Accidental Blogger

Lucknow - come for the history, stay for the food

I recently made a short but pleasant trip to Lucknow, a north Indian city with a diverse and varied history of song, dance and political intrigue. Lucknow is also famous for its fine cuisine which developed to please the discerning palates of its luxury loving Nawabs. The rulers, appointed by the Mughal kings of Delhi and Agra were of Iranian origin and the royal chefs developed a class of food that is both rich as well as delicately balanced for high flavor. I wish to share some of the photos I took around the city with our readers. Rather than go into the complicated historical details of the place, I will instead share an essay by Sachin Kalbag about Lucknow's famous foods. The article was published in Mail Today, when the newspaper had been newly launched and its website was not quite user-friendly. It is only accessible to me in the PDF format, I can't therefore provide a link. I am reproducing it in its entirety with the permission of the author. Kalbag refers to some of Lucknow's famous landmarks which also appear in my photo montage.

The pictures here are of buildings commissioned by the Shi'a rulers of Lucknow, dating from the 18th century, designed by Iranian engineers and constructed by Indian laborers, masons and craftsmen. Clearly representing the Muslim architectural style, the beautiful edifices were heavily influenced by the artistic sensibilities of the Indian workers as well as existing local architecture of pre-Islamic era. In fact during that period, given the high traffic of Persian notables to the Mughal courts, the exchange of architectural design and aesthetics most probably flowed in both directions - from Iran to India and back. This notion is supported by the comment by an Iranian friend who saw the Lucknow photos on my Facebook. She doesn't claim any expertise in the area but noted the following from her observations.

These are fascinating, Ruchira! Except for the corridor of the Bhool Bhulaiya and some general impressions of that kind of blending of interior/exterior space like the doggie in the window picture, it's striking how different they are from architecture in Iran of that period, which I suppose says much for the influence of the Indian craftsmen and how the engineers must have been impressed by what they encountered in India. If anything, some of it reminds me more of Qajar period in Iran, slightly later. Perhaps they brought back some ideas from India?

(Click on the Wiki links for the history of the monuments featured below and on the images for enlargement)

Bada Imambada: The larger of the two famous Imambadas (The monument of the Imam) of Lucknow. Built in the mid 18th century by the Shia ruler of Lucknow as a tribute to Imam Hassan, the monument was designed by Iranian engineers and constructed by Indian laborers.

The main entrance to the Bada (large) Imambada

The view from inside the intricate structure around the deep well

The Bauli - the several stories deep well in the compound

The Tajia Hall

The beautifully carved ceiling of the Tajia Hall. The holy banners in the first alcove on the right

A passage within the Bhool Bhulaiya, the maze

A view of the Rumi Darwaza (The Roman Gate) outside

A building across the street with a fish motif (the elephant is live)

Chhota Imambada: The beautiful, delicately designed Chhota Imambara, a monument dedicated to Imam Hussain. It was built in the late 18th century by the ruling Shia dynasty of Lucknow. As with the its larger counterpart, this edifice too was designed by Iranian architects and built by local Indian laborers and masons.

A charming pair at the entrance. The metal female figure is a lightning conductor and the golden fish is the equivalent of a wind sock.

The Chhota Imambara

A jacuzzi bath for the women of the royal family on the premises.

The mausoleum of theNawab's daughter.

The lace like design and calligraphy on the front wall of the Imambada.

A scenic shot within the complex. Lucknow has a rich and varied assortment of botanical life.

The mosque at the Chhota Imambara.

The Residency at Lucknow (a major site of the Sepoy Mutiny, India's first war of independence against British occupation)

A memorial before the dining hall to commemorate British soldiers

Bullet holes on the walls of the Residency.

A memorial to Indian soldiers who sided with the British.

The boundary wall of a building in the compound

The burnt out quarters where Sir Henry Lawrence, the commander of the British forces died.

The remnants of the church of the Residency and the surrounding cemetery.

A British gun.

The mosque of the Residency. It is still in use.

The last Nawab of Oudh (Lucknow was its capital), Wajid Ali Shah. The hapless, pleasure loving, apathetic ruler was removed from power and exiled in Calcutta by the British just a year before the Mutiny, in preparation for the take over of Lucknow and the kingdom of Oudh.

Now on to the food of Lucknow.

'Pepper Spray Cop' of UC Davis goes back in time to make things right (Norman Costa)

Time Travel News Network (TTNN): Thursday, November 24, 2011, 0200 hours EST

'Pepper Spray Cop' of UC Davis goes back in time to make things right (Norman Costa)

Scientists are hailing the 'first of its kind' opportunity to go back in time and undo a terrible mistake. Lt. John Pike, now known as the infamous 'Pepper Spray Cop of U.C. Davis,' went back in time to change the way he handled the breakup of a peaceful student protest. It was not something he planned on, but, a freak accident gave him the opportunity for a do-over, and be the first human to travel back in time.

Immediately after Pike was suspended, he fled to Europe to avoid the press and aggressive process servers. Quickly, he got a job as a security guard at a scientific research lab in Switzerland. The accident happened on Wednesday, November 23, 2011 at 1650 hours, GMT. He walked into an area where neutrino research was underway. Officer Pike thought he was going into a utility room for HVAC. He walked directly in front of a massively energized neutrino beam and vanished from sight.

Two days ago Lt. John Pike gave a press conference to explained what happened today. He said he was dazed for a short time before realizing he had traveled back in time to about 3 days before the pepper straying incident at UC Davis. He went to an airport, immediately, to fly back to Davis. After a complication regarding his frequent flier miles – he hadn't yet flown from California to Switzerland so his mileage had not been recorded – he was issued a ticket and flew home. 

We at TTNN received a video tape, three days ago, of Pike's 're-do' of handling the protest. We were stunned when we saw it, and we concluded it was a some kind of hoax and threw it out, but not before transcribing the audio. With the benefit of hindsight – actually time travel – we changed our minds and will now read the transcript of the audio portion.

May I have your attention. I am Lt. John Pike, Supervising Officer of the Security Police at UC Davis. My officers and I are a legitimate law enforcement and peace keeping force under the Constitution of the State of California. We have the same powers of arrest, enforcement, and investigation that other police units have in California. 

We respect and will protect your rights to protest and assembly. However, some of you are blocking a passage that is usually used for pedestrian traffic for members of the university and others. You can continue your peaceful demonstration 15 yards in that direction, and avoid blocking other people who are exercising their rights to come and go on this campus.

My superior in the University Administration directed me to clear the pedestrian traffic areas blocked by this demonstration. I am empowered to give you a lawful order to move out of the pedestrian traffic flow. Before I have to do that, I am asking you to move, of your own accord, 15 yards to your right. If you do not, then I have the legal authority to order you to disperse. If you do not obey a lawful order from the police, you are subject to physical removal by my officers, and being arrested. 

…

I am now giving you a lawful order, for the third time, to disperse and clear the pedestrian traffic area. In a moment I will give my officers the order to clear you from the area. Before I do that, I want to tell you how it is going to work. First, there will be no use of tear gas, pepper spray, billy clubs or truncheons. You have not been violent, so there is no need for us to use that kind of force. The officers will separate you, one at a time, handcuff you, and take you to a staging area over there. You will be photographed, and then issued an appearance summons. That means you must appear before a judge and explain yourself. After a period of time you will be released from your handcuffs and you will be free to go.

If you do not release your arm locks with each other, my officers will have to use physical force to separate you. We do not wish to cause you harm, and I do not want any harm to come to my officers. However, my officers will have to pry your arms and fingers loose. We will not use any more force than is necessary. When my officers approach you they will tap you on the shoulder. That is your command to release your hold, stand up, and go with the officer to the staging area. If you do not respond to this command then the officers will pry you loose and take you forcefully.

