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Hindol
Year 8, No. 3
M, 1423
Editorial Team :
Malabika Majumdar, Maitrayee Sen,
Ajanta Dutt, Nandan Dasgupta
October, 2016
ISSN 0976-0989
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92131344879891689053
Artists:
Chittaranjan Pakrashi
Jyotirmoy Ray
Photo Credits:
Debasish Bhattacharya
Dipanjan Dey
Front & Back Inside Covers:
Nilanjana Mukherjee
Back Cover:
Lalit Mohan Sen
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7
the book is said to fit the forested Ruwenzori range in Uganda
more than the arid and barren Richtersveldt of South Africa).
The stupefied Shankar shining a torchlight into a mesmerized
mambas eyes, the terrified Shankar in the wet, cold and pitchdark diamond caves inhabited by the monster Bunip, and the
lost, injured, dehydrated Shankar among the vultures and wild
dogs of the flaming Kalahari will knot the stomachs of many
a boy yet. And earlier, in India too Shankar was alone, alone in
his family, alone in the crowd, alone with his dreams and
aspirations.
The thrill of a confining island is less in the escape or
rescue and more in the tale of human tenacity in solitary
confinement. This theme was exploited repeatedly with
diverse variations and nuances, and by natural extension, there
evolved varying types of stories of islands of the mind, of
psychological marooning and isolation. In Bangla, there is,
among others, Srikanto (Saratchandra Chattopadhyay), and
existentialist works such as Dibaratrir Kabya (Manik
Bandopadhyay) and Shesh Pandulipi (Buddhadeb Bosu).
Another genre that dealt with the diversity and caprice of
human nature while telling a travel-adventure story threw up
gems like The Three Musketeers, The Pickwick Papers and
Huckleberry Finn. Yet another popular genre is fantasy, which
too never seems to lose its grip over young or old. Combine
that with travel and you have classics too numerous to name.
Long before the Lord of the Rings, in Bengal there were the
generic stories of the triumvirate - the young Rajputro (kings
son) and his friends the Montriputro (ministers son) and the
Sodagorputro (traders son) travelling across seven seas and
thirteen rivers to battle a gaggle of demons, witches and diverse
unknown fears with the help of goblins, fairies and other
mythical creatures. This genre has now died out, to be replaced
M, 1423
8
by the ubiquitous detective, for hire or as a hobbyist. The three
young champions in the mystical world of imps and fairies
were motivated by the glory of victory over evil (as also the
fair maidens hand); the detective does it for the same reason
(mostly without the winsome prize).
Making travel based stories engaging is a tough job. The
trick seems to be not to tell them as travelogues but as humaninterest stories, as was done in say, the Bangla Ghonada
series, which perhaps has never been classified under Travels,
like the famous Romyani Bikhyo series by Subodh Kumar
Chakrabarty. Yet, each Ghonada story was at a different
foreign location with the author Premendra Mitra taking
particular care to ensure that all geographical, historical,
scientific and anthropological data in these tall tales were
factually correct - only the action sequences were fiction.
Moving from fiction to experience, many travelers have
left fascinating accounts of their travels. Some best known
travelers were discoverers. One of the places discovered was
India. In the 7th century AD, there were religion tourists like
the Buddhist monk Xuanzang from China, from whose writings
we pick up fascinating nuggets like how the people of the Rarh
region of Bengal set their dogs upon him, in spite of his being
escorted by Harshvardhans soldiers. Later there were
professional travelers like the Uzbek Abu Raihan Alