Matheran (personal write)

One of the things I love about the place where I live in, is the proximity to both the mountains and the sea; in a couple of hours we can be at one of the many mountain resorts of the Sahyadris or 'hill stations' as they are called here. The name is a remnant of the British Raj (rule).

Now the Hill stations themselves are in a way, an inheritance from the days of colonial rule, as the British ran around looking for escape routes from the gruelling and relentless heat of the summer and where could they find respite, but on the mountain tops. Well, as it would have been hard to clamber up the mountains, clawing and scraping all the way to the peaks, encumbered with family, servants and the thousands of pounds of luggage, without which no self respecting Pucca Sahib and his Memsahib could have a halfway decent stay, there was nothing to be done but to build roads, that went all the way around the mountains and more importantly to build railways, which did the same. In some places though they have built just one or the other, for e.g. there is no way to go to Mahableshwar and Panchgani except by road and Matheran still has the toy train (narrow gauge) which my dad and his family used to take to the top when he was a child, which was after WWI. The place itself was discovered by an Englishman, Mr. Hugh Poyntz Malet, the then Collector of Thane, in 1850.

As my dad's family had a summer home in Matheran along with a few in other places, they often travelled there, which in those days of steam travel, would require more than half a day. The mind boggles when I think of the forethought required in planning the transfer of the gigantic joint family of parents, sons, daughters-in-law, unmarried daughters, numerous grandchildren and of course the servants, for the upper middle-class Indian was not very far behind the Pucca sahib when it came to his comforts, even in the wilds. The fact that they all used to reach there and back in the same numbers, without any untoward incident of babes getting lost in the woods, or teens being thrown off horses into the ravines below, is quite a managerial feat.

All my life I had heard the stories of Matheran not just from my dad, but also from his numerous great aunts and cousins. They talked of the peculiar quality the red earth had of clinging to the clothes, and the tribes of monkeys, for Matheran and its surrounding hills and forests were filled with monkeys in thousands. These primates were unafraid of humans and were often up to pranks, which included stealing clothes from the clothes lines. The tales intrigued me and Matheran was firmly set as a destination in some future time. Through life and time though, the memories and the desire to visit grew hazy, till one day recently, when my daughter had to give an exam in a village over a 100 km from where we were. Looking the place up on the internet, we discovered it was barely 20 km from Matheran. There would be time to go up, explore a bit and return, while she was busy with the exam. So with much excitement I set out the next day with the kids. To be honest I was the only excited one, after all it was getting hot and we were not exactly going to an air conditioned mall now, were we? At 1 pm we said good bye and good luck to my daughter, as this was an important exam that would decide her future and made our way to the mountains.

After we reached the foot of the mountain and began climbing, the road was very steep and the drive slow and in first gear. We crossed the tracks in many places. The view though, was absolutely breathtaking, as just after a few turns the entire landscape began unfolding in fabulous vistas. The hill sides were thickly forested, contrasting sharply with many of the other badly deforested slopes. Like in other forests of the Western Ghats, here too numerous plants and herbs with medicinal value grow in profusion. I enjoyed the growing beauty of the view with the vale below and the mountains on all sides; though I must confess it was with tightly clenched fists, heights do that to me.

About 2.5 km from the top we had to park the car and had four options: take the train; a journey of about ten minutes which would require an interminable wait, ride a horse, or take a hand pulled rickshaw (putting life and limbs in the hands of another), or the last and the only real one for us, walk. There are no tarred roads from here on; we would have to walk through the red earth, liberally spread out with horse dung. Red earth was not bad, but the thought of submerging my Pumas into horse dung was definitely off putting. It set me off thinking, at a tangent as usual; this was a 'no pollution zone', and it reminded me of earlier times, before automobiles, when the horses ruled the streets. Was there really no pollution then? Pictures flashed across my eyes of ladies in long gowns sweeping the streets of London which were similarly bespattered, or for that matter the streets of anywhere else, I shuddered on behalf of the poor servants, upon whose lot fell the washing of those gowns. Reluctant to step even sole deep in the stuff, we decided to take the tracks, as there was no train expected. These circuitous tracks that had begun from the foot of the mountain, cover about 20 km and the curves are said to be amongst some of the sharpest in the world. We had a walk of about 3 km ahead of us and as many others had the same idea too, it was quite a procession of out of condition urbanites, which huffed and puffed its way around the mountain, perspiring profusely in temperatures which were higher than normal for a February afternoon.

Trudging up those tracks was hard work in the beginning but after a while it began getting better. The hillsides were covered by forests and the trees lined both sides of the tracks and grew in the valley below. Even now moss could be spied growing on the trunks and branches and dappled light played on the forest floor. The monkeys were our constant companions on that trek, many watching us from strategically well chosen positions in the trees. A few entertained us with amusing antics and some ambled alongside, a couple choosing to walk on the rails themselves. The view was obscured by trees in the beginning, but after a while we could only draw our breaths in sharply, as the tree cover cleared a bit and before us were spread out magnificent vistas of valleys and hills.

We stopped here to take photos and enjoy the scenery. In the monsoons all this turns into every possible shade of green and some of the hill sides, which sadly have been badly scarred by deforestation, are once more granted the grace of a verdant cover. Now that the grass had dried and turned yellow and many hills were bare, the view had a more colourful, though rugged look; with the blue of the sky, the red of the Earth, the yellow of the grass covered hills and the green of the trees presenting a picturesque sight. The peaks in the distance appeared blue in the mists. In the valley we could see clusters of houses of the villages and towns that lay below.

Though we were walking through forest cover, it was still hot and began to get tiring, especially as small stones were spread all around the tracks, which made walking not just difficult but even painful. Soon the path we had left behind, began to run along the tracks and presented us with images from another century, a procession of people in rickshaws, horseback and on foot as well as mule trains, coolies, and pushcarts, all carrying luggage and other goods. I have never seen anything so dangerously laden with goods before as those push carts, especially ones that had to maneuver such steep slopes. There were trails leading off from the path, through the surrounding forests to many view points, but time constraints held us to our path.

