मैंने तो इसे use ही नहीं किया

Laxmi is pint sized, not even four feet tall and is thin as a stick. She barely speaks. She's very shy and nervous and yet, paradoxically, she works in a quietly self-assured sort of way.  She came to work for me about two years ago and I wasn't sure she was old enough to be working but was told that she was 18 years old and that everyone in her family was extra petite. The man who brought her to me was her cousin brother-in-law and he said she'd done a stint at the Ansal's club, here, in Palam Vihar. I figured they must have got their paper work in order to put her on their rolls, so it was all right to take her on. Not having been to school there was no way to verify and I don’t think that in the villages they bother with things like a birth certificate, so I had no choice but to just take his word for it. .She was raw from the point of experience of working in a home. Training her was Mahipal's job because she was really green and I couldn't have done it. She basically cleans the apartment and other chores like washing clothes and dishes that don't really require her to be educated.

For the better part of two years, I have really had very little to say to her and vice versa. Gradually, I noted, every time Mahipal was on leave, she had really picked up quite a lot of other chores and was doing them quite adequately. She's learned to make the beds, dust and even lay the table for lunch. She doesn't speak much, not even in response to questions. She has this terrified posture all the time that I've often wanted to (but I don't) take hold of her tiny frame and shake her up - everything is so tightly held within that she just can't speak.

She's a decent enough worker. Although sometimes a bit of a shirker, quite unpredictable and she does things is a maddening way without using her brain. A shelf was wobbling in my meditation room so the music player had been left on the bed. A carpenter willing to undo and re-install the shelf took a while to find as Ansal's, the builders, have built very kaccha walls. So it sat on the bed for over a year. Last month the shelf was repaired and I put the music player back on it. For a week, I found that when she went to clean the room each morning, she'd remove it from the shelf to put it back on the bed. I'd put it on the shelf in the evening and she'd do it again the next day. It went on for a full week because each day I'd forget until I saw it removed from the shelf in the eveing, and by then she had left for the day. I had to make special note tell her that its rightful place was on the shelf and not on the bed! It's something I took for granted that she'd have understood, since the shelf was repaired in her presence; common sense? But she didn't figure that out.  That's how limited is her capacity to think. And adding to this, her lack of communication skills also really irks. She's totally illiterate. She cannot read numbers or even count change accurately.

These past two months Mahipal has been away so I have been very short staffed and had to do a lot of housekeeping chores I would not otherwise deal with. The persistent doorbells with delivery of stores and supplies are very disturbing, not to mention the numerous phone calls that I have to make to order them. So, each day I make an effort to teach her to a to tell the vendors who do the deliveries at home that she cannot read and ask them to show her what they have brought - “क्या लाये हो”  and where is the item mentioned in the bill and how much do they have to be paid – “बिल में कहाँ लिखा है और  कितने पैसे देने है” and somehow we've come to a point that she has understood the merit of doing this and tells them she's अन्पड़ [illiterate] so please do the needful. They don't really have a choice, so when she does ask, they take her through each item in the bag and thankfully we've figured it out such that I don't have to open the front door with every doorbell and she's now learning to take on this responsibility - more relevant is that in talking to the vendors, she's more confident about dealing with them. It's quite sweet how they oblige and show her. I actually watched the sabziwala [vegetable vendor] do it the other day, taking out one thing at a time and pointing it out to her on the bill. Today, she actually came with a vitamin I normally take, to check if it was the right one, because the packaging was different and she didn’t recognise it.  So, it works. I am not certain that she does follow this process of checking all the time, but at least some of the time I have proof of her conscientiousness in this regard.

But, despite all the strides we've taken, the lack of language skills and her innate reservation about speaking is intimidating. I'm scared to leave her alone in the apartment because if there's a mishap she cannot even call the guard on the intercom as she doesn't know how to use the phone and can't read numbers. And I don't like her leaving the front door open when no-one else's around because however safe the condominium may be, she's still a young girl who just can't stand up for herself well enough.

