the umbrella, when she started opening and closing it. Every time she opened it, she’d raise up the umbrella and in closing it, bring it down - just above her head, and then open it and raise it again, in quick repetition of the same up-down movement. It was a most unusual sight and a quirky dance of sorts, for there was definitely a synchronised rhythm in these otherwise awkward movements. Sometimes, she’d just bob the open umbrella up and down.  And do the same with it closed. These movement were accompanied by a bevy of sounds - shouted out loud, enough to be heard but were unintelligible. She could have been addressing workers in the fields, but I cannot be sure. Most likely, she was shooing away the pesky birds, hovering above, hungry for a peck of freshly harvested grain.; telling them that they couldn’t have any.

 

During an earlier conversation, in July,  with Pratibha and Pandurang, a farming couple whose fields lie off the Pilerne Road near Moicawaddo, close to where I live in Verem, I’d learned that neighbouring farmers take turns to keep the pestilence away from each other’s land during the day and hire someone to keep vigil at night. I couldn’t help but wonder, if this lady with the umbrella was a land-owner keeping tabs on her numerous fields or if she’d been hired to do so. Because, whatever I’d seen her do was tedious. Inventive in her routine and strategy to keep prey at bay, it signalled endeavour of vested interest, precisely because of that,  but, seeing her in different fields on different says raised some doubt.

 

 

All these months, I’d been content to mostly observe the farming activities. Driving past busy, narrow roads doesn’t offer much scope for photography and neither was I in the right frame of mind. The odd conversations about farming had been with locals that I’ve met in the course of living, or the odd farmer I encountered during an evening walk. I kept telling myself that there would be plenty of time to document and get material for a story. I was always preoccupied with things to do at my apartment so there didn’t seem scope for much more than the passing glance, albeit drinking it all in with a sense of wonderment.

 

For days, prior to Diwali, I’d seen women lifting the threshed rice above their heads and shaking off the chaff, letting it fly off with the wind as they poured the sifted rice into large kattas. Lined up on the roadside these ample bags - both plastic and jute, bulged outwards, stately and statuesque with the grain. It was rural novelty at its best.

 

Work in my apartment was now happening at an easier pace. The pressure to complete this was still there, but nothing quite as strenuous as the past two months had been. Coerced by circumstance I’d taken on the role of a contractor to finish the abandoned work on my flat. I’d been going crazy with the job - so alien to anything I’d ever done in close to six decades of living. There had been almost no time to reflect on life unfolding, beyond some crochet which allowed confused thoughts to tumble out and create just enough space for another chaotic day. Fascinated as I was, I’d still be tired and too listless to make the effort to stop the car, get down and take photos. The thought of carpenters waiting for me, the constant demands for money and long list of things to be done would bog me down.  Every time I passed and noted something interesting and didn’t feel like stopping, I would tell myself that next year, I’d do a full documentation with thorough research.

 

 

But then one day, I thought that next year it will not be the same thing. I couldn’t lose the moments that fascinated me today, waiting for a good time to make note of them. Driving past, one Saturday afternoon, when there wasn’t such a crush of things to tend to, I decided that work or no work, it was too picturesque, for me to pass up this moment and wait another year to document. There were, mercifully, few cars on that stretch. Inspired to stop, by the visual of a weather-beaten woman winnowing, I parked my white i20 on the side and walked up to watch her lift the rice up in her wicker basket and sift it down, letting the wind waft away the chaff. I paused to record and listen to the soft rustle, a warm and comforting nuance, of rice grains falling: caressed by the soft hush of them kissing each other as they piled up on the ground. This was augmented with something the winnower seemed to be telling me but regrettably I haven’t yet learned any Konkani, so missed out on what she said.

 

 

I took my photos and drove on, stopping to chat with a Saligoan landowner who was selling his grain. I rolled down my window. He thought I wanted to buy some, so informs me that he has enlisted for government support, and was selling the rice at ₹21 per Kg, where otherwise the price would be ₹25 per Kg. I asked if all the rice was for sale or if he kept some too, when he said both and that by boiling the rice, it keeps well for a year.  A useful bit of information, for it was something I didn’t know. The patch of land, I found him standing by, didn’t seem to have much grain. I asked how much rice lay before us,  to be told it was about five quintals. I wondered if  that would  be enough for personal consumption and for sale, when sensing my question, he gestured to the land around, informing that he had many more fields.

 

And that is what made me realise that probably the lady of the umbrella dance also owned numerous plots of land. Since I had found her sitting in and around fields on the same stretch of fields, she could also have been his mother. I didn’t ask, but felt that I  shouldn’t have entertained those earlier doubts, because who’d imagine hired help going through such effort and such totally bizarre attempts at shooing off prey. The crazy stuff is what we rise to, when we care enough, isn’t it?