If you struggle against my officers, or you attempt to use any force on them, they will subdue you on the spot, put you to the ground, cuff you, and you will be arrested and brought to jail. We do not want to do this. We appreciate that you have been peaceful in your protest. This is your last chance to remove yourself from the pedestrian traffic area.

…

Officers, clear the protesters from this area and take them into custody as planned.

So there you have it – two of the strangest confrontations of police and protesters in history, and in history. There was another complication in this matter, one that pleased the many arrested protesters. Yesterday was the first day of the scheduled hearings before a judge. The court was thrown into disarray and confusion for most of the session. The one-time protesters presented their appearance tickets, but there was nothing on the docket, and there were no records of the summonses being issued. A number of UC Davis police officers were called into court to verify the arrests. The surprised officers could not recall making any arrests on the day in question. This went on for several more days until all 87 arrested protesters presented themselves in court. The judge sent everyone home.

 

On an Architecture of Laundry in Tokyo

An excellent essay by Ryan Sayre in 3 Quarks Daily.

Mallory and Irvine: Should we solve Everest's mystery? (Norman Costa)

Mallory and Irvine: Should we solve Everest's mystery? (Norman Costa)

By Jon Kelly BBC News Magazine, 3 October 2011

As a tale of doomed, romantic endeavour, it has endured for decades.

It is also Everest's most persistent mystery - did George Mallory and Andrew "Sandy" Irvine make it to the top in 1924, almost 30 years before it was officially conquered?

The pair, equipped with primitive climbing gear, were last sighted a few hundred metres away from the summit before bad weather closed in around them.

Wearing Burberry gabardine jackets and hobnail boots, and carrying a rudimentary oxygen supply, their gear was a far cry from the hi-tech protective clothing worn by modern mountaineers.

And historians have long argued whether or not they made it to the peak before succumbing to the freezing conditions.

A forthcoming expedition to Everest aiming to establish what exactly happened is just the latest in a series of attempts to solve the puzzle. But despite the continued speculation, many of those with a stake in the mystery hope it will never be resolved, fearing the prosaic truth could never match the legend.

Read more HERE.

Kashmir: A troubled paradise

As a child growing up after India's partition, Kashmir to me was always a part of India. Only in middle school did I begin to realize that it was considered "disputed territory" by much of the world, the sentiment being especially fierce in neighboring Pakistan. The map of India that we studied in school showed Indian Kashmir as a larger territory than what was actually under Indian control. Parts of it in the north and the west were in reality, within China and Pakistan. The scenic northernmost state, a popular destination for summer tourism and the backdrop of many a puerile romantic song & dance number of made-in-Bombay movies, was not a very urgent topic of discussion for the general Indian public. Kashmir for most Indians, evoked benign, pretty images of apple, apricot and walnut orchards, chinar trees, shimmering lakes, snow capped mountains, houseboats, fine pashmina shawls, lacquered papier mache ornaments and the valley's light skinned aloof inhabitants.    

Later in my teen years I began to understand that Kashmir was not the placid paradise we had imagined as children. Its politics were complicated and its population sharply divided on the state's rightful status - part of India, part of Pakistan or a wholly independent/ autonomous entity. The difference of opinion fell across religious lines. Kashmiri Hindus wished to remain with India and the majority Muslim population of the state did not. Even then, things were mostly quiet and free of turmoil. There were quite a few Kashmiri students in my school. Many had ancestral homes and relatives in Kashmir and they visited there regularly during summer breaks. Those friends were all Hindus. Come to think of it, I did not know a single Kashmiri Muslim on a personal level until I was in college. There were Muslim traders and merchants who came down to major Indian cities bearing expensive and much coveted Kashmiri merchandise such as saffron, dried fruit, nuts and embroidered woollens, but they did not reside in the plains permanently and their children did not attend our schools. The first Kashmiri Muslim I came to know well was Agha Shahid Ali, a graduate student a few years ahead of me in Delhi University who later became a lecturer of English at my college as also a poet of some renown. It was Ali who first revealed to me that most Kashmiri Muslims did not identify themselves as Indians and many felt a greater emotional and cultural allegiance with Pakistan. An equal number wanted an autonomous state with a very loose federation with India for economic reasons. The Indian government spent large sums of money to subsidize the state's economy and prohibited non-Kashmiris from buying land there while also meddling in local politics. Kashmiris became increasingly suspicious of the central government's motives and the rift with India widened both politically and culturally.  

Despite tensions and uncertainties, Kashmir never experienced the sectarian violence that had racked the eastern and western wings of India around partition time. Even when India and Pakistan fought several wars over their disagreement surrounding the region, Kashmir itself remained relatively free of communal strife for many decades after India's independence. The uneasy calm ended in the late 1980s and early '90s when the Kashmir valley became a battle ground for armed insurgents trained in Pakistan and the Indian military forces. The conflict caused a communal rift among long time residents and resulted in a mass exodus (some say expulsion) of Kashmiri Hindus from their homes. Those tensions remain to this day laced with bitterness on both sides.

I had never visited Kashmir when I lived in India. By the time the political upheaval unfolded in the 1990s, I had already left and had been living abroad for a decade. Kashmir's troubles and deteriorating political situation were not something I paid close attention to until the Kargil War erupted in 1999. It became clear then that Kashmir had become an intractable problem for India. I am still not sure how I feel about the situation. What can India gain by holding on to a territory whose residents do not want to be a part of India? Can India protect  regions like Ladakh and Jammu in the vicinity which identify firmly with the rest of India? What would happen if India does decide to vacate the valley and stops spending money to placate the population and maintain the large presence of its armed forces? Would Kashmir valley remain "independent" or will some other country like China or Pakistan march in and establish control even closer to other Indian states? How does one balance the interests of Kashmiris and the rest of India? Is peace ever possible when the citizenry perceives the government as an "occupying force?" Most confusing of all, will Kashmiri Hindus be permitted go back to the homes they abandoned out of fear and panic?  And even if it was possible, would they ever want to return to a place that had cut all ties to India?

I visited Kashmir last month for the first time. The experience was charming and depressing at the same time. A beautiful but somewhat sad place, the political and emotional tensions there are palpable even though the awful and frequent violence has abated. The native population of Kashmir is now almost 100% Muslim, the Kashmiri Pandits having departed from the valley. The tourists are mostly non-Muslim Indians (foreign tourism in the politically unstable region has evaporated) as are the members of the very large contingent of Indian armed forces whose presence is ubiquitous and certainly unnerving for local Kashmiris.

I will not describe here the impressions of Kashmir that were gleaned from what I saw and heard. I discussed that a bit in a comments thread over at 3 Quarks Daily. Instead please see below the fold, some of the photos we took during our trip and click to enlarge the images.

(For how Kashmiris themselves feel, see a Muslim man's perspective here and the plight of the Hindu refugees here.)

Ladakh: Shangri La on the Silk Route

Shangri La commonly evokes images of easy utopia that don't quite describe the barren and rocky desert like character of Ladakh and the hardscrabble life of its cheerful inhabitants. Nevertheless, the awesomeness of its rugged terrain is breathtakingly beautiful and amidst the solitude and thin air, peace prevails. The amazing sky, the eerie silence on the high mountains and the shock of stumbling upon a green valley beside a sparkling stream and the changing colors of its pristine lakes glistening beneath giant bald mountain peaks are experiences that stun, charm and soothe. Hugging the sides of intimidating, crumpled mountain ranges are numerous ancient Buddhist monasteries whose architecture blends seamlessly with that of the land itself. Ladakhis belong to a colorful sprinkling of many ethnicities (Tibetan, Indian, Central Asian and Indo-European tribes like the Hunzas) with people of Tibetan ancestry constituting the vast majority. They are divided nearly equally between Buddhists and Muslims (along with a tiny Christian community around Leh) with the former inhabiting the central and eastern regions and the latter mostly concentrated in the northwestern parts.

Ladakh was once upon a time an important way station along the ancient Silk Route, a vibrant trading network  involving China, India, Central Asia and Europe. Known as "Little Tibet," Ladakh saw a steady traffic of traders bearing varied exotic goods during the mild summers as well as its brutal winters (when traders used the frozen rivers as roads) crisscrossing the region. Around the middle of the last century for political and security reasons Ladakh, which shares its borders with China and Pakistan near the disputed territory of Kashmir, became inaccessible to both Indian and foreign civilians. (The invasion of Kashmir by Pakistan in 1948 and the China-India war in 1962 resulted in the sealing of the borders) Only the Indian army could travel there, as also domestic business travelers with permits. The place could only be reached via arduous land routes. The already remote land connected to a couple of Indian states by crude roads over rough terrains and very high mountain passes was mostly forgotten by the rest of the world. Ladakh remained isolated until the mid 1970s when the Indian government opened it up to civilians. But travel remained difficult and only the most adventurous or those with business interests ventured out by cars or buses. The bolder thrill seekers often opted for a more dangerous and strenuous motorcycle ride. For some years past, Leh, the biggest city in Ladakh has become connected to Delhi and Srinagar by air, resulting in a sharp rise in tourist and business traffic, both Indian and foreign. Ladakh once more has become a meeting place of people from different parts of the world, passing through.     

I won't go into further details of the history, geography and geology of Ladakh which you can check out in the Wiki link I have provided above. Instead, let me treat this post mostly as a photo-blog and share some pictures of this amazing place that we took during our travels recently during July-August. It was very gratifying that I experienced very little physical discomfort (not even a nose-bleed) in a place of rarefied air where our travels sometimes took us as high up into the Himalayas as nearly 18,000 feet and where my husband convinced me to go up the mountainous roads on the back of a motorcycle. I am glad that we decided to make the trip to Ladakh. A few years from now, we may not have had the confidence to test our strength and endurance in its unforgiving climate and stark landscape of spectacular beauty.

India Used to Be Intimidating. Today, Not So Much. (Norman Costa)

India Used to Be Intimidating. Today, Not So Much. (Norman Costa)

Once again, Ruchira, I take a moment to read your post, Overselling India, and write a comment, and in no time there are too many words to put in a comment block. So here is a new post, and I hope you and others may find it interesting.

I do not know whether to describe Overselling India as interesting, fascinating, a little petulant, intriguing, or bemused. Of course, I am not really looking for the word that describes your thoughts, rather, a way to describe my reaction. I guess the best way to describe my reaction is, “I have to think about it.” 

My reaction is personal, and self-referential.  That is all I have to go on, so here it is.

In my younger days, I would not have understood your exception to the idea that India is cut from whole cloth. I and all other Americans knew India through the movies.  The plot settings, landscape backdrops, costumes, and characters were all the same.  To the extent that stories varied, they were still derivative of Kipling and the 'high achievement' of Victoria's empire. In short, there was only one India, and only one experience.

With all the diversity we have in the US, we can still think of ourselves as one America – if only because anyone can arrive on our shores and get permits and licenses to open a business, drive a car, or travel in a matter of hours.  It is the same for everyone.  The Statue of Liberty is still iconic for America as the Taj Mahal is for India. What may be different, I think, is that the Statue of Liberty is a near sacred object for many Americans.  Immigrants who arrived in New York harbor on a ship never forgot the sight of Lady Liberty, nor the deep emotions the felt.

To Fly or Not to Fly (Sujatha)

Through the cloud of volcanic ash spewed by the Icelandic volcano Eyjafyallajokull, that is. As thousands of flights were canceled over the weekend, desperate travelers sought any possible way out of airport lounge purgatory, driving across countries and paying unprecedented prices for one-way taxi or bus rides.

The flights resume, after a few test flights were made by 'intrepid' airline executives. "No problems. We can handle this." But a few anecdotes don't make data. Existing data shows:

Item 1 : $3.2 million worth of damage to a NASA DC-8 flown through volcanic ash spewed by a sister volcano Hekla. Interestingly, this detailed study shows that the plane appeared to function fine for about 68 hours of flying time after the passage through the ash cloud. The damage became evident only after that time. This could account for the preliminary 'no problem' assessment for the commercial jets' test flights. But will it result in failures as more air time is accumulated?

Item 2: Data and photos of engine damage to Finnish air force planes that flew through the ash spewed by Eyjafjallajokull a few hours before airspace was finally closed.

Item 3: What happened to  British Airways and KLM flights in the '80s.

"In one incident, all four engines of British Airways flight shut down when flying though the ash of an Indonesian eruption in 1982. The same thing occurred in 1989 when a KLM jet flew through a cloud of ash in Alaska. Both flights were able to restart their engines, but only after losing more than 10,000 feet of altitude.

"Even when you set aside things like potential law suits from loss of life, and things like that, the damage to the plane by flying through the ash can run into tens of millions of dollars," says Benjamin Edwards, a volcanologist at Dickinson College in Carlisle, Pa.

KLM, for example, had to replace all four engines on the aircraft, which was less than a year old, at a cost of $80 million."

I hope that this resumption of flights doesn't lead to any problems, but the track record for airplanes flying through volcanic ash clouds, is unfortunately, NOT GOOD.

Ministry of Silly Walks

Glad to be back home after an enjoyable but hectic two weeks in New Delhi. The occasion for the winter travel was a family wedding. Most of the time was spent in attending to that - dressing up, eating and meeting with relatives some of whom I hadn't seen in years. On the return journey, I discovered to my relief that the security checks at airports, despite the Christmas Day scare created by the undie bomber, weren't especially draconian. Or perhaps because we were traveling as a family (my daughter, son and I), we did not come under special scrutiny.  Whatever. On the other hand, former New York City mayor Ed Koch warns us that we ought to be really worried and not let our guard down because hundreds of millions of Muslims are terrorist killers.  

Despite the hustle and bustle of the wedding activities in New Delhi, I was able to make a short side trip to the lovely old city of Amritsar, the home of the fabled Golden Temple, the most revered site of worship of the Sikhs. Amritsar lies on the western edge of the Indian state of Punjab, close to Lahore, an ancient city on the Pakistani side of divided Punjab. Between the two historic places lies the village of Attari through which runs the India-Pakistan border. Of the sixteen or so check points that dot the long border, the one located here, known as the Wagah-Attari Check Post, also contains the only official trade and traffic route on land between the two countries. In 1993 when the road opened for the first time since the partition of British India in 1947, the governments of India and Pakistan created a tourist spot at the border crossing with stadium style seating on both sides and the daily flag lowering ceremony at the gates turned into a spectator drama. This was my second trip to Amritsar. The first was in 1972 when the Wagah border was not a significant place to visit. This year however, we made it a point to go and witness the highly choreographed ritual. The Indian side of the border was chock-full of visitors whose voices drowned out the relatively sparse crowd on the Pakistani side which may have been the result of this threat just a few days prior to our visit. The ceremony was great fun - much rooster like strutting by the border security guards on each side, accompanied by singing, dancing and loud and friendly jingoism. Although my son took numerous photos which I have permission to post, I am including instead a You Tube video here because still pictures do not do justice to the circus like atmosphere prevailing at the event.

Golconda (Sujatha)

The taxi winds around the narrow maze of roads leading up to the fort. It's a very democratic cross-section of the population that lines up to enter the grounds: at Rs.10 per ticket, this is a poor man's park, not just the haunt of the well-heeled. The lawns near the entrance are surprisingly green, well-watered even as an extended dry spell has been hovering over the city and suburbs. But further inside, the parterres look parched and dusty red.

(The photo above is by A.Gopalratnam)

As we climb the steps, we dip off to the side, under the erstwhile stables/bodyguard barracks. At the far end, a couple of cauldrons are cooking and a largish group of picnickers are seated in a row, partaking of the feast. (Is that the famed Hyderabadi biryani that I smell?)
We pass on, further up the steps to the main fort. A couple are marked with what I suspect to be red and yellow paint- it's too bright to be kumkum and turmeric. I wonder why, until a few steps later we are treated to the unexpected spectacle of a man cutting the head off a white rooster in front of a small make-shift altar at the step. Maybe a sacrifice to the goddess Jagadamba, who has a temple, even in this fort which was last controlled by the Muslim Qutb Shahi dynasty.
My kids and friends are shocked by the blood spilling out onto the step, and walk gingerly around the altar and rooster head, bemoaning the barbarianism. The man carefully washes the blood from the steps, and walks quickly away, clutching the rooster's body, that likely will be cooked as part of the Bonalu festival.
We stop the walk to the top of the hill, and retrace our steps towards another area where a Light and Sound show will be held. This is for the bonafide wealthier tourists, cost Rs.100 for an ordinary ticket and double that for the VIP Executive class ticket, which comes with free soft drinks. The path to the seats is fraught with the perils of Bat-smell and Bat-droppings, echoes from the cliff-swallows swooping around the cavernous ceilings, as we wait in line for the security queue. A uniformed policewoman diligently peeks into our handbags before nodding us in.
As we swelter in the last rays of the setting sun, batting mosquitoes and ticks away in vain, a couple of scrawny cats rush towards the nearby garbage can, disappearing almost entirely inside as they rummage for leftovers.
A squeal from the loudspeakers, and then a booming voice announces the start of the show. It is a well-written and re-enacted history of the occupants of the fort, starting with the Kakatiya kings who built it, to the Qutb Shahi rulers who maintained the longest control over it, tales of kings and singers and lovers and saints, all wiped away in the final blast of war for control of the fabled fort. The Golconda is impregnable to all onslaughts but that of treachery. The lighting is wonderfully synced with the stirring narration and dialogues.
The audience is alternately captivated by the narration, or nodding off when the too-long musical interludes commence.(I'm sure they must have paid the singers handsomely for their efforts, but that doesn't necessarily mean that the whole songs be played in their 6 -or-8-stanza entirety!)
We escape during the final soulful paean to the glories of the Telugu people, just minutes before the remaining mass of the audience tries to ooze through the narrow pathway back, through the Bat-zone.
Walking outside the fort towards the taxi, squeals of horror from the kids punctuate our path: We have just managed to step on masses of teeming cockroaches that are out for the evening's dinner, congregating in the manholes.
The verdict from the kids: Unmitigated disaster of an excursion, since they didn't like the sacrificial rooster, or the bat-smells or the cockroaches.
My verdict: A reminder that beyond all the tourist trappings, there is still an underlying India that is worth seeing in all its glory and squalor.
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Cross-posted from Fluff 'n' Stuff

Racing through the Louvre (Sujatha)

From the New York Times a few weeks ago:

"Spending an idle morning watching people look at art is hardly a scientific experiment, but it rekindles a perennial question: What exactly are we looking for when we roam as tourists around museums? As with so many things right in front of us, the answer may be no less useful for being familiar."

Why indeed do we wander around museums? Is it the age-old quest for finding ourselves in our past, the thirst for knowledge? Or the window-shopper and street-gawker's instinct? Is it less about stopping and staring and more about bragging rights as in "I visited the Louvre, when we were last in Paris." Or maybe a combination of 'All of the Above"?
As a kid in Paris, I had been on school field trips to various sections of the Louvre, spending a few hours once in the Egyptian section, and another visit in the Greek section, but remember very little of what are considered to be its main attractions. My recent visit was an all new-experience,  reminding me that it was perhaps at the Louvre that I acquired my taste for museum-hopping no matter where in the world we went.

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Ah, the Louvre! The perfect place to loiter leisurely, gazing at John the Baptist's all-knowing smile, or perchance the mysterious magnificence of the Mona Lisa.That is, until the hordes of tourists and tour guides waving flags, assorted brochures and even umbrellas to keep their groups together, all trample over you in their eagerness to see the next item on the 'Da Vinci Code' tour.

The Monna Lisa was unreachable. A special line of the devoted faithful had to be stood in and endured, before you were able to partake of her timeless gaze at closer quarters. We settled for the distant view. Even hoisting my daughter onto her father's shoulders and placing a camera in her tiny fingers elicited an indignant "Not allowed" from a museum security official doing due diligence.

Never mind the barely visible main attraction- the huge painting of the Wedding Feast at Cana (Veronese) on the opposite side was quite a show-stopper, though precious few of the crowds milling around the Gioconda paid any attention to it.

With over 35,000 paintings and antiquities, we could have spent an entire month in the museum, but having only a day, we could only spend a paltry few minutes in each section, catching the 'highlighted items' suggested in the museum's brochure.
Then, we decided to linger in certain places, not quite the stuff of tourist lore, but quite fantastic nevertheless. The Persian section was eye-popping, with its huge capitals that took up so much room that one could barely imagine the size of the pillar that supported it.

A small crowd was milling around a rock edict which bore the Code of Hammurabi, with a prominently displayed French translation nearby- 'for X, off with the hand... for Y, off with the leg... for Z, off with the head..."- I provided a quick translation for my son: "...It's the Off-with-his-head school of justice",as an eavesdropping tourist nearby snickered in agreement.

The sculpture courtyard adjoining the Persian section was a relatively quiet place to recuperate from the milling crowds jostling to pose with the Winged Victory. I sat behind a statue of Hercules battling a gigantic snake , though not at a good vantage point (read, treated to a prominent view of the Derriere). I was reduced to sneaking peeks at the red charcoal drawing of the statue, which an art student was working on, right next to me. She had time to spare, tracing every contour with careful concentration, but tiring presently of her drawing, whipped out a cellphone and started a quiet conversation with a friend. So much for the slow version of museum enjoyment in the era of the cellphone.

My daughter wanted a drink of water, and the quest for a water fountain began in earnest. But the Louvre, being a palace more than a few centuries old, didn't have the requisite plumbing to handle the thirst of the trampling hordes, unlike the new-fangled shiny rest-roomed and water-fountained American museums. We waited in line desperately at the entrance to a crowded café in the museum, and 15 minutes after we made it in, a bored-looking waiter finally brought us a tiny cup of cappucino (10 Euros! Eeek!) and a bottle of Evian (3 Euros! Eeek-squared!). Next time we visited a Musée, we resolved to carry our own water, even if it was in a distinctly unfashionable recycled Fanta bottle.

The famed glass Pyramid was but a snatched glimpse through the windows of various wings, as we gaped our way through the luxurious apartments of Napoleon III. Then we redoubled our walk through the section of European painters, catching a few famous Rembrandt self-portraits in the process.

How did we manage to spend the better part of a day in a museum with my children who are notoriously allergic to museums? My teenager didn't complain much, having succumbed quite happily to the touristy notion of 'catching all the highlights' in the brochures. My 8-year old daughter was anointed the official photographer and religiously clicking away at everything in sight. Unfortunately, we only have a handful of usable pictures from her collection, but the camera was worth its price in gold, for the peace of mind and the Prime Whiner's busyness that it brought us.

------

Cross-posted from Fluff-n-Stuff

A minimalistic approach to happiness

In a blog post in the NYT travel writer Pico Iyer describes life in a small apartment in Japan as his route to finding peace and happiness. Says Iyer:

So — as post-1960s cliché decreed — I left my comfortable job and life to live for a year in a temple on the backstreets of Kyoto. My high-minded year lasted all of a week, by which time I’d noticed that the depthless contemplation of the moon and composition of haiku I’d imagined from afar was really more a matter of cleaning, sweeping and then cleaning some more. But today, more than 21 years later, I still live in the vicinity of Kyoto, in a two-room apartment that makes my old monastic cell look almost luxurious by comparison. I have no bicycle, no car, no television I can understand, no media — and the days seem to stretch into eternities, and I can’t think of a single thing I lack.

I’m no Buddhist monk, and I can’t say I’m in love with renunciation in itself, or traveling an hour or more to print out an article I’ve written, or missing out on the N.B.A. Finals. But at some point, I decided that, for me at least, happiness arose out of all I didn’t want or need, not all I did. And it seemed quite useful to take a clear, hard look at what really led to peace of mind or absorption (the closest I’ve come to understanding happiness). Not having a car gives me volumes not to think or worry about, and makes walks around the neighborhood a daily adventure. Lacking a cell phone and high-speed Internet, I have time to play ping-pong every evening, to write long letters to old friends and to go shopping for my sweetheart (or to track down old baubles for two kids who are now out in the world).

I like Pico Iyer's writings. I do not share his views on happiness entirely but some observations struck a chord.

My life is very different from Iyer's. Unlike him, having left the work force long ago I have not felt the urgent need to run away from the stresses of a busy professional life.  But one's personal fantasies about attaining that contented state of peace and happiness are not bound by what we do and where we are. Like Iyer, my day dreams too occasionally take me to Japan.

In my moderate travel experience through world cities, three left magical impressions, each for different reasons - San Francisco, Barcelona and Kyoto. Of these, the only one where I have imagined myself living is Kyoto. The existence I conjure up is very similar to what Iyer is currently living. But add to mine a view of the wavy, crenellated tiled roof of a Buddhist temple from an upstairs window and high speed internet.

I doubt that the Japanese are happier than the rest of the world. But for some reason, I can see myself feeling at peace in Japan, my lack of mastery over the local language notwithstanding. It is one place where I imagine that isolation from the outside chatter will not make me feel left out or lonely. It is of course all a fantasy with no real life experience of an extended stay to back up its veracity, arising solely out of some moments of exceptional calm that I have felt during my travels there even though my Japanese itineraries were always packed and hectic.

I am old enough to know that contentment and peace of mind are hardly ever wholly contingent upon our relationship with a person, possession or place. Like refreshing coastal showers they can come upon us suddenly at the least expected moment and in an unlikely setting. But it is still fun to dwell upon an imaginary escape hatch to serenity.  

I have occasionally written about Japan on A.B. touching upon one experience or the other. My last post on Japan was a pot-pourri of a few such observations. See here. That trip in the autumn of 2006 is nearly three years in the past. It may be time to plan another trip.

(The link to Iyer's article is via Namit Arora. The content of my post here is a modified version of the comment I left on Namit's blog)

A "Pardesi" Life in "Desi" Land

In Hindi / Urdu, pardesi means foreign or foreigner - as opposed to desi which stands for native Indian or south Asian.

Ever since I read Nathan Katz's detailed and interesting account of Indian Jews, I have wanted, whenever the opportunity presents itself during my trips back to India, to seek out the markers that chronicle the history of the once thriving but now drastically dwindling Jewish community of India. Historic evidence of a Jewish presence in the form of people and edifices are few and far between on the vast Indian landscape. A handful of synagogues that once served as centers of religious as well as social lives of Indian Jews are scattered in different corners of India. They remain a scant reminder of the now almost disappeared community which was once a tiny part of India's colorful and diverse social fabric. For details of the ethnicities and dates of arrival of the different diasporic Jewish communities of India, please see the review of Katz's book that I have linked to at the beginning of the post.

During my last trip to India, my sister and I took a short vacation in the city of Cochin in Kerala, on the southwestern coast of the Indian peninsula along the Arabian Sea.  There we visited the oldest standing Indian synagogue built by Sephardic Jews who first arrived on the Kerala coast in the 16th century, fleeing the Spanish Inquisition. Well before their arrival, a small but established Jewish community was already living in peace and prosperity on the Malabar Coast of Kerala, believed to have settled there since the 10th century. The immigrants from Spain expected (correctly) and found safe haven among fellow co-religionists of India. Although the Spanish Jews were warmly welcomed by their Indian hosts, the two Jewish communities, distinguished by the color of their skins, remained socially apart. The original group of Malabari Jews had become racially integrated within the larger Keralite community and were therefore dark complected like others of the region. The new comers from Europe who chose not to intermarry with the Indian Jews retained their relatively light complexions. The synagogue in Cochin built by the newly arrived Sephardic Jews in 1567-68, is called the Pardesi Synagogue - "the synagogue of foreigners."

Located at the end of an alley backing up to a Hindu temple on the compound of the Mattancheri Palace (or the Dutch Palace), the abode of the former kings of Cochin, the Pardesi Synagogue is a quaint little reminder of Kerala's past. It remains a functional synagogue to this day and attracts numerous tourists, many of them from Israel. Arts/ crafts / antique shops and spice markets lining the Synagogue Lane thrive on tourist trade although most of the artifacts sold are not  related to Judaism. The Mattencheri post office located on the same street will post mark your mail, upon request, with the Star of David. The post master claimed that it is the only post office in the world with that unique postal facility. I don't know if that is true.

The Pardesi Synagogue is currently under the supervision of eleven (yes eleven persons, not families) Cochin Jews who must be rather formidable folks because the shopkeepers seemed quite terrified of them.  They took care to speak with us in whispers on the street during the afternoon siesta hours for fear of disturbing the mostly senior Jewish residents who occupy the lovely old homes lining the alley. "Do Not Disturb Between 1-4 PM" signs hang on several front doors. I don't know what will happen to the synagogue after the current proprietors are gone or become enfeebled by old age. I expect the Indian Archaeological Society or the state government of Kerala will take over and maintain it as a historic public monument. The World Heritage Foundation already contributes to its upkeep. As of now, visitors' access to the interior of the synagogue is controlled solely by its crusty custodians. The story of the remaining eleven Cochin Jews has recently been recorded in a book by author Edna Fernandes.

(from left to right : the interior of Pardesi synagogue; the Star of David post mark at Mattancheri post office;Synagogue Lane ending at Pardesi Synagogue;

Water management in Dholavira - 5000 years ago

Namit Arora at Shunya's Notes describes his journey through Dholavira, the remains of a 5000 years old metropolis in the Rann of Kutch, an environmentally inhospitable region in western India. Excavation has uncovered a sophisticated urban development whose inhabitants, it is clear, were very much obsessed with channeling and preserving fresh water within their city. That precious commodity of human survival and civilization is in short supply in the desert region of the Rann of Kutch. Namit found an ancient bangle among the ruins. Did he keep it? He doesn't say. 

The road to Dholavira goes through a dazzling white landscape of salty mudflats. It is close to noon in early April and the mercury is already past 100F. The desert monotones are interrupted only by the striking attire worn by the women of the nomadic and semi-nomadic pastoral tribes that still inhabit this land: Ahir, Rabari, Jat, Meghwal, and others. When I ask the driver of my hired car to stop for a photo, they receive me with curious stares, hoots, and giggles.

This is the Rann of Kutch, an area about the size of Kuwait, almost entirely within Gujarat and along the border with Pakistan. Once an extension of the Arabian Sea, the Rann ("salt marsh") has been closed off by centuries of silting. During the monsoons, parts of the Rann fill up with seasonal brackish water, enough for many locals to even harvest shrimp in it. Some abandon their boats on the drying mudflats, presenting a surreal scene for the dry season visitor. Heat mirages abound. Settlement is limited to a few "island" plateaus, one of which, Khadir, hosts the remains of the ancient city of Dholavira, discovered in 1967 and excavated only since 1989.

Entering Khadir, we pass a village and find the only tourist bungalow in town. It hasn't seen a visitor in three days; I check in and head over to the ruins. I've planned this for months; even the hottest hour of the day cannot temper my excitement for the ruins of this 5,000 year-old metropolis of the Indus Valley Civilization. While hundreds of sites have been identified in Gujarat alone, this is among the five biggest known to us in the entire subcontinent, alongside Harappa, Mohanjo-daro, and Ganeriwala in Pakistan, and Rakhigarhi in India.