Soon we reached our destination; the railway station. A train was waiting to leave the station. Horses and hand pulled rickshaws waited outside the station. The market was one long road with shops, restaurants and hotels on both sides, close by the station. The shops sold the local handicrafts besides other things. I found a shop selling beautifully made and inexpensive leather bags, which would have made any boutique in Bombay proud. Luckily he accepted credit cards. It was tough to make a choice as the bags were really good but finally I walked away with two, sadly leaving the others behind.

Lunch was an absolute necessity but after that there was little time to see anything except one point, called Khandala Point from where we could look at the Khandala mountains. Though we stopped at the railing, there was a family sitting right at the edge, staring out intensely at the view. It was a family of langurs (monkeys) and it truly looked like they were looking at the view. What affected me most werethe completely solemn expressions on their faces. They perhaps were touched, more than humans usually are, at the wonders of creation.

As we walked away from Khandala Point and on to the market road, I spied a house behind the shops. It looked like it had once been the residence of some proud owner, yet now, derelict and abandoned it wore a look of utter desolation. The windows were broken and through one we spied an empty four poster bed. The yard was strewn with logs of wood. Someone, perhaps squatters, had also recently burnt a couple of logs in the yard, and had left behind the cold remnants of a fire. There was, what once must have been a beautiful railing, across the verandah. My daughter asked me sadly why this happens and I replied: so that we do not become too arrogant about youth, beauty, fame, fortune or possessions. It is a reminder of the transient nature of everything. The house did not give out good vibes and with a shudder we walked away. Much, much later, I wondered if that was the house that had belonged to my family, the thought saddened me and I thought of:

'Through the cracks in these battlements loud the winds whistle
For the hall of my fathers is gone to decay;
And in yon once gay garden the hemlock and thistle
Have choak'd up the rose, which late bloom'd in the way'.
by Lord Byron

Later on questioning my mom about it, I discovered that the house was still lived in. There was a strange story to that too: One day while travelling by train, my father had met a man and as conversations spring up between strangers on a train, so after a while they became friendly and started exchanging information about each other. When the man said he lived in Matheran, My dad could not help exclaiming that they used to have a house there once. On further inquiries it turned out that the house this man lived in presently was the same one. He then gave dad his card and told him to feel free to visit and stay there whenever he and the family liked. That was so kind of him. He never threw away cards or addresses and maybe we will still find it somewhere in his things, that all of us have so far been reluctant to touch since his passing.

It was already past the hour we had decided to leave. I had no wish to make my daughter wait alone in a deserted, village college. We both had had enough of walking so my younger child opted for a horse, while I took a rickshaw. Unfortunately I had chosen in haste and without wisdom, as the rickshaw puller was an old man. The rickshaw is actually a pull push affair, with one man pushing and the other pulling. The one pushing comes close behind and it gave me a prickly feeling on my neck to have someone so close by, especially as I felt almost drowned by the stench of country liqour emanating from him. The rickshaw too was a sad, rickety affair and moved with much complaining, groans and creaks, while the poor un-oiled wheels screeched and squeaked in protest throughout the ride, as we hurtled down the slope at a frightening speed. All the while, as I was being rudely jolted through the bumpy ride, I could not help fearing every moment, that the old man would lose control and I would go flying out. Luckily a mule had dropped some sacks on the path blocking it and hence preventing us from going any further. I took the chance to scramble out quickly, stuffed some notes in his hand and ran off down the road, thanking providence for the safety of life and limbs.

We drove down the mountain faster than we had come up, enjoying the lovely view all the while, as the evening sun spread its warm honey tones over the landscape.

The Humble Pishvi

The brain has been buzzing around a lot today, for what seems a long time it has been rather quiet but now thoughts are pouring out faster than I can control and there is no way to catalogue them all.
The other day my daughters school had its annual day programme, the theme was 'Save the Earth'. The school distributed cloth bags to everybody. Now a few months earlier similar cloth bags had been given to my husband by an MNC, his company is an agent of, to distribute to clients. The cloth bag is a simple affair and is usually carried by poor villagers here in Maharashtra. In Marathi it is called 'Pishvi' and in my mind I always call it that. A pishvi is something a poor villager carries his belongings in, so these bags are always associated in my mind with that. Though everyone who seems to care a whit for the future of the earth is up there on their soap boxes, urging us to emulate the wisdom of the poor Maharashtrian Villager and following his example, make the simple Pishvi not just an indispensable object but also a trendy one. in fact as green fashions begin taking over the Earth you could be considered quite outre, if you did not carry one. So throw away that Gucci bag and pick up the unpretentious pishvi, or fashion might never forgive you.
What is ironic is that a couple of decades back, before that ubiquitous destroyer of the great outdoors; the plastic bag took over, most of us carried some kind of bag or basket to take our groceries home. In other countries they perhaps used other things like brown paper bag, carton, etc, etc. It is only now after half the earth is groaning under the weight of this ghastly, gruesome, non-biodegradable mess that we have come to our senses and are urging who ever may listen to pick up a bag again and go shopping. So when we began using plastic and thought we were so smart, actually we were not really progressing, we were not even regressing, for going backward even then would have meant going to a better cleaner world. We were simply beginning the long process of deterioration and degeneration. It is sadly not only in this one way that we have begun that, but in innumerable ways and as it is impossible to save the planet from the damage already done to it from the plastic bag till date, even if all seven billion of us were to pick us pishvis today, so it is impossible to reverse much of the damage already done to the Earth even if we reverse all the damaging trends we are following today. I do not mean this to be a pessimistic statement in anyway. I do not mean that if we cannot right the wrongs we should do nothing about it. No, I certainly do not mean that. We cannot afford to delay the moment when we begin to think and go green. For each delayed moment adds to the litter and the pollution on earth. We may not be able to right what has been done but we can prevent further wrong. There is also some caution the world can and should learn from this, and that is not to be so happy to accept a new product; for what seems to be the greatest boon of today may really be the bane of the future generations.

Once Upon a Time When I was a Child

I remember a time long ago, when I was a small girl, we lived in a house somewhere in the hills. It was a small town, everyone walked everywhere, well just about everywhere. I walked to school every morning. The morning began around dawn and as the sun was rising from behind the far away purple mountains, I was usually at my old fashioned dresser, brushing my hair, enjoying how the sun caught the lighter tints in hair and eyes. Beyond my window was the roof of the veranda and parrots sat squawking on the red tiles while usually a honeycomb hung from the eaves.
On week days there was little time to enjoy all this as school was a long walk away and I would be in a hurry to leave. There were many paths that went to school, mostly through neighbouring houses which had two gates, so I entered through the front one and went out the back, saving a long walk. Neighbours turned a blind eye if one trespassed through their gardens. My favourite was the house closest to us, the main house was quite decrepit but there were tenants in the other houses on the side. There was a parijat tree here, the parijat is a tiny white flower with an orange centre and an intoxicating fragrance. The tree would shed its flowers in the night and early in the morning there would be a fragrant carpet of fresh dewy flowers, for me to walk on. That is an unforgettable memory as never again have I smelled such sweet smelling boquet from a parijat again. The servants lived in an outhouse close to the back gate and went about their chores turning a blind eye to a trespassing young school girl, sometimes they would even smile at me.

There was one particular shortcut that went through an open veranda of a neighbouring house, if I took it then good manners required greetings and an exchange of a few words.

I disliked routine even as a kid, the same old path each day was an unattractive proposition. Though many times I did take the plain old road, for along the road lived other friends and as each one joined me the group grew more loquacious and lively and before we knew it we were on dark lane, the lane lined on two sides by tall and wide banyan trees. The hanging adventitious roots of the banyan trees always invite the passing child to swing on them. I always found this lane quite exciting, like something straight out of a story book; a place of mystery where something had happened or was about to happen. This lane ended close to the school compound and before we knew it we were at school.

An Anniversary Dinner

It was our Anniversary, it was more special because there was a full moon and there had been a full moon on our wedding night. The celebration had to be different, special, something we had never done before.Usually it was dinner at the best place in town... Not this night though.

There was a place a 100 kms away from Kuwait City in the desert, called Wafra. There, with artificial efforts, the desert had been turned green. There were farms growing vegetables like cucumbers, broccoli, carrots, capsicums, tomatoes, even fruits like strawberries. There were farms breeding ostriches, equestrian farms which bred Arabian horses and trained them, apiaries which sold pure honey. Dairy farms with freshly made milk products, like the popular Lebanese laban, yoghurt and cheese. The produce was sold at the farms as well as at a colourful farmer’s market close by. Each farm was separated from the other by tall casuarinas or Florida buttonwood trees and narrow winding country lanes. If one was lucky, one could sight an Arabian fox running off into the wild. The glow of the setting sun created an attractive red and black lace pattern through the Florida buttonwood leaves. Any evening, anyone stopping in the lane could hear millions of sparrows and other birds that nested in these trees. Sometimes when the first rain had fallen and the sun peeped out from behind dark clouds, the colours took on a deeper yet brighter shade and everything looked more beautiful.

When we turned off the main highway about 50 km away from Wafra, the road was lined with acacia trees and after the autumn rains, a sprinkling of green would appear on the ground. Later, by spring, the desert was carpeted in yellow and green and many empty plots would be covered in wildflowers. A short while after the turn, towards the right, stood a lone acacia, far away in the distance. There was an attraction about it that consistently drew our eyes as we passed.

Besides the road herdsmen grazed camels and sheep in the open desert land, which came alive after the winter rains. In the evenings, the warm hued, undulating desert, covered in verdure, speckled with flocks of grazing camels, some standing in a closed circle to feed, was an unforgettable sight. We often drove around a bit in this desert, sometimes stopping to exchange a few words with the shepherds and camels herders. One especially was a favourite, he was from Rajasthan, India, a poor young man maybe in his twenties, called Zakir Hussain. He lived alone in a trailer in the middle of nowhere, with the camels that belonged to a Kuwaiti, who came by now and then. Perhaps because he was from a desert state, living alone was not as hard for him as it would be for some others. There was a small rise near his trailer, and we stopped there to watch the sun and the empty forlorn landscape that yet had its attractions.

One place we always visited was a strange lane with overgrown casuarinas trees that met in the centre and formed a deep, dark tree tunnel. Sometimes we watched the sunset from there, when the sun set at a particular spot and its dying red rays were visible from the entrance of the tunnel.

One of our dearest places was beyond the farms, where the desert once more stretched till the horizon. Here a path meandered away till it disappeared into the distance, making us feel that it went on till it reached heaven. It was a special place, a spiritual place where earth and sky met and one felt closer to God. At night we had a 180 degree view of the sky and could watch the constellations rise, especially Orion which I feel is the most beautiful of all constellations. Orion poised on top of the eastern horizon, is an unforgettable sight, often impossible to see in the midst of the city buildings. The stars appeared huge and near and the darkness, all engulfing. It was so dark that one could not see an approaching man till he was almost upon you. If he was smoking all that could be seen was the red tip of the cigarette till he came quite close.
There was a farm nearby, from where we could hear the cackling of the geese though all else was silent.
The farms too were dark after sunset with one or two lights twinkling invitingly in the gloaming. In some areas the feeling of total solitude took over.

The moonrises too were very spectacular here. We often went to Wafra during the full moon and watched it rise over the tall trees as the shades of the sky deepened to embrace the dusk and then the night. Many were the romantic evenings when we walked together in deserted lanes, under the trees, admiring the moon.

That is how it came about that I decided I wanted to have a quiet dinner, on a half deserted farm, out in the open, on that December eve, under the full moon, for our anniversary. A dinner we would pick up not from some fancy restaurant but from a small place near the farm, that served hot and fresh Indian meals. So we drove down when it was quite dark through the quiet and deserted lanes and after picking up a dinner proceeded to the farm. I cannot say that the silence was exquisite for I have never really experienced silence; there are always some noises everywhere that become louder and more pronounced in the absence of others. We sat there in the moonlight, which yet did little to dispel the dark, just drinking in the beauty of that chill December evening. Kuwait can get quite cold in December and the desert more than the city. Once in a while a dog barked somewhere or we could hear a restless goat bleat. My Pashmina did not do much to dispel the chill but I was reluctant to move inside. So we sat there, eating lazily, afraid to violate that sacrosanct peace by unnecessary words, united in the sensations we were imbibing, of the moonlight, the rustling breezes, the strange night sounds. Suddenly a rooster with a broken alarm crowed. It was so unexpected and funny that we could not help laughing. That crazy rooster, probably with failing eyesight, kept crowing at regular intervals, in all likelihood, mistaking the moonlight for dawn.