However, there are times when this near-mute, unlettered, intense, well-intentioned girl surprises me. She'll remember to make my tea on time every afternoon and bring it on the dot at 4 pm sharp, on a tray that's perfectly laid.  She'll show the new staff the ropes even when I'm not reassured that she knows them herself. And yesterday was the icing on the cake.

I like my morning tea light and it needs precisely four minutes to brew. When she looks at the clock in the kitchen, each day, it ends up an approximation of the necessary 4 minutes, so it's a different shade of brew with too much flavour or too little. So, I got her, what I thought would be, a foolproof kitchen timer. You had to turn it anti-clockwise to wind it up and then clockwise to 4, and it would ring an alarm in 4 minutes. On Sunday, I'd taken to using it myself. A pale blue, plastic teddy bear shape with a nice round tummy it was a cute toy in the kitchen and I always smiled when I set it up. This Sunday, the one just gone by, I found something was not quite right with the timer. The alarm didn't go off.  The next day I asked Laxmi what had happened why the timer wasn't working. Had she broken it? She said something in her usual muffled incomprehensible nothingness. I got a bit stern and repeated myself. Sometimes that's the only way to get her to open her mouth and get the words out coherently. What I heard stopped me in my tracks.

This unlettered, village girl, who frustrated me with her unfathomable ways, confounded me with her irrational fear and more said to me: “मैंने तो इसे use ही नहीं कियाI” I was stunned. I wasn't sure I'd heard right, so I asked her to repeat what she had said. And she said it again: “मैंने तो इसे use ही नहीं कियाI” [I haven’t even used it] Uneducated as she was she’d somehow picked up and used an English word, constructing a sentence using two languages, perfectly. How was that possible?  I was flabbergasted. It really made me think about the idea of intelligence versus education.

How does it work that someone so unlettered, who didn’t know the meaning of words could use them with such accuracy?  And then, what causes her to feel so much fear despite this innate intelligence that enables language skills in the absence of any formal education? It says a lot for our capacity to be present and channel the flow of our natural intelligence. Of how, when we want to learn things we pick them up with ease and when the same things become a chore, then we plod and make the stupidest of mistakes. I’ve observed this even with myself that when something comes from the heart, where there is passion, it not only flows but comes forth in the most brilliant ways, which I know that I could not have managed had I used my mind and its limited knowing.

I do realise the value of education in whatever field one pursues for this engenders confidence to enable the higher intelligence to come into play, especially in challenging scenarios. I find it particularly true with spiritual principles which most of us do not study and where most of it is innate. But when you hear people talk about it, because you may not have analysed it for yourself in quite the same way, confusion reigns and the urge to study and figure it out through observation of oneself and correlation with what the masters say becomes a must, just to enable a conscious understanding of what actually comes very naturally to all us. There are other benefits, but this facility to correlate is crucial to one’s confidence levels, even though the actual process is innate. And illiterate Laxmi with her competent usage of language in saying “मैंने तो इसे use ही नहीं किया”, provides a perfect example of how the absence of formal learning does not preclude intelligent comprehension and use of complex dual language skills through observation and application.

How she learned to use this word in this way, where and when, is something that I will probably never know because asking her would be expecting the impossible – because even if, even if she understood my question, which was highly unlikely, but even if she did understand, she would, more than likely, silently walk away because articulating was always such an effort.Soon after she'd joined, I found she that was an अँगूठा छाप। So I asked her if she'd like to learn to sign/write her name. In her predictably unpredictable way, she'd hesitated and then agreed and so I requested Mahipal to teach her. The next month, when it came to pay day, instead of the stamp pad to put her thumbprint on the receipt, Laxmi came with a ballpoint pen in her hand. I was impressed. I waited patiently - she took aeons to sign. I finally left her alone to do it as she was shaking with nervousness. When I got back to my desk, I found that she'd signed LAXMI in bold capitals, in English, across the page. Trembling letters that didn't stand up straight in a line. And, some two years later, they shake and wobble as much, even though she's more confident about signing and does it as quick or slow as anyone else.

But “मैंने तो इसे use ही नहीं किया” is something else, isn't it? I still cannot fathom how she manages to get some things right and sometimes does the craziest things that defy the possibility that she can use her mind intelligently. Not unlike the rest of us who may be highly educated and lettered, this seems a perfect reminder that education does not necessarily facilitate intelligence and neither is a degree in any subject a prerequisite for intelligent enquiry into it. It’s innate; if only we have the confidence to channel it.

 

 

 

https://www.facebook.com/Gopikanath801art/

 

 

A Naive Life

I'm not a happy winter person. I don't like the heat either but I'd rather be hot and dress light than bundle up. I've spent a fair amount of my life in the hills - more particularly at a boarding school perched on the top of a mountain in the Himalayas. And then, of course, I've also battled the English winters where the sun hardly shone, but the cold was more bearable and more fashionable than the winters of Delhi and Gurgaon.

These cities are not built to endure the cold. We are all geared up for 45 degrees Celsius but have no planning to combat 4 degrees or colder. I realise that we'd possibly have less legroom if we had radiators along the walls, as well as air-conditioners. But when I think about it, since I end up wrapped up and not moving anyway, I'd be much happier with the radiators hissing on the walls. It would be warm and  far better than being dressed in layers and layers of clothing, padding the limbs such that I never get a sense of how much weight I've actually put on - gorging on my favourite winter snack which is peanut brittle - more fondly called chikki. Oh, how I love my chikki - it trumps chocolate. And that's saying a lot.

It was early December and the cold hadn’t really hit us but, every day, one more room heater was taken out in anticipation. And the light Rajasthani quilt or what we grew up calling tullaies was packed away and the heavier Duvet graced the bed instead. Yes, winter was knocking and the mornings so hard to get up to. Usually, I love waking up to sunrise, but when days run into each other where fog has eclipsed any illusions of sunrise, there’s nothing to inspire an early morning rising on my part. I mean there's nothing poetic about the sun grappling with the polluted winter air in Gurgaon, is there?  

Honestly, I'd much rather have the hot sun than wake up to grey skies, which just send me right back under the covers and then I'm so late starting out every day. And that's not good, especially when whatever light there is during the day begins to diminish by 5 pm, so then I’m upset about the cold and miffed with myself too! Yes, yes, I know that it's better than the sun setting at 3 pm as I remember it during my college days, in London. But the point is that then I was living closer to the Arctic Circle and not the Equator.

I've tried telling myself that the change in temperatures is refreshing. I get it intellectually but I never feel it. There's no sense of wonder and charm in airing out the sweaters, shawls, jackets, gloves, scarves and woolly hats. It's a necessity and they take up so much cupboard space too. Not to mention how much space is needed to store them for half the year, when they're not in use. Woollens are so bulky!

If there is anything that I do I like about winters, it is sitting in the sun. But my apartment doesn't get enough sun in the right doses, at the right time, in the appropriate space so that I can enjoy it all day long. But, on the days that it does manage to get the better of the city's pollution and shine warm and bright, I do manage to soak in a little. Perhaps not enough to top up my Vitamin D quotas but it's better than nothing.

This December, there were many flats being repaired or renovated and the cacophony of drills, hammers and screeching marble cutters resounded. In winter there’s no white noise of the fan or air-conditioners to mask these noises during the day but it's a much worse situation at night. I hear my neighbours' telephone conversations. I can hear them pull the flush, draw water from the taps and their music too. And to hear their children scampering above and below in the silence of the night, when I’m all bundled up in my duvet, is almost as torturous as the hammering three floors below and to my right or left, during the day. For some reason, everyone seems to speak louder during winter and each morning when the building's cleaners arrive, I feel as if I'm in a fish market - the racket they make is unbearable. I've no idea what they get so animated about and, nine winters on, they haven't altered the natter that grows louder as the floors rise higher.   On more than a few occasions, I've also been woken up in the dead of night, alarmed by dheenchak music. The guards that man the adjoining E and F towers were found enjoying some Bollywood music with their radios or phones blaring as if the night was theirs to do anything, just to stay awake. Even if it meant that residents, who are light sleepers like me, were compelled, against their will and desire, to keep vigil with them.