A Summer Break in Brixen

My short vacation last week took me to the beautiful little town of Brixen in the south Tyrolean region of northern Italy.  Here are some photos inside and outside the historic Elephant Hotel where I stayed, the hotel's gardens and of the main cathedral in the town square. Although we didn't meet, I learnt that the Pope was vacationing in Brixen at the time we were there. The souvenir shops were resplendent with commemorative papal merchandise. 

(click on thumbnails for enlargement)

 

For more on the history and politics of the area and other photos, please see Abbas Raza's post on 3 Quarks Daily.

Stuffing Your Belly in Delhi

Food personality Andrew Zimmern was recently in Delhi - to eat, eat and eat! He ate a lot, at a lot of different places - glittering dining destinations in posh New Delhi restaurants, traditional eateries in the dingy alley ways of Old Delhi, roadside stalls and confectionery and even sacred temple offerings in a Gurdwara. He tasted everything - the hot, the sweet and the tangy. With able guidance from food aficionados, Zimmern sampled cuisines from many parts of India- from soup to nut to ... tree bark. And he ate and ate and ate. (I sure hope he was packing a generous supply of Pepto-Bismol)

Zimmern has enthusiastically chronicled his experience of eating (pigging?) out in Delhi at his blog Bizarre Foods. Some excerpts:

Delhi is the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world going back at least 2500 years. The ruins of 7 cities have been discovered here, and it is said that Delhi’s food is often descended from that of the mediaeval lashkars garrisoned around the forts of the capital. But today, Shahjahanabad, or Old Delhi is home to an army of office-goers and shopkeepers who trade in everything from spices to bridal trousseaux to electrical fittings. If you venture to untangle the streets that twist and turn from dark alleys into busy boulevards, you are likely to find an inevitable surprise lurking around the corner, at least that’s what my new pal Hemanshu Kumar, a college Economics professor who is also the titular head of Eating Out in Delhi, a local club always in search of the most interesting and most bizarre food in town. Today, The Professor and I went on a search for the nearly extinct and increasingly overlooked traditional foods that can only be found on a dedicated filed trip. We found spiced milk froth, tiny Nihari stands, and anything else that popped up, like fruity sandwiches that reside in a shop behind large iron gates on Chawri Bazaar Road--- made from pomegranate (anaar) or apples and paneer (Indian cottage cheese made from curdled milk) lathered in orange marmalade, then dusted with secret masala and anaar seeds all on white bread.

I am particularly pleased that Zimmern didn't depart Delhi by sampling just the customary north Indian fare of saffron rice, nan bread, creamy gravies and meat kebabs. He wisely checked out the food in a new  Bengali restaurant in Delhi (a must for me next time I am there). I have said here before that Bengali cuisine, the food that was cooked in my parents' home, is a distinct cooking style dominated by fish (including sea food), rice, vegetables and a dazzling array of desserts. It is not served in most Indian restaurants. Bengalis eat meat too but consume it in lesser quantities than fish. (In our home, we ate meat every Sunday and on holidays). The food flavors are varied and subtle and the sauces lighter in body than in north Indian preparations - one size does not fit all.  Along with the ubiquitous Indian spice mixes of onion, garlic, cumin, coriander, cardamom, cinnamon and clove, which are used judiciously, Bengali cooks artfully mix and match ginger roots, bay leaves, hot green chili, fresh coconuts, poppy, mustard and nigella seeds in their culinary creations. Also, alongside the more common vegetables and fruits, Bengalis are known to transform a whole host of unusual roots, leaves and even tree barks into mouthwatering dishes. In his post Zimmern mentions the delightful experience of eating bananas .... or rather, the whole banana tree, at New Delhi's fancy and gastronomically ambitious Bengali restaurant, Oh! Calcutta.

Boulevard of Broken and Burgeoning Dreams

In remembrance of Martin Luther King Jr. Day, today's Houston Chronicle has an interesting article on Houston's MLK Blvd - its past and its present.  MLK Blvd in Houston runs from the southeastern part of the city near Hobby Airport , north to the University of Houston.  It is a long, mostly residential street with small businesses lining both sides. I have driven on it near the airport and close to the university but not on the stretch between the two.

Snaking north to south from the University of Houston to its dead end at Almeda-Genoa Road, the street named for Martin Luther King Jr., transects some of the city's poorest neighborhoods. A third of the residents live below the poverty level, and the harshness of their lives is chronicled by the rap lyrics of South Park Mexican, Scarface and Z-Ro.

Look and you'll see a street lined with a shabby procession of barber shops and grocery stores. Look again, and you'll see mom-and-pop businesses, flourishing churches and even headquarters for national companies. The boulevard is a street of dreams; a street of dreams broken.

Such paradoxes seem particularly sharp today, the national holiday honoring King, winner of the Nobel Peace Prize for his civil rights work in the turbulent 1960s.

For some who live and work on the boulevard, the possibility that Barack Obama might become the nation's first black president makes King's dream of brotherhood seem brighter than ever. For others, Obama's campaign simply reminds of other black politicians, who, they believe, proved disappointments.

"We are facing things in our lives that we've never faced before," said boulevard real estate agent Dorothy Pruitt-Harris. "Gas prices, oil prices, credit problems. A lot of people don't know where to go."

Speaking of King's assassination 40 years ago this April, Pruitt-Harris' colleague, insurance broker Trazawell Franklin Jr., added, "That was 40 years ago ... and we're still dreaming. Things are still the same. We're still the last hired and the first fired. We're still waiting for the right leadership, the right positions and the right time."....

......"I feel things are really messed up," Pruitt-Harris said, "but if (Obama) does get elected, maybe he can bring things back together."

Franklin seemed unconvinced, arguing that even during the tenure of Mayor Lee Brown and Police Chief Clarence Bradford, both African-Americans, "heads still were beat, we still had profiling."

A short distance away, at the national headquarters of the Harlon's barbecue chain, company president Candace Brooks Clement offered a different view. Her company, founded by her father in 1977, now operates restaurants in Houston, Austin, Nacogdoches and Las Vegas and employs 105 workers.

"The dream is still going for us," she said. "We have aspiration. We still want to go higher in the profession."

And here is Charles Krauthammer whose interpretation of Hillary Clinton's reference to Martin Luther King Jr. and Lyndon B. Johnson echoes my own.

On The Road With Jesus

Sam Fentress is a Jack Kerouac of sorts. He travels the roads of America looking to find not himself but Biblical signs and bill boards - messages to praise and persuade.  In his many sojourns he has found farmhouses, grain silos, restaurants, hair salons, gas stations and even traffic signs bearing Biblical messages. An artist and a photographer, Fentress first started photographing roadside biblical messages when a student in his class brought him a picture of a barn covered in Scriptures. Fentress was stunned.

"It just knocked my socks off as a picture," he said. "The boldness of the farmer in covering the roof, the sides — every square foot of the barn had some sort of Bible quote, Old Testament, New Testament, Gospels, Epistles, Revelation."

Fentress has photographed an urban billboard which rotated its message to read among other things.

• God is like Coke: He's the real thing.
• God is like Pan Am: He makes the going great.
• God is like Tide: He gets the stains out that others leave behind.
• God is like-VO-5 hair spary: He holds through all kinds of weather.
• God is like Alka Seltzer: Try him, you'll like him.

Behind the billboard was a building with a big sign, "Furniture Factory Outlet World." God and mammon jousting for attention.

Now Fentress has a book out of his collection of photographs titled "Bible Road" which he edited for what he hopes is, "interesting both theologically and aesthetically."

Sam Fentress has spent the past 25 years crisscrossing America's highways and byways, stopping along the way to snap shots of religious signs in every state except Hawaii. He found everything from John 3:3 on a farm silo in Ohio to "Obey God or Burn" scratched into a rock in Harlem....