 

 

 

As I was wrapping up this story, the housekeeping staff walked in to clean my apartment with Saraswati leading the way. She is a young graduate, newly married, from neighbouring Karnataka and if she happens to find me in the apartment, she quizzes me about what I am doing - always curious and in awe of my creative endeavours. This time around, she insisted on knowing the story I was writing. As I narrated the dress-clad woman’s antics, telling her how I wondered if she owned the land or was hired to do these tricks, when she said with the unstoppable authority of youth : “ Maedum, paeesa dene pe bhi nahin hone ko hota, kitna sharm aata na?, voh Catholic Aunty ka khud ka land hoga, bilkul hoga, koi shak nahin!”

 

Well, that certainly put it unarguably into the same perspective I had arrived at. The crazy stuff is what we do when we are involved with and have a vested interest in the resultant outcome, anyone else would feel too embarrassed to do the same things. The ploughing and harvesting of seeds that we sow through life, are rife with many awkward moments that we’d probably be too embarrassed to own up to and face ourselves for, on hindsight. As would the woman, if I had taken a video, of her at work, and shown  it to her. Would she.....,I know that in her shoes, I would.  And probably never work with such uninhibited ardour and abandon again!

 

Aaro Aakash…….A Memologue of Leisure - Guest Post - Sunetra Lahiri

Dokka, the cottage for two where we stayed

I met Uday Hazra at a photography exhibition where he was one of the exhibitors. Till date I do not know exactly what he does for a living except that he is a writer, graphic artist, and photographer, has a philanthropic bent of mind and owns ‘Aaro Aakash’ which is neither a hotel nor a resort but rather a property having one big and one small cottage that he kindly allows his friends and relatives to stay in. Adjacent and older than ‘Aaro Aakash’ is ‘Anek Aakash’ but that property is for his personal use. He has been asking me to visit 'Aaro Aakash' before it becomes another concrete jungle and the sky becomes just a figment of imagination….. So this February before the summer heat became too much we, myself and my friend Lily, decided we would take up his offer.

We board an early morning train from Sealdah for Bolpur, Shantiniketan. It’s a grey day, cool; we refresh ourselves with paper cups of hot lemon tea from a passing vendor on the train.  It takes about three hours to reach our destination.

'Aaro Aakash'….10kilometre from Bolpur station is in a village – Kamarpara. The property is looked after by Basuda, the manager and Lalda, the cook and odd job man. They both live in the same village within shouting distance of the property. Basuda drives the brand new white Maruti 'Omni' and picks us up from Bolpur Station. When we reach 'Aaro Aakash' we find it picture perfect - rustic, organic, basic; the charm lies in its simplicity. Dokka, the cottage for two, lies at the end of the property separated from a bigger cottage beside a pond and amidst abundant greenery. Dokka has an open front porch. It has a swing, an old armchair and a charpoy. I stake claim to the charpoy much to my friend’s amusement. Lying on the charpoy watching a sun bleached February sky as sharp little neem leaves float down soundlessly to the ground is cathartic. The breeze, still cool with barely a hint of the coming summer, making gentle music as it passes through the trees. It is a moment of unmitigated bliss.

Ekka - the first cottage in Aaro Aakash

I look at my companion – who has quite recently finished her PhD in Philosophy. For four years while she was writing her thesis we did not travel much because of her commitments. We are kindred souls and need to dive deep into quiet to rejuvenate. This trip was her birthday gift to me. Sitting on the swing engrossed in a book she had carried all the way from home, content, peaceful and silent, she is the perfect travel companion – unobtrusive and non-invasive. It has always been like this…..the treasured company of someone in perfect tandem with your rhythm.

The door separating Ekka from Dokka

Lalda comes ambling down the narrow path…. Lunch is ready. Food is simple, fresh and hot, served with love on huge steel plates with matching glasses on reed mats laid on the raised table in a little thatched hut with mud walls. Rice is heaped on our plates. There are dishes of dal, vegetable curry, fried eggplant, and fresh water fish curry. We protest because we cannot eat so much. Lalda is disappointed to find how little we eat; he says the water is good, it will make us hungry and we should eat more. We smile, trustingly drink the water and soon are too full to think about evening tea.

There is nothing much to do and that suits us fine. We lie down on the porch furniture like languid overfed lizards of which there are too many and varied to notice. When I return and tell him about the burgeoning lizard population, Uday-da, who is rather passionate about the environment, ecology and all things that have life, says, “it’s their home too.” 