And on the subject of noise, the preferred season for noisy Indian weddings is also the winter months. So, most evenings, my redial number is the local Police Chowki where the munshi and I go through the same ritual every evening. The phone rings and a male voice says: “Namashkar, police  thaana Palam Vihar.” And I respond, “Namashkar, mein Celebrity Homes se bol rahi hu" Someone somewhere is playing very loud music. “It's too loud, apne ghar mein chaen se baith nahin sakti, could you please send someone” and more in that vein. Sometimes, they fail to identify where the music is coming from and I get calls from the riders on their beat. My phone is perpetually on silent mode, so they get voicemail.

These days Vodafone sends a message for each call that goes to voicemail so I know which number has left a message and can choose to check or not. And with these calls from the riders, I opt not to because I haven’t a clue where the music is coming from in any case and it’s a pointless conversation that adds to my angst.  At some point, the next day, when I need to retrieve a message from a known source, I listen to numerous such messages they have left that never go beyond hello. "Hello!" And then a few more aggressive and exasperated "hullo, hullo, hullo" and then on an aside - "koi nahin baat kar raha hai" - and then something unintelligible that fades into silence. And it never changes. Voice mail is a funny thing; even my driver can't bring himself to leave me a message on it. I know that my friends too complain about leaving a message because they refuse to talk to a machine. And many have stopped calling me altogether - which pretty much means that I'm the one that has to do the calling. Especially since almost all now have adopted the stance of uff! It’s impossible to get you on the phone, so we've given up calling.

And in the bleakness of low-light winters and the cold, that I'm not really too fond of, I now miss the warmth of many conversations too. But, my latest accomplishment has been heartening. And riding my pink cycle I pedal around, within the perimeter of the condominium, enjoying the freedom of wheels, being out in fresh air and more - more so when the wind doesn't catch my ears and freeze them. But thankfully this winter it was not quite cold enough for that – at least not for long, so I enjoyed my 10Km cycling run each evening with a light jacket, which doesn’t qualify as heavy clothing, so I didn’t feel like a plumped up chicken all ready to be baked. Well, there was that one week, or was it two, when the winds howled and it did get quite chilly. But addicted to my cycling, I just had to get out, so I bundled up with gloves and hat and scarf and sweater and jacket and sometimes even two pairs of socks!

 I found myself droning on and on, albeit silently within myself, about my winter grouses, before winter actually hit us and then more so when one was swathed in woollens. At this point the droning really began wearing me down, more so than the woollens. I hate that uncomfortable voice in my head, complaining and complaining and complaining about the cold, but more than the cold, the noises that grow louder in the cold weather. And the noise in my head was about to explode, when on one of my cycling rounds, it was around my 3rd or 4th round, when the noise abated enough for me to 'think' and hear that voice inside my head. A voice, unheard but heeded, which silently bade me look at the flowers.

In that instant, I felt chided for being such an ungrateful whine-bag, remembering that one of the blessings of winters here, were the flowers. But, having said that, our hot, summer season does sport radiant Gulmohur, drooping sunshine-yellow Amaltas and my favourite, fragrant Frangipani. And, as I pedalled on, treading the yellow dribbles of shedding Gulmohur trees, I was reminded of how bald they looked in colder climes - like skeletons in the park. But yes, at the right angle of viewing and when the street lamps are lit at night, they do cast interesting shadows on the circular building at the far end of the complex, popularly known as the 'Gol' building, even though it is named Celebrity Suites.

It's horrid to be chided, especially by one’s own soul, for not being grateful enough. It’s even worse than the complaints one drones on about. It’s horrid to see, how not in control of my mind I am prone to be. It's horrid, horrid and horrid, to be chanting complaints but I just can't pretend to be grateful and delight in wonder at the marvels of the world when the noise of discontent fills my head. And, to top it all, deride myself for allowing them to go on and on and on and eventually create the life I have - that noisy cacophonic existence instead of the peace and quiet I desire. I mean it's horrid because, at night, I can sit for a while listening to the peaceful hiss of silence and am ready for slumber, when my youthful neighbours will stomp into their home at 11pm and begin to party. And that is when I've just about appeased most of my stress to settle down for the night.