At some point in the late '70s or early '80s, Fentress realized the farmer wasn't alone. Wherever he looked, he saw religious signs along the roadside. He started to methodically photograph thousands of such images over the next two decades. Along the way, he also became a Catholic.

Fentress, 52, has a master of arts from the Art Institute of Chicago and his work is collected by museums, including the Los Angeles County Museum of Art and the St. Louis Art Museum.

The religious roadside signage is particularly American, he said, given the First Amendment's guarantees of freedom of speech and religion and the country's religious diversity.

"Americans are told they can say whatever they want," he said. And people feel free to say it — or perhaps, show it — whether on their front lawn, barn or business.

Fentress said he was intrigued by the juxtaposition of landscape and religious message. Some images capture signs on businesses, which he attributed to a capitalist tendency to co-opt religion into something that can be marketed and sold. But he also recognized the impulse to spread the "good news" wherever possible.

In Las Vegas, he spotted Glorified Bodies Inc., a collision repair shop with the Christian fish symbol on its signpost. He noted the relationship between Jesus' resurrected body, as described in the New Testament, and restoring damaged cars. [Link]

For some samples of Fentress' photos see here.

Sanctioned Foods and Forbidden City

Usha Alexander and Namit Arora recently returned from a trip to China.  Their observations on China's Forbidden City and wide range of gastronomical delights at Shunya's Notes.

Blogging From The Top Of The World!

Eighteen year old Samantha Larson of Long Beach, California has climbed the highest seven mountain summits on all continents.  On May 16th she reached the top of Mount Everest, making her the youngest American to have achieved this feat.  During her Everest climb she packed her oboe along with her climbing gear so as to be ready for a band concert upon her return. And she BLOGGED during this grueling adventure!  How did she do it without internet access in the rarified atmosphere of the Himalayas?  She called her mom in New York via satellite phone and relayed the messages to be posted on her blog. Wow! But then Samantha is an exceptionally motivated and capable young woman. Read more about her adventures and accomplishments here.

(Samantha preparing for the climb)

From Earth's tallest point, the message was understandably breathless.

"We made it to the top!" Samantha Larson told her mother via satellite phone Thursday after reaching the summit of Mount Everest. "Now all we have to do is make it back down."

Larson, 18, of Long Beach, became one of the youngest people to scale the 29,035-foot peak, reaching the summit with a group that included her father, David Larson, 51, an anesthesiologist at Long Beach Memorial Medical Center.

The honors graduate of Long Beach Polytechnic High School put off her arrival as a freshman at Stanford University by a year to scale some of the world's highest mountains.

She began posting reports on her Everest trek last month at www.samanthalarson.blogspot.com, continuing her blogging until she was more than halfway up the mountain. Her mother, Sarah Hanson, and her brother, Ted, added Samantha's triumphant comments.  ....

[W]hen father and daughter "finally started our summit push yesterday, making our way from base camp to camp two," Samantha wrote Sunday. "We don't have Internet access up here, but we were able to relay this information to our correspondents in New York via satellite phone. We're taking a rest day today, and plan to press on tomorrow. If all goes well, we should summit on the 17th."

Tom Sjogren, one of the founders of explorersweb.com, an extreme adventure news portal based in New York, said that as far as they know Larson is the youngest to crest the seven summits. But with such high numbers of climbers, statistics are hard to verify.

A Smoldering Paradise

A lovely piece of travel writing by Usha Alexander here.  Her article has been included in The Best Travel Writing for 2007 by Travelers’ Tales. Alexander recounts her days as a Peace Corps volunteer in the remote region of the archipelago of Vanuatu.

Anandpur Sahib Revisited

Shunya's latest post about the Sikh Gurdwara (temple) Anandpur Sahib took me far down the memory lane. I had visited this beautiful place in my late teens. I don't remember too many of the details now. But I did make a sketch of the lovely structure which amazingly is still in my possession (most of the art work that I had produced in India got inexplicably "lost" during one of our moves). It is a pen and pencil execution in a school note book whose pages are now yellowing. I am posting it here. Please do check out Shunya's much better and vivid photographic depictions of this stunning place.

Tehran - More Than An Islamic Megapolis

Iran is much in the news these days. Most of the US media coverage of Iran is concerned with Islamic extremism, the nascent nuclear program that has the Bush administration on a war footing, Iran's meddling in Iraqi affairs and of course, the theatrics of Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. But Iran is a large country of more than 70 million people and to define it narrowly in terms of its fundamentalist leaders is foolish and unfair.

My brother in law, Manoj Joshi was in Iran recently as a member of Government of India's press delegation. The purpose of the visit was to report on the current political situation in Iran and the state of Indo-Iranian relations.  Apart from his serious reportage, Manoj also wrote a light hearted piece on his observations of present day life in Tehran. Although he has addressed the article to his Indian readers, I feel the piece is of sufficient general interest to A.B. regulars to warrant posting here.

(Manoj Joshi is the editor of the Indian daily newspaper, The Hindustan Times. He writes on Indian and global politics. His specialty is strategic military and defense issues)

(Northern Tehran. Elburz mountains seen in the background)

There is a sense of unease that comes with travelling to Tehran, ruled by a system dominated by conservative mullahs. But actual experiences are always more pleasurable than clichéd instincts. The capital of Iran is a huge metropolis of 12.3 million people who represent one-fifth of its population and 50 per cent of its industry.

With a backdrop of the snow-brushed Elburz mountains, Tehran could be the most beautiful city in Iran, but it is not. That title goes to Isfahan. Tehran received a fatal blow when, during the rule of Mohammed Reza Shah, parts of the older palaces and buildings were razed to make way for structures that came up later in the 1950s and 1960s. Today, ugly high-rises ruin the view and, as Indian ambassador Manbir Singh realises in his palatial house and grounds, the neighbourhood.

Money counts

The most important street in Tehran is the Vali-e-asr that runs from the Tajrish locality in the north to the main railway station in the south. Tajrish is where the city’s affluent population lives; it is relatively pollution free and perceptibly cooler in the summer.

For this reason, perhaps, it was the site of a palace complex built by the Shah Dynasty, which was deposed by the Islamic revolution in 1979. The Sadabad palace complex has some 18 villas, which were used by the founder of the dynasty, Reza Shah and his son Mohammed Reza and their families. Today it houses museums and government buildings. Imam Khomeini’s place in a neighbouring area comprises a single room divided by a curtain, with a short walk to a mosque.

North of Tajrish is Darband, at the foot of a mountain of the same name. This leads to a popular hiking trail and a ski lift that leads to a set of ski slopes on the northern slopes of the Elburz mountains.

At the place where the hiking trails begin are small shops and hookah lounges that also serve as restaurants called ghavekhane sonnati, where Tehran youth unwind a little, but always too much for the conservative Basij militia personnel. At a restaurant built into the mountain, there are recliners where you can sit picnic-style on rugs and feast on chelo kebabs, grilled fish and khoresht stew served with buttered rice and Iranian naan. For starters there are salads, feta cheese and yoghurt and for accompaniments, doogh (somewhat like our chaanch), non-alcoholic beer and Zam Zam cola. (A friend swears that a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label, delivered at the door costs $42, less than what it costs in New Delhi, but you must be very, very careful.) After the meal and a cup of tea, the hookah is a must and it is not unusual to see hijab-clad beauties puffing away.

The sacred veil

The women’s dress varies from the all enveloping black chador that covers them from head to toe, to a mélange of styles that involve trousers, an over garment or manteaux and a hijab that covers the hair. Just how tight the manteaux are and how much of the hair is actually covered is a matter of discretion. Unlike her Arab counterpart, the Tehran woman is not housebound. Chador, hijab and all, she is visible at the workplace whether as a cleaning lady or a research officer in a think-tank; member of Parliament or Basij (paramilitary) officer.