As the night grew and the moon traveled overhead we knew we should be returning to the city, but we were loth to move. We pulled our chairs even closer and sat their holding hands, communicating with eyes in the growing moonlight instead of spoken words and just being. I could have stayed there all night listening to the breezes whispering their secrets to the trees and the other occasional sounds and that deluded rooster, who occasionally broke that half hush that hung over it all.

Sometime in the middle of the night we reluctantly got up, put away everything and drove out of the farm. I sat sighing with peace and pleasure as we drove once more through the now totally deserted streets. Nothing discernible moved but the slowly waltzing branches and our car, till we passed the open desert once more, before reaching the well lit highway. There we witnessed what was to be grand finale of our evening, for caught in the infinitesimal misty drops, the moonlight descended over the desert like sheets of glowing chiffon. An unforgettable sight!

One Early Morning in Pune

Taking an auto rickshaw ride for 14 km at 6 am, might sound too much, but on the morning of 8th Sept, it was just beautiful and reminded me more than ever why we moved here. Even that early and on a Saturday morning, school kids were out waiting for their buses or rides. It was still quite darkish as we left our compound; the lazy sun stayed rolled in its cloudy quilt, barely opening an indolent eye and there was a nip in the air. The usual glorious sunrise over the river, was absent when we passed the bridge and took a short cut across the army cantonment area, passing their parade grounds and houses with well maintained gardens and beautiful official buildings, remnants from colonial times. This part was about the same as any other Cantonment town, anywhere in India. It is the army that maintains places most beautifully and it is always a delight to visit them.

The drive to the school was more or less a blur, then we and by ‘we’ I mean the Paranoid Mother’s Group, of which I am the supreme world leader, spent an hour, till the buses finally set off to take the kids for their trek in the hills. The kids in this particular school, even the Indian nationals, are almost all from countries other than India, and for many, this trek was a strange and new experience and hence the show of extreme neurosis.

All the buses had to leave together, but after two had passed, a pair of donkeys came and stood between them and the third bus, simply refusing to move. Now this is not so strange because the human: donkey ratio of this part of Pune is almost equal, though it is hard to say, for sometimes you can’t tell them apart. The PMG whipped out the cameras they had carried along but had been afraid to use, for fear of the kids’ embarrassment and protests. Finally the donkeys gave us the chance to take pictures, even if it was only of the retreating backs of the buses and the stubborn donkeys. For some reason none of the members of the PMG thought of shooing away the donkeys, maybe subconsciously we wanted to hold on to our beloved babies for a few minutes more, fearing they would come back all changed and grown up. This climb on slippery mud on some faraway mountain suddenly seemed to appear as some new fangled initiation rite into adulthood. Finally one donkey had the bright idea of shoving the other one like telling him “get out of the way you ass” with his nose. The other guy, who was a bit thick, took some time to get the message but finally both of them moved out and with a sigh of relief the buses headed off.

Even after the buses left we hung around chatting, as women are wont to do when they come together for any reason. I normally don’t need a reason and can pick a conversation in the strangest of places, even supermarket queues and by the time we have finished, e mails and phone numbers have been exchanged and a firm friendship established. Finally after about thirty minutes we all parted and I took my rickshaw back home and this time sat back and enjoyed the ride and the scenery.

I love the wild unkempt look this city takes on in the monsoon, like it is rebelling against all the so called progress and development and trying to make a last ditch effort to revert to its original state. How beautiful it must have been once, before the buildings replaced the rolling hills. Some places which have somehow miraculously survived the degeneration, at least for the present, bear a mute witness to this. One of my favourites is an open ground, once again luckily defence land, that is covered by aged, almost ancient banyan trees. A banyan tree is a beautiful entity, its just spreads as it grows, its adventitious roots growing out from the branches; give it a wide, shady and rambling look. We passed the market of fresh fruits and vegetables, and the little bridge over the tiny brook, sadly quite polluted now, and then on to Prince of Wales Drive.

This is one of my favourite roads here in Pune, with its old, sprawling bungalows and overgrown, wild gardens. Each driveway looks so inviting but they can only be admired from the outside. One of the gates, declaring the eccentricity of the owner of the house, once proclaimed “Beware of ferocious dogs and ghosts” This was found humourous by one and all. I even thought I would send him a little note saying, “Please tie up the ferocious dogs, coming in to meet to the ghosts” Sadly, I lost my opportunity to photograph it by my usual bad habit of procrastination and now the sign has been gone, hopefully the proprietorship of the house has not passed on from the eccentric owner to some developer. I fervently pray that these lovely old houses never find their way into the hands of insensitive, greedy and unethical builders.

There are many pretty places on this road, like the Bishop’s house and St. Patrick’s Church, the beautiful and extensive botanical gardens called Empress gardens, named after Queen Victoria, once Empress of India.

Then there is the Bhairoba canal that brings water from Khadakvasla dam, the Terriers nursery, etc.

here is also a vast open ground, which is sometimes used by the Bhatkya Jatis (Nomadic Tribes) for camping. These people always intrigue me whenever I see them. They travel everywhere by foot with all their worldly belongings loaded in vast net bags, on their horses. The women dressed in traditional, colourful sarees load and unload the horses and set up camp wherever they go. They also sell herbal medicines and the men herd sheep and goats. When they travel they walk in a straight line along with their horses and it is a very picturesque sight. I have often wanted to learn more about them but never had the courage to go up to them and ask questions. Maybe next time, so I always keep an eye out for them whenever I pass this particular ground, where I have seen them a few times before.

One of the most interesting places we pass is the Royal Western India Turf Club or let’s just say the racecourse. On any day it is a beautifully verdant place but of course more so in the monsoons. It is also during the monsoons that the Pune racing season is held and the horses come out to train every morning. These stunning thoroughbreds are walked or ridden to the race course, from stables close by. For a few hours, one can watch these noble and beautiful animals going up and down from the country lane, II Victoria Road, where there are stable facilities for about 600 horses. We followed the animals into the lane and passed them and a moment later two little school girls, with their pigtails tied up with ribbons and their heads close together, talking earnestly as they walked to school. Turning left again we drove up the road passing more rambling gardens and homes. Outside on old bungalow, a cream colour Morris Minor stood a reminder of a slower, more leisurely era.

Most of this was army area, the grounds were covered with grass and the thick, lush hedges with tiny, brightly coloured flowers made a very attractive sight. Driving down the lane where I lived, about 2 km away from the main road, the lovely creepers growing on chain linked fences around the small houses caught my eyes. The rain washed leaves, gleamed clean and glowed golden, in the morning sunlight. . It was a glorious sight and I sighed in pleasure. It was one more reminder of why I loved this city so.

Mumbai 26 July 2005

We were visiting the family in Bombay, in July 2005. Trying to make the most of the time, my daughter had joined a graphic class. She was not very familiar with the roads, mainly because she used the huge bill boards on the street corners as landmarks and inadvertently got lost if the same bill board happened to be on more than one street corner; as it always happens in Bombay. Her other choice, of take aways, (fast food restaurants) was equally dicey, as there are chains of every kind of take away in Bombay. So it was very possible that following her trail of bill boards and take aways she could well go ten km away from her destination. That is how it happened that on the afternoon of 26th July 2005, I offered to drop her to her class, which was about five kilometers from my mum's house, or even less.

It began raining as we left but we were going to go in an auto rickshaw, which was already waiting below, so we did not bother with umbrellas. I had to make a quick stop to give my blood sample at a nearby lab for a postprandial sugar test. It was afternoon and students from the University opposite my mum's house were heading home. The rain was quite heavy and many who had come unprepared for it were drenched, but they seemed to be enjoying walking in ankle deep water and getting splashed by the passing vehicles. They were in an almost festive mood, as were the school children we passed further on. The depth of the water was growing and they were happily splashing through it.

By the time we reached the lab just a couple of km away, the water had begun to rise further, though it was not threatening in any way. As a Bombayite I was used to over 20 cm of rain and did not think much of getting a little wet in it.The auto though at this moment began protesting loudly and with a final splutter died down altogether.

Now for the wise this would have been a good point to head back home, but lacking foresight we though that the first day of class should not be missed. As soon as the driver coaxed life back into the engine, we made our foolish way to the graphic class.

As the rickshaw made its way, the rain came down in earnest. Visibility was lessening now and we could not see what was going on. We passed two turns that would have taken us back home but kept on going. Soon we were in a traffic jam. Brilliant! We expected it to move any minute and just kept sitting there while the visibility decreased, the noise pollution from the impatient horns grew unbearable, and the water rose higher and higher.

We were in Santacruz West, on S. V. Road, somewhere besides the old airport; which was now a heliport. The water from the lanes joining S. V. road was pouring onto it and increasing the overall level. It was quite a miracle that the auto which had spluttered at a much lower level of water, kept going. Still at no point did we worry about what was going to happen, indicating how bad rains can normally get in Bombay.

Finally by the time we came to the turn that would take us to the class, the scene had become really bad. We finally realised that we were in the middle of what was beginning to look like a flood. Cars and rickshaws were beginning to die down and that was the cause of the traffic jam. I asked the rickshaw driver where he lived and he said on the East. Fearing that he would not be able to make it I told him that we would get off and he should hurry home, but he wasn't sure the rickshaw would go much further and he was resigned to spending the night in it, stranded at that same place.

We gingerly stepped out of the rickshaw holding on to each other, not knowing where our feet would land. In a city famous for its pot holed roads, stepping out in knee deep water, is taking life and limbs into your hands. In a moment we were drenched to the skin. Well, this did solve one problem; we did not have to worry about getting wet anymore and could just worry about more important things like getting somewhere, somehow, through the water.

After struggling through the water for hours seeming few minutes, we asked a passing car that was still moving, for a lift. The car stopped for us and apologising for wetting the seats, we got in. What we thought was a lucky break turned to be not so lucky after all, because as the water went into the exhaust the car began giving out smoke. Afraid of what was happening we got out of the car and once more faced the unrelenting elements. The rain was bad but being trapped in a car that looked like it was about to catch fire, was worse. Taking the lift had been a very bad idea because, as we could see almost nothing through the window, we had no idea that the driver had turned. It was a strange co incidence that the driver had dropped us right outside the building where the class was going to be held. The compound of the building was on a slight slope and was flooded even deeper than the road we stood on. Even a fool would realise at this point that graphics class was on holiday.

For a minute or two we stood there wondering what to do. By now, almost all vehicular traffic had come to a standstill. The rain was heavy and stinging and showed no sign of lessening. All around us people were walking on the divider in the middle of the road as it was slightly higher. People held hands and helped each other and held to prevent each other from falling. The rain was the great equalizer. There were no rich and no poor out there. It did not matter anymore whether they lived in a mansion or a hut or were homeless, drove in a Mercedes or rode a cycle, they were all clinging on to each other for support and dear life.

Watching them, I exclaimed to my daughter that what she was witnessing was a wonder, it was the true spirit of Bombay. Bombay; a city that was blessed or cursed with such a diverse population, was once again proving that differences meant nothing, that the human spirit could prevail against all odds.

I told my daughter that the only option we had was of making our way back to my mother's house, through the water. We cautiously walked towards the divider and hands came out to help us get on it. Walking with the human chain, we gingerly kept one foot before another.

I had admired the way people were helping each other, now I had to admire something else about them and that was the acceptance with which they had met the disaster they had become a part of. there were no complaints and no ill feeling. People accepted that the only choice they had, was to make their way home, and notwithstanding the distance, walk to get there. They did not stop to think, or grumble or, wonder how they would make it, they just got into the water and started walking.

Something awesome was happening here, and we were witnessing what would become part of the history of the city. One of its more glorious and proud moments. Despite the problems, I was very happy that my daughter was able to see and become a part of this unity of the human spirit. The lessons seen and learnt here could not be taught at the best university in the world.

We too accepted the fact that there was nothing else to do but what we were doing and once the acceptance had set in we actually began to enjoy the rain. The torrent of water was flowing against us and it was up to our thighs. We had to fight against it to take every step. My hair were getting in my eyes and to brush them away I rubbed my hand across my face and knocked my gold clip on earring off into the swirling water. It did not seem to matter. Nothing did, except that we were there and we were battling the elements.

By now we had made our way to the pavement across the road and had separated from the chain on the divider. We passed a slum and outside it, on the road, men were standing with sticks; standing there without raincoat or umbrella, just outside their homes, with the rain streaming down their faces and bodies, for one single reason: They were guarding an open manhole so people would not fall into it. This was repeated wherever there were open manholes and people stood over them all night long, to prevent others from falling into them. Just this one act of forethought and kindness saved innumerable lives.

After a few minutes we came upon a stranded auto with a girl in it. She asked if she could walk with us. We said of course and the three of us held on to each other and walked on talking and laughing like we were old friends who were just out on a stroll together. After over an hour we reached the end of the road and had to turn left to go home. This was Juhu road and it had at some point been elevated a little, so the water did not collect on it but made its way as a torrential river down the road we had come from. As there wasn't any water here it was easier to walk on this road. Taxis were also plying here but none would take us in as we were soaked through and through and would wet their seats and make them smell for days. So we just kept walking. We passed a cafe and would have liked to go in for a cup of coffee but the girl with us did not wish to stop. We passed Juhu beach and watched the deep grey waves lash wildly on the shore.

By now my daughter was not only enjoying but also excited and she burst into song "I'm singing in the rain
Just singing in the rain
What a glorious feelin'
I'm happy again
.............................
......................
Let the stormy clouds chase
Everyone from the place
Come on with the rain
I've a smile on my face
I walk down the lane
With a happy refrain
Just singin',
Singin' in the rain"

I expected her to start tap dancing any moment.

After about three hours we finally reached the turn to my mum's building. It was time to part with our companion. She was a young girl and I was averse to letting her go on alone. I kept insisting that she come and stay with us but she was desperate to get home. Reluctantly I had no option but to let her go on alone assuring her that she could turn back anytime she liked and come over and stay the night.

Some days later we passed the building she had said she lived in, it was on Pali Hill and the drive descended steeply from the gate. I could only imagine the force with which the water must have gone down this gradient, and prayed that our companion of the floods had reached home safely.

That day we were the first to reach home. My parents were worried sick. Not only I and my daughter but my brother, his wife and their son who, all live with my parents had not reached home yet. I had luckily left my younger daughter at home with my mum that day and I was glad, as she would not have been able to cope.

There was no electricity and no running water, as without power the pump could not work. There was a huge drum in which my mum usually stored water for emergencies but this had to be used sparingly as there was no telling how long it would have to last, so we had to wash away our dirt and muddiness as best we could, while trying to conserve water.

A Surreal Flight

We have been travelling a lot since we moved to India from Kuwait, for though we have now settled here more or less, we still keep going back and now I have to check the entries and exits in my passport to keep any account of it. So I don't remember precisely when we traveled back from there the last time and I am too lazy to go check my passport, but it was on a Kuwait Airways flight.

To say I love my husband a lot, is belittling that grand emotion, but he is an extreme pessimist at times and for a 'nothing can keep me down long' person like me it becomes very trying. So it was that, as was the set pattern that had formed during all our comings and goings, he began predicting dolefully weeks in advance, as was his wont, that we would be overweight. Now we always get overweight when we go to Kuwait; long hours of telly viewing, lounging around all day doing almost nothing, and stuffing ourselves like junk food is going to be banned in the next hour, does help us to get a bit big, ok a wee bit on the enorrmous side. He though, Bless him, did not mean us, he was so used to that, and anyways it made him feel a bit proud to think that he was such a good provider.

No, he meant the baggage that had somehow multiplied from the original three bags we had brought with us, into six and a few small extra airbags out of which stuff kept spilling out. Reminding him of our allowance of 120 kgs did not have the expected pacifying effect. Then began the threats that he was not going to pay for the extra baggage. This was so unfair. After all who was responsible for this collection of finery? Of course he and his generous nature, that had dragged us kicking and screaming, shopping to every mall, supermarket and departmental store,( not that he really needed to exert much pressure) where invariably we would finish all the money and reluctantly put back half the stuff ( he doesn’t use plastic). So the next night feeling guilty for our sacrifice and deprivation, we would yet take more money and we would head out only to repeat the same pattern. Somehow we always ended up buying more stuff each day then we had put back the previous day and the money was never enough. Soon there was no place in the flat to put more stuff. (This is strange behaviour indeed from someone like me who is strongly actively against consumerism.I have never bough much more than I needed in my days in Kuwait and yet on these trips I turn into a greedy, devouring monster.)

Now he went on repeating that we should perish the idea of expecting him to pay the overweight charges, till I was deluged by déjà vu, for it was a set pattern that repeated each time we travelled. After all the moaning and complaining when the time came though he invariably ended up paying the over weight charges quietly.

So finally the day of our departure dawned, we were all packed and ready... but of course everything had to be opened and rearranged feverishly as usual a few times, till finally, again as usual, we were ready just a couple of hours before our flight.

Now off to the airport.. again my dearest prophet of doom droned on... "all this traffic is headed to the airport, we will never make it in time".... "what" I asked in incredulous wonder, "even that water tanker..." till at the final turning to the airport, we realized that miraculously all the traffic had taken the highway to Lord knows where, and there were only two vehicles left on the road, ours and you guessed it -- the water tanker!

Whew! I breathed in relief, it wasn't so bad, there just was a chance we would make it... of course my fingers were crossed, toes too and I had been praying non stop from the time we left the house. Twice we had paid almost the equivalent of a hundred dollars for changing the bookings … now my hubby could see another hundred quickly begin to take wings and fly off into the sunset, if we missed this one… of course on the practical side the girls did have to be back for school and college.

A surprise awaited us when we reached the counters. There was barely a queue. Look, I told hubby, all that worrying for no reason, we could have kept cool and saved on blood pressure pills. We stood in the short queue for our turn, of course I was still praying..by now the fingers and toes were beginning to hurt by keeping them crossed…. you see the luggage still had to be weighed and that horrific possibility of being overweight still loomed large upon my frightened consciousness.

So we stood wondering which counter we would get… would we get the nice looking Kuwaiti, or the Indian, or the Pakistani???? Would they be strict or putty to our wiles and smiles… Questions questions.. fears fears… “ Go to counter 26” Counter 26? My heart sank at that ominous order. My father dabbles in numerology, 26 is 2 +6=8. 8 the number ruled by Saturn, the planet that creates problems where none existed. Did not many of the natural disasters occur on a 26? The tsunami was on Dec 26.. My marriage had taken place on Dec 26… Did I need more proof? It was like a portent, an omen… A sign that said “do not take this flight… run do not take this flight” While the thoughts were surging in my mind I was unconsciously moving towards my fate and counter 26.

Salamalaikum, I wished the officer in the Islamic greeting, smiling at him… definitely not a Kuwaiti I thought. Indian? Maybe… "Alaikumsalam" he answered in a thick Pakistani, Punjabi accent. “Ok definitely not an Indian”. He helped me lift the luggage and load it on the weighing machine all 130 kilos of it. Oh how nice! I thought, no one has ever done this before. Maybe it will be alright after all. The smiles were working...The luggage went through smoothly…. No hitch there. The 10 kilos overweight was shrugged away. The wiles worked too. All that unnecessary anguish and anxiety, should just have kept cool.. trusted the sheer power of my personality “I am traveling alone with my daughters so please could you give us seats together?” “Yes of course, no problem you can have 26, 27 and 28…. 26 again! I quivered inwardly.” “Thank you very much, you have been very kind”

Then off we walked triumphantly to meet hubby. “ See, I crowed, that was no problem at all, all that worrying for nothing. Can we eat a shwarma now please”? “They will be serving dinner on the plane, why do you need to eat now? go on, there is a long line at immigration, you will not make it” “My sugar is falling, I will certainly not make it if I go into a hypoglycaemic coma.” I can be quite stubborn at times. So we had the shwarmas and finally said our goodbyes and headed to an almost empty plane, for after all there had been almost no one in the queue, had there?

When we boarded the flight finally, the spectacle that met our shocked eyes was the horrific one of people swarming all over the plane.. Where had these people been in the queue??? I asked myself in a stunned stupor. The answer was so simple… They had arrived three hours before, completed all the formalities and waited in the lounge.

Now there are three kinds of people who travel from Kuwait to Bombay in the economy class, one is middle class Indians like us, the other is Indians traveling to India from the US, who take Kuwait airways, as it is one of the cheapest airlines from the US… and lastly the Indian workers and maids, who work in Kuwait. The passengers all belonged to the last category, no not completely, for there were no maids, only male workers. We got over the shock of seeing a full plane, and sought our seats, thinking they would be somewhere in the front of the economic section. We kept being sent further and further back till we finally reached our seats. OK, finally! Now we could just settle down and wait for the plane to take off. Or could we? The seats 26, 27, 28 were not as we thought, together, but the lines were numbered vertically and the horizontal rows were alphabetical, so we had got three middle seats and in the centre aisles, yes with two men on either side. Could it get worse?

Ok this was it! No way was I going to travel in this cramped tiny, even a mouse should not travel on it airbus, with two men almost resting on my elbows, nor were my daughters. “I am sorry ma’am but you were given the seat by Kuwait Airways staff, there is nothing we can do” piped an air hostess who looked like she had worked for the Stasi before. “Well and aren’t you Kuwait Airways staff”? I asked angry and perplexed. “No ma’am, we are not” came the mystifying reply, no explanation to who she was. Luckily two of the men got up and in true Indian style offered to take our cramped middle seats and let us have a complete row. Great, finally we settled in and sat down in row 26 (OH that number again!). Seat belts fastened, we waited for the take off that was scheduled in about 10 minutes. But the passengers were still shuffling, overhead bags were still being arranged, it took a while before everyone was settled to their satisfaction and belted down to their seats and finally the aircraft began taxiing down the runway almost thirty minutes late.

Cabin lights went off and in that eerie dark, television screens creakily descended from the roof of the plane, like some monsters from outer space. Where were our personal screens??? In vain I looked around under the seat, on the side, but there was no sign of the screens we were so used to.

It was getting close to midnight. The normally smooth taxiing turned frighteningly noisy, clanking loudly every once in a while. “Hope the wheels won't fall off” I thought. That wasn’t enough though, for suddenly a menacing message flashed on those screens, almost like a threat from somewhere in the blue beyond “Welcome aboard Novair” welcome aboard Novair, I kept repeating dazedly, Welcome aboard Novair, aboard Novair , novair , novair, novair. It kept echoing till the spelling blurred and I thought. Oh God! We have taken The Flight to NOWHERE! What does it mean? What had become of Kuwait Airways? Were we in the wrong plane? Had we been kidnapped by aliens? What airline would call itself Nowhere? I took out my camera and took a picture of the television screen. Finally, while these questions were hammering in my mind, the aircraft accelerated and in turn the clanks accelerated as well, and finally with pulses racing, hearts pounding and lips feverishly praying, we took off.

After we were in the air for quite a while, perhaps thirty minutes the smiling air hostesses appeared with their trolleys, to serve water. Except one, who had a very long blonde, plait, reminiscent of Rapunzel, they all looked like they had worked for the Stasi before. The service made me think perhaps we had wandered off into that time not too long ago, for they smilingly measured out half a glass of water to each of us. Half a glass of water!!!! I know we were coming from the desert, but this was too much. After all the sea was all around us and there was no dearth of desalinated water in the Gulf. Was there water rationing? “Could I get some more please, I need to take a tablet” I asked almost softly and hesitantly, my natural confidence and verve subdued by the shock. Oh God! Where had we landed? Well not landed yet, but then would we ever land? Even that seemed in question. Luckily more water was not a problem and so we sat for about thirty more minutes as the clock ticked past midnight, and there was no dinner, nor seemed to be hope of any coming. The shwarma held me together and I was happy about my stubbornness. The TV screens in the meantime, showed only the route we were following and what part of the earth we were above. I did not really approve of this new concept of inflight entertainment.

Suddenly there was an attack of colossal proportions on our olfactory senses. “Breathe” I told myself, “if you don’t breathe you will die.” The other me answered back “I might survive by some miracle if I don’t breathe, but if I breathe, I will surely die”. What was it???? Gross, evil, foul, disgusting, offensive, no make that offensive in the extreme, I was quickly running out of adjectives to describe the vilest of smells, that rose from somewhere behind my daughter’s head. “Oh God ma! this guy has removed his shoes and socks and put his feet up right behind me. Do something or I’ll die.” “Shhh its bad manners, don’t exaggerate, I can’t tell him anything, he will be so insulted? Good resolution! I managed to keep it for one minute more and then had to call the stewardess, the only nice one, and tell her to bend down to my seat level and take a deep breath. She finally requested the man to put on his shoes and we thought whew, that is that. How wrong we were, for in that short time, while I was practicing my manners, the smell had mingled with the air and it stayed with us, accosting us all the way till Bombay, yes through the entire three and a half hours.

A short time after the passenger behind us had put his shoes back on, the air hostess arrived with a few trays, announcing special meals. “Ma, I don’t think we are going to be served any dinner. Maybe they have paid extra for the special meals”. My elder one piped. After all, it was way past the time they normally served dinner. The shwarma would not hold us for much longer, and adding hunger pangs to the nasal torture, was a bit too much. “Well lets wait and see,” I said, trying to sound patient and wise. The smell by now was so bad that passengers in seats far away from us, were holding kerchiefs to their noses. To add to the aggravation the aircraft had been designed solely for Barbie dolls and there was barely any room to move a muscle. We had to sit with arms overlapping, thanking God for small mercies, I thought that at least we did not have to sit this way between strange men. How I longed for the days of business class travel. Sadly with these frequent trips, it did not make economic sense anymore.

Finally, when we had with great difficulties come to terms with the idea of starving till Bombay, to our enormous surprise the airhostesses began trundling out dinner trolleys. So we were to be served a meal after all. “Chicken or lamb? Chicken or lamb?” “Chicken” a daughter and I said “Lamb” said my other daughter. So we were served chicken and lamb, which surprisingly not only looked alike, but even tasted exactly the same.

Soon trays cleared, more water served, followed by tea or coffee, oh lucky us we could even have seconds. Finally everything was cleared away, the windows were pulled down, cabin lights dimmed, and we settled down to sleep as best we could….Undisturbed till Bombay hopefully….well for a short while at least. Just as we were falling uncomfortably asleep, the fasten your seat belts sign flashed on and the speakers boomed; “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking, I am sorry to say we are flying into a storm and there will be some turbulence” Great! one thing that really adds excitement to my flying is turbulence. Okay I am fibbing. Of all the things connected with flying I hate turbulence most, it puts my teeth on edge. Sleep took off like it had never been and lips began the feverish praying again. Well the turbulence was not as bad as we had thought (I have been through worse) and at some point we landed in Bombay, with the now very familiar clanks. The poor over worked TV screens retracted back into the roof of the plane like an army of retreating aliens, after having entertained us in the nouveau fahion for almost four hours.

All who have suffered this ordeal with me, will now be so glad to disembark from this flight from hell into nowhere and just go home. That is exactly how we felt.

It was about 5:30 am when we landed in Bombay. The immigration checks had recently become real quick and the baggage handling more professional, so in about 30 minutes we would be in one of the thousands of prepaid taxis that are available at Bombay airport and whisked off across the railway bridge to my sister's home close by.

Man lives in hope... silly women like me do too. The immigration queue looked like a short one, till we realised that it was actually a serpentine one snaking its way across two halls to finally reach the immigration desks. At some point that morning, we would be able to complete the formalities and move on to recover our baggage. A boy about ten or twelve stood ahead of us and tried to eat some chocolates from the duty free bag in his trolley. "Wait till you get home" his mother reprimanded. "Mum where is our home" the boy asked in such an exhausted and wistful tone, that I felt a complete sense of empathy with him.

Finally, almost triumphantly, we reached the immigration desk... each of us a separate one. The immigration officer looked down at me over his glasses in a very suspicious way... He was probably thinking why has this woman made so many trips this past year??? Now middle aged Indians are not supposed to be in love, at least not love in the "I can't take my eyes off you or hands for that matter" sense, oh no, we are supposed to settle down comfortably into our middle age, planning our children's marriages and pretend that we were never young..... would he actually understand if I said "you see officer, the thing is my husband can't live without me nor I without him and yet for some insane reason I have decided to make my home in another country." Doubtful!

Anyway finally, with stamped passports we could now go on to collect the luggage, or could we? We headed to the conveyor belt that said Kuwait Airways and waited patiently.... till 'Kuwait Airways' rolled off from the sign above and the name of another airline took its place. Great now we had to go looking for the right conveyor belt. That was actually easy... all we had to do was follow a large number of exhausted, disgruntled, irate passengers.

Leaving the girls at the right conveyor belt, I made my way to find a trolley, asking directions to the trolleys of everyone I saw on the way. They kept pointing at some dark, indistinct corner in the far reaches of the airport.... which after walking for over ten minutes I managed to reach... now I would just have to make my way back pushing two trolleys that had minds of their own and recalcitrant wheels. This certainly was going to take more than the original ten minutes.

The girls were angels, they unloaded the suitcases off the belt and loaded the trolleys... I hate travelling without them. I went to queue for a taxi which I was sure we could procure in a few minutes...after many more minutes and much shuffling and impatience, shown by a queue which had now reached the end of its tether, we finally enquired the reason for the delay. "Madam there are no taxis" Now anyone who has seen the lines of taxis at Bombay airport will never believe such a preposterous statement. Why those guys are like ugly, broken down, fixtures and fittings out here. maybe they had finally done everyone a favour and sent the whole lot to the scrapyard where they belonged. The man quickly disabused me of the idea though by continuing. "There was a very bad storm last night, almost a cyclone" (remember the storm we had flown through) "All the roads are filled with water, it is still raining heavily..." it seemed Bombay was not merely submerged it was nearly drowning... Great morning to choose to arrive!

I should have followed my instincts on the number 26 and stayed back in Kuwait. This was just not happening!
Well usually there is always a way if one is willing to pay for it and luckily for us we found one... after paying four times the normal taxi cost, we managed to hire an SUV that would go through any water logging and get us and our luggage home safe and dry.

As we drove home, it seemed we had taken the right decision because their was no rain, there was a wall of water. It seemed as though someone was standing on the edge of the clouds and emptying out cauldron after cauldron without a break. A fellow passenger had managed to procure a tired old, bedraggled taxi and loaded their luggage on to the carrier, we watched the taxi which was in front of us as it made its way through the thundering waterfall. There was no saying in what state the luggage would reach its final destination

I have never been happier to get home.... Actually I have.. Oh yes there have been worse moments than this one..