I’ve been working with the idea of subconscious patterns trying to fathom this whole concept, so I do ask myself, what is it that I think, what thoughts are creating such a cacophonic life? Is it really a reflection of the noise inside my head? I mean, I know that the spiritual masters say I must take responsibility for my life because it's what I think most of the time that's creating it. That it is not what I want but that unconscious chant inside my head that is manifesting this life as it unfolds. The philosophy being that what you focus upon is what you get, so if we are obsessing over something, afraid of its impending doom, it is said that we are more likely to get that instead of what we would prefer instead. But, then I think: what about between 2-4 pm every day and all day Sunday, when the labour isn't permitted to work? Or when the Police do manage to track the wedding or party and persuade them to tone it down? Or when my neighbours do pay heed to the guards carrying my complaint. Does it mean that it's time-bound? And this too is created by me, because I have been vocal about these guidelines? But it's the norm for all buildings in Gurgaon. So does that mean that everyone living in condominiums carry the same unconscious chant inside their heads?

But the thing is that I have learned that I can't control the complaining chant by snubbing or suppressing it. The only way I can still the mind is to allow it expression. Anything else is nothing short of anarchy. But, when I can speak to my heart's content and be heard, it's peaceful. It's blissful and the world seems a much more charming place. 

That day, as I cycled around the block one more time, I cribbed about the fact that I couldn't control the misery chant anymore and said out loud, to convince no-one but myself, that I didn't need to control it. And that’s  when the shy blooms of white chrysanthemums beckoned me stop, get off my pink ‘Miss India Gold’ bike and take a long and hard look at these flowers that exult and bloom in the season I dread the most.

 

I took out my phone and zoomed into those talon-like petals that were opened wide, the sunshine yellow centre of pollen-filled stamens, inviting the birds and bees. Defenceless in their vulnerability, they remained motionless, a mere flicker in the occasional whiff from the breeze. I zoomed in close and then moved my lens around and my attention was caught by the young buds. The full blooms were daring and bold in their approach, knowing they competed with each other and that there were hundreds of pots around - all white, all perfectly formed, all awaiting a visitation- the moment they were born for. The moment they unfolded for, that moment of bonding to diminish the divide - that sense of separation. But it was the buds, each curled sepal, uncurling, unfolding, stretching - one by one, slowly opening up, that were more sensuous than the emboldened flowers on display. 

I zoomed in with my phone camera, and closer still, until all I could see were blurred hues of yellowish green merging into white. Moving out, the camera selected the buds again and this time when I looked, I saw the petals as if they were claws reaching out to life, clinging to each moment. And I wondered why, when all that was in store was the cold and the noises of being, undisguised in the chill.

 

Which, we were incidentally spared this year…..

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.

 

 

Tea and Tales from Tawang

Sela Pass

The cup of tea on the table in front of me is quite repulsive, to say the least. The container is squat, made of greyish, flimsy (possibly toxic) plastic that wobbles when held in the hand, threatening to spill out its contents. The tea, thick, dark brown and glutinous, is forming a crinkly skin on the top. It’s 7 am and I’ve just bought this brew at the Guwahati airport.

I’m seated on a large brown faux leather sofa in the VIP lounge. On another sofa, across me, Mr Nitin Gadkari, BJP ideologue and current minister for roads, is reading aloud a joke about the Congress on his cell phone and giggling happily along with his retinue. He is waiting for a helicopter to take him to district Zero in Arunachal Pradesh. I too am waiting for a chopper to get me to Tawang. 

 

A Stream by the Road

I drink the tea. It is hot, sweet and thick, as is all tea you might get at an airport – and nothing like the milk-less light Lipton Green Label I’m used to. I feel it travelling down my food pipe in a mass and hit the stomach. Instead of jerking me awake, as I had hoped (I’ve been up since 2 am to travel), it has a strangely soporific affect – and I fall immediately and deeply asleep. The next thing I know, I am being shaken awake: “Madam, the helicopter is ready, it’s 10 o’clock.” This is a commercial flight run by the state government and I go through the security check again and soon find myself on the tarmac, near the helicopter. Mr Gadkari and his group fly by overhead in a couple of Army copters. 