Despite the monstrously huge metropolis they live in, the Tehranis are unfailingly polite. Not for them the frenetic aggression of the Dilliwala. There’s a sophisticated culture spawned by the scores of universities, theatres, art galleries and cafes manifest in a vibrant art, cinema and literature scene. But though Iran’s secular culture is highly developed, it is under strain.

The Islamic Republic does not officially ban music, cinema or art. But censorship and, worse, self-censorship, is the order of the day.

Step Across the Border

Came across this charming little travel tale (via Amardeep) in the New Yorker.  Polish travel writer Ryszard Kapuscinski reminisces about the first time he stepped out of his homeland and landed in ... India (via a short stop in Rome).  The India he describes is of another era - from the 1950s.  Much has changed since then but a lot remains the same. What some of us can identify with in the essay is the author's keen wander lust, tempered by caution. He just wanted to cross the border from Poland ... and return home the same day! Not for him the distant and the unknown, not even Paris or London.

"I rattled along from village to village, from town to town, in a hay cart or on a rickety bus—private cars were a rarity, and even a bicycle wasn’t easy to come by. My route sometimes took me to a village along the border. But it happened infrequently, for the closer one got to the border the emptier the land became, and the fewer people one encountered. The emptiness only increased the mystery of those regions, a mystery that attracted and fascinated me. I wondered what one might experience upon crossing the border. What would one feel? What would one think? Would it be a moment of great emotion, agitation, tension? What was it like, on the other side? It would, of course, be . . . different. But what did “different” mean? What did the other side look like? Did it resemble anything I knew? Was it inconceivable, unimaginable? My greatest desire, which gave me no peace, which tormented and tantalized me, was actually quite modest: I wanted only one thing—to cross the border. To cross it and then to come right back—that would be entirely sufficient, would satisfy my inexplicable yet acute hunger.

But how to do this? None of my friends from school or university had ever been abroad. Anyone with a contact in another country generally preferred not to advertise it. I was sometimes angry with myself for my bizarre longing; still, it didn’t abate for a moment.

One day, I encountered Irena Tarlowska, my editor-in-chief, in the hallway. She was a strapping, handsome woman with thick blond hair parted on one side. She said something about my recent stories, and then asked about my plans for the near future. I named the various villages I’d be visiting and the issues that awaited me there, and then mustered the courage to add, “One day, I would very much like to go abroad.”

“Abroad?” she said, surprised and slightly frightened. “Where? What for?”

“I was thinking about Czechoslovakia,” I answered. I wouldn’t have dared to say Paris or London, and, frankly, those cities didn’t interest me; I couldn’t even imagine them. This was only about crossing the border—it made no difference which one, because what was important was not the destination but the mystical and transcendent act."

So naturally, it was a bit of a shock to his body and mind when Kapuscinski landed in India for his very first trip abroad. He was entranced and disoriented by the wholly alien sights, sounds and smells of India. Out of his desperation to find an anchor in reality in the unreal (for him) land, he focused on the language - not Hindi but English, as spoken in India. The author had only a rudimentary grasp of English.  His aids in this arduous undertaking was an English to Polish dictionary and Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls.

"Cast into deep water, I didn’t want to drown. I realized that only language could save me. I began cramming words, night and day. I placed a cold towel on my temples, feeling as if my head were bursting. I was never without the Hemingway, but now I skipped the descriptive passages, which I couldn’t understand, and read the dialogue:

I walked around the city, copying down signs, the names of goods in stores, words overheard at bus stops. In movie theatres, I scribbled blindly, in darkness, the words on the screen; I noted the slogans on banners carried by demonstrators in the streets. I approached India not through images, sounds, and smells but through words; and not the words of the indigenous Hindi but those of a foreign, imposed tongue, which by then had so fully taken root there that it was for me an indispensable key to the country."

Kapuscinski's encounter with India, where he traveled quite extensively, was so nerve racking that he considered the journey a failure. Yet, in all his bewilderment, he must have experienced moments of exhilaration and made connections to India at some deep level.  Upon returning to his familiar milieu in Poland, India would come back to him in flashes of "otherness" in which he would find unexpected comfort.

"India was my first encounter with otherness, the discovery of a new world. It was at the same time a great lesson in humility. I returned from that journey embarrassed by my own ignorance. I realized then what seems obvious now: another culture would not reveal its mysteries to me at a mere wave of my hand. One has to prepare oneself thoroughly for such an encounter.

My initial reaction to this lesson was to run home, to return to places I knew, to my own language, to the world of already familiar signs and symbols. I tried to forget India, which signified to me my failure: its enormousness and diversity, its poverty and riches, its incomprehensibility had crushed, stunned, and finally defeated me. Once again, I was glad to travel around Poland, to write about its people, to talk to them, to listen to what they had to say. We understood each other instantly, were united by common experience.

But of course I remembered India. The more bitter the cold of the Polish winter, the more readily I thought of hot Kerala; the quicker darkness fell, the more vividly images of Kashmir’s dazzling sunrises resurfaced. The world was no longer uniformly cold and snowy but had multiplied, become variegated: it was simultaneously cold and hot, snowy white but also green and blooming."

 

Mountainous Envy or Colossal Blunder?

Grass is greener on the other side of the fence. For one Nepalese airline employee, the mountain is more majestic on the other side of the world.

In a baffling (and embarrassing) move, the scenic country of Nepal which is located in the foothills of the spectacular Himalayas, publicly misrepresented its natural environments. In a promotional brochure for tourism, entitled "Have You Seen Nepal?" the Royal Nepal Airlines depicted a photo of Machu Picchu as a must see Nepalese destination. The airlines has apologised and blamed a careless employee for the faux pas. I wonder how the employee made this blunder and why no one else caught the mistake. Was it hard to find suitably impressive photos of the numerous mountain peaks surrounding Nepal? Or was the neighboring Mount Everest not eminent enough for this imaginative employee? 

[Story via Recurring Decimals]

(View of Mount Everest from Nepal)

   

(Machu Picchu in Peru)

LIMA (Reuters) - Royal Nepal Airlines has apologized to Peru after mistakenly using a photo of the Inca ruins of Machu Picchu to promote tourism in Nepal.

Peru's foreign ministry said in a statement on Wednesday the flagship carrier of the Himalayan kingdom, about half way around the world from the Andean country, had put the picture of Peru's tourism icon, Machu Picchu, on a poster under a slogan "Have you seen Nepal?"

Peruvian mountaineer Ernesto Malaga, who was visiting India last month, noticed the blunder on a poster hanging on a wall in the airline's office in New Delhi. Peruvian authorities requested explanations from the airline via the embassy.

"The airline ... offered apologies to Peru for using the picture of the Machu Picchu Sanctuary on a poster to promote their country and assured that the lamentable error has been corrected," the statement said. "As a consequence, the Nepalese airline fired an employee in the rank of a manager ... It is concluded that it was an isolated error," it added.

From a distance, some mountain temples in the Himalayas could be mistaken for Incan ruins, which also cling to steep slopes.

Peru's foreign ministry said in a statement on Wednesday the flagship carrier of the Himalayan kingdom, about half way around the world from the Andean country, had put the picture of Peru's tourism icon, Machu Picchu, on a poster under a slogan "Have you seen Nepal?"

Peruvian mountaineer Ernesto Malaga, who was visiting India last month, noticed the blunder on a poster hanging on a wall in the airline's office in New Delhi. Peruvian authorities requested explanations from the airline via the embassy.

"The airline ... offered apologies to Peru for using the picture of the Machu Picchu Sanctuary on a poster to promote their country and assured that the lamentable error has been corrected," the statement said.

"As a consequence, the Nepalese airline fired an employee in the rank of a manager ... It is concluded that it was an isolated error," it added.

From a distance, some mountain temples in the Himalayas could be mistaken for Incan ruins, which also cling to steep slopes. Nepal is actively promoting tourism in the hope that foreigners will return in big numbers to visit its snow-capped mountains and ancient temples after a long Maoist revolt.