An abandoned abode on way to Lakhi Sayar

Towards evening, before the twilight slips into deep dusk we venture out to explore Lakkhi Sayar - a large water body. Much before coming here we have avidly followed Uday-da’s Facebook page which was full of photographs of the village, 'Aaro Aakash' and Lakkhi Sayar. It’s just round a bend in the road hidden by a little ridge about 500 yards from the gate. We climb easily, nimbly like the black goats grazing about. It’s a beautiful sight….a solitary boat at the edge of the bank, the sun reflected in broken ripples, birds wheeling and settling among dark trees on the far bank while darkness descended slowly. Like true amateurs, we try our best to capture the mood but must be content with the image etched on our mind. Along the winding path back to 'Aaro Aakash', we meet some village women returning from a day’s work in the field - colourfully attired, their sweat soaked vital faces glowing in the rays of the setting sun. 

The lone boatman  of Lakhi Sayar - the waterbody near Aaro Aakash

We return back and Lalda serves tea with biscuits. We refuse his offer of “telebhaja with muri” (deep fried pakoras with puffed rice). Lily sits on a weather beaten wooden bench in front of the other cottage sipping her piping hot beverage while I amble about busily taking pictures of the surrounding. The previous guests had left that morning so we were the only people on the property.

We spend the evening on the porch surrounded by Mortein coils. The place is mosquito heaven, surrounded by trees and water bodies. My friend reads articles and stories she has collected for just such an occasion. She is a good story teller, her voice smooth with the correct intonation. It’s a moment of … nirmal anand….. We are quite unaware of time till Lalda comes hurrying down the path carrying a hurricane lamp and announces that dinner is ready. The hurricane lamp brings back memories of a bygone time in Calcutta when whole portions of the city would be shrouded in darkness due to load shedding, lighted only by these glass lamps. They would get sooty every night and cleaning them out every day was a ritual. Somehow exams and homework and my childhood evenings will always be linked with these lamps – the smoky smell of kerosene and the acridity of singed hair when we leaned too close to the glass, our eyes full of sleep from the torpid heat and humidity.

After dinner we wander back to our porch and feel that it’s too early to turn in. But there’s not much else we can do. We call home and report that all’s well, finish our nightly rituals in silence, climb inside the mosquito net that Lalda has so thoughtfully hung for us over the bed, a low wooden chouki without headrest pushed against the wall near the window which looks out on the porch. We try to sleep but end up chatting instead, our body clock attuned to a more urban routine. We talk late into the night. What did we talk about? I cannot remember. Inconsequential nothings, I guess.

I wake up early, take out my camera and go out onto the porch. It’s eerily silent. The sun is a mystery – it’s there but I cannot see it. Fog lies thick and deep among the trees.  I sit down on the armchair and try to be one with the silence. After a while I take a walk, feeling the cool gritty soil underfoot. There is dew on the straggly grass that glistens like pearl. Faraway through the cotton-wool silence I hear the tinkling of cow bells. I do not know what hour it is, only becoming aware of time when   I see Lalda emerging through the fog, as if by magic, from some other dimension, carrying tea in a thick glass, asking when we would require hot water for our baths.

Subarnarekha - the bookstore everybody goes to

After breakfast Basuda drives us to Shantiniketan. We have been here before so we do not waste time doing the usual touristy things. We visit 'Subarnarekha', the bookstore near Viswa Bharati University, where one can find anything from the downright crowd pleasers to the esoteric to vintage to rare moth eaten books and out-of-print journals. It’s not very organised. Books weigh down overburdened shelves and are also stacked   on the floor standing in precarious piles and in every nook and corner. It is difficult to walk about in the narrow spaces. There are a few people in the shop and it is an intricate ballet negotiating the narrow spaces between books without knocking each other over. I let my friend spend a happy hour in the proximity of books without trying to venture in much myself for I’m clumsy and quite capable of causing an accidental book avalanche. The owners are laid back, “sukhi” people, who do not seem very interested in selling anything. In fact we waited a good while before the shop was opened, a little after 11 am. But the shop survives, I guess, because of the passion of a select clientele – those people who have such love for books that they are willing to rummage through dust and countless volumes stocked ad hoc, hoping to find one gem to add to their ever increasing library. 'Subarnarekha' is something of an institution. It’s been there for more than 30 years. Everyone’s been here from prominent Bengali writers, academicians and students – it’s a popular haunt of the intelligentsia.

We look at roadside shops selling myriad things from jewellery to clothes to saris to trinkets, leather bags, accessories and souvenirs but nothing catches our eye. We head to Alcha, the store in Ratan Pally whose owner Keya Sarkar is a friend. Alcha has a good collection of bags, saris and scarves, all locally sourced and manufactured. There is also a restaurant of the same name nearby, run by Keya’s husband Satish who makes lovely Spanish omelettes, slated to reopen soon with a revamped menu.