 

The Road to Twang, from the helicopter

The only other passenger in our chopper is a Washington Post journalist who is worried about altitude sickness in Tawang – the town is located 10,000 feet above sea level. Since I had not thought about this, I too begin to worry but not for long. Our helicopter takes off and soon we are engrossed in the visual delights outside our windows. We are travelling over hills clad in thick virgin forest, the green broken only by the pale thin ribbon of a road winding up and down endlessly. The road trip from Guwahati to Tawang takes about sixteen hours and the chopper ride a little over an hour. However, the latter is dependent on weather conditions and quite erratic.

 

White Tara at Lumla

We soon arrive at Lumla, and hover almost eye level with a huge, beautiful statue of White Tara, seated atop a hill. At the helipad, my host, the district commissioner of Tawang, has sent a Jeep and driver to meet me and soon we are on our way to Tawang Township. The air is crisp and cold, the temperature hovering around 12 degrees centigrade. The journey is an hour-and-a-half long over very bad road. Small waterfalls and streams trickling down the hillside, fields of brilliant yellow flowers, an occasional flowering rhododendron tree, a yak grazing in a meadow, prayer flags fluttering gaily from poles and rooftops, and people busy with their daily lives in the small village we pass are some sights that keep me visually engrossed and cushioned from bumps. 

 

Monpa women dancing

Tawang district is also known as the Land of the Monpa. The Monpa are an ancient tribe that migrated to Tawang and adjacent West Kameng district from Tibet and Bhutan over time. They are followers of Buddhism; in fact, the only Dalai Lama – the sixth – to be born in India took birth in Tawang in 1683. There are many myths and stories about his life as a child, his journey to Tibet and his eventual mysterious disappearance. In the mists of time, Tibet held sovereignty over Tawang and later China became involved. The McMohan line demarcated Tawang as Indian Territory in 1914, but China still lays claim to the area. In fact, Chinese troops over-ran the place in the 1962 Indo-Chinese war and later retreated when peace was signed. The bravery of the Indian soldiers in this war is commemorated through the War Memorial in Tawang and the Jaswantgarh War Memorial close by.

 

White Rhododendron

Tawang’s other claims to fame are the Tawang Monastery, said to be the largest in Asia, and the fact that when the current (14th) Dalai Lama fled Tibet in 1953, he entered India through Tawang. I can see the sprawling Tawang Monastery’s buildings with their whiter than white walls and vibrant yellow roofs from the Circuit House where I am staying. The structure dominates the town which is built on the spines of a couple of green hills – and the entire vista is really as pretty as a picture.

Having arrived at the Circuit House, I proceed to ask Yadavji, the 

Monpa men with Yak dance costume

general factotum, for ‘separate’ tea which means that the hot water and tea leaves arrive in a tea pot accompanied by milk and sugar in separate containers as opposed to the thick curry-like masala chai which is a near universal favourite. The tea arrives on a tin tray with the three containers on it. But…. the teapot contains the hated masala chai, with additional sugar and milk in case I felt like making it sweeter or milkier! I swallow my disappointment and the tea, and head out to see the sights of Tawang.

There’s a fair amount to see within the small radius in and around town. 

 

Tawang Monastery

Tawang Monastery

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first stop, of course, is Tawang Monastery. We enter the ancient building into a courtyard that plays host to the annual Torgya monastic festival every winter. Up front is the assembly hall that is home to the 25-foot beautiful gilded statue of the Buddha. The room is festooned with banners, the floor has prayer mats on it and the walls are richly decorated with intricate murals and thangkas. Other buildings around the courtyard include a museum, an impressive library, storage for provisions and a cook house. Beyond are buildings that are home to the male monks and novices; every Monpa households sends one son here at a young age to learn the scriptures. 