Fourteen years ago, I and Lily had been to Shantiniketan. We were young and broke. We had been to all the usual places in a cycle rickshaw which is now being slowly replaced by Totos, the Indian version of the Tuktuk. We head for Konkalitala because my friend Lily is a temple hound. I look around trying to find the familiar road that wound through the pristine countryside, stretched to the horizon on both sides. We had been there in monsoon and there had been an eerie calm before the storm, the sunlight falling through golden edged clouds making everything glitter. Now the road and the surrounding area around the temple have changed dramatically. Development has come to Shantiniketan. The horizon is no longer visible. All we see are ugly structures on either side. It’s no longer picturesque or pristine but we go nevertheless. After my friend offers puja to Goddess Kali, we get back to Shantiniketan, hungry.
We find a place to eat. We are sceptical about the food, being quite put off by the strange décor and not very clean washrooms. With much reluctance, we order Chinese. The place is understaffed and the few waiters are busy running about. Almost all tables are taken. We infer that it must be a popular joint. When our orders arrive, we find food is surprisingly good and non-greasy. We take our time over lunch and linger a while, finishing our fresh lime sodas. Then it is time to return.

Village road near Aaro Aakash

Basuda drives us back to 'Aaro Aakash'. It takes about half an hour. The silence embraces us like a cloak. It’s a little hot but not very. The late afternoon is spent lazing about on the porch. We fall asleep in the gentle heat. When I wake up it is nearing twilight. We must have napped for the better part of an hour. I wake up my friend and decide that we would like to explore the other side of Kamarpara. Cameras in hand, we walked down unpaved village roads clicking photos of whatever catches our fancy... The porous laterite soil sticks to our sandals. Though there is teeming life in every house for we can hear the low hum and chatter, babies crying, radios and we can smell the smokiness of coal fire in preparation for the evening meal. The roads are deserted except for stray dogs, an occasional cat, an old woman sitting at the entrance of her hut…..a young man returning home on his bicycle….. I’m delighted to find tortuous, gnarled trees which look as if they have been there since the beginning of time. We wander farther than desired, almost two kilometres from 'Aaro Aakash' and then decide that it would be prudent to return as it would get quite dark. Without streetlights -- we were not carrying a torch-- it would be difficult to negotiate these unknown roads.

We returned soaked in sweat to hot tea and village gossip. Lalda is voluble, talking about Uday-da’s generosity and philanthropic work and all that he has done for the village people. The evening rolls into night…. It’s been just two days that we have been here but we feel that we have been here longer than that. This place is timeless…in the sense that every day is much like the previous day so if one were not very careful it would be easy to forget mundane things like time, one’s spatial existence, the virtual reality of things….We do much the same thing as the previous evening. We speak of this and that….n’importe quoi….yet it makes us happy. Both of us, in our city avatars, are busy people - she with her academics and I with designing collections.

When I met Lily she was working in a school in another state and we only got to meet during vacations. I was once an avid letter writer and our friendship began through letters. We are bound by our love of travel, books and music… She is partial to Hindustani Classical Music particularly Ustad Rashid Khan and Pt. Ajoy Chakraborty while I have a more wide ranging interest but am drawn towards instrumentals and jazz. I have a modest library of books and I have shared the best ones with her. Her own stock of books is different – related to her studies though she does read Bengali journals and magazines voraciously. Both of us have enormous respect for the written word.

When she moved back to the city, we met more often. Lily is a good listener and, in the beginning, I had much to tell her but familiarity of all these years of being together has made words superfluous. Much like the art of writing letters, the art of conversation was dying. Sitting in that quiet place we were trying to resurrect it. We were surrounded by darkness, the sound of crickets, an occasional firefly flitting about. We consciously avoided using our mobile phones and realised that it was not very difficult. I was going through a very personal upheaval and Lily’s presence was calming.

Life like a many armed octopus, each arm leading outward to a whole universe of new worlds and returning back to a single source.....thoughts begin and move into an eternal, unfinished journey winding and weaving through a myriad of other worlds…...

In a world full of little moments –
Tucked in a fragrance, a feeling, a phrase......
Weaving a rich tapestry –
Of everything;
And sometimes nothing at all,
You bring me closer to my Earth.


We had forgotten what pleasure it was to have these kinds of rambling conversations amid unending silences without having the guilt that time was running out and things had to be done.

But time did run out in the virtual real world and the next day Basuda drives us back to Bolpur station where the waiting iron monster inexorably take us to the city and to our separate routine lives.

Sunetra describer herself as is eccentric; a philogalist, librocubicultarist, amateur author and artist who is brilliant in unimportant things. She trained at NIFT to become a designer while life had other plans. She is happy to be pottering about her workshop finding fault and complicating the lives of people who work for her.