Tawang Monastery

We then wind our way downhill to the modest Urgelling Monastery. It has some antique thangkas of the sixth Dalai Lama, prayer wheels, lamps for lighting, and other accoutrements of faith. On the first floor, in the hall, we find a priest and his family. I light the lamp at the altar and am invited to share tea with them. The Monpa butter tea or sueja is salty and made from jari or crude tea leaves that are churned together with a little milk, butter and salt in a long cylindrical churn made of bamboo or jan dhong. The sueja is served warm. The taste, though unlike the tea we’re used to, is pleasant and soothing; a certain sense of contentment falls upon me, brought on by the place and the tea.

Mentally shaking myself, I take my leave and we make our way further down to yet another monastery, Khinmey. This is a beautiful structure that has been renovated recently at the behest of the current dynamic Rinpoche. Inside, apart from the statues of deities and saints, the walls are covered with tantric (fairly erotic) paintings showing life in all its stages, especially the fate that awaits the wicked and the sinful.



Khinmey Monastery

By now it’s late in the evening and the temperature has dipped further. I decide to head back and turn in for the evening. Along the streets, especially in the market, the local people are busy transacting daily business. The Monpa are a good looking people. The young men and women sport the latest haircuts and clothing:  jeans, boots, jackets and scarves. I think that if you were to transfer them to, say, Bangkok or KL, they’d be quite at home. Not many wear the traditional gear - which uses a stunning combination of brick red and cobalt blue – everyday; it is usually reserved for festive occasions. 

 

Pond by the roadside

The driver informs me that yaks can sense the weather change and know it’s going to snow higher up so they rush downhill.

Yaks running downhill
 

The yaks are right. Weather rapidly deteriorates and it is raining in earnest by the time we hit Tawang. There’s a cultural festival on – the reason for my visit to Tawang -- and I leave my driver at the parking lot and walk down to the grounds where the festivities are organised. Luckily, it’s stopped raining but the ground is full of slush.
 

PT Tso Lake

Regardless, the place is bursting with activity. People from different tribes across Arunachal in their traditional, colourful costumes and beads, wearing exotic headgear and masks; men roaming around in the yak dance costumes or dance masks; musicians tuning their instruments; young and old monks; and the town people excitedly talking – it’s a scene that fills the senses. I cannot but help marvel at India and her diversity.  The governor of the state arrives and we witness local dances performed by five or six different tribes. My cup quite spills over with excitement and happiness.The yaks are right. Weather rapidly deteriorates and it is raining in.

PT Tso Lake

 

The only fly in the cup is the telecommunication in Tawang; it belongs to the dark ages. The Airtel service comes on for a few seconds then vanishes for hours. I can’t make contact with the driver, so I eventually hitch a ride with two young monks in a bright red Maruti 800 back to the Circuit House. 

 

Twang Monastery from the Circuit House

Much as I don’t want to, I have to think about getting to Delhi. Since there is no chance of the helicopter taking off in this weather, I prepare to embark on the sixteen-hour journey to Guwahati. Next morning, my host sees me off in a taxi at around 11 am. Leaving town, we descend and then ascent up to the snow covered Sela Lake and Pass at 13,500 feet altitude. Again I get that sense of the majesty of nature and our smallness in its face.

 

Yak Dancers

We drive steadily through virgin jungle along the road that I had seen from the helicopter. There is hardly any traffic and the road is seriously bad in several patches. I get the opportunity to feast my eyes of lush green, unspoilt forests that we are passing interspersed by valleys of incredible beauty. We reach Bhalukpong in Assam by 7.30 in the evening and start again at 6 am next morning, reaching Guwahati airport by about 11, well in time for my 1.40 pm flight back to Delhi.

 

A young Lama

Ever the optimist about tea, this time I go to the slightly upmarket restaurant at the airport so that I can try some excellent Assam tea. The ‘separate’ tea arrives. But a bag of Taj Mahal masala tea dangles in hot water in the pot. The waiter assures me that this is the only Assam tea he knows of. I give up! And console myself that home just a few hours away. The first thing I’ll do on reaching will be to make myself a cup of tea the way I like it.

Urgelling Monastery

 

 

 

Ananda Swaroop is a itinerant traveller. An editor by profession, she edits corporate publications and is also the editor of garam masala chai. A watercolour enthusiast and practitioner, she works with the realist genre. Ananda lives and works in New Delhi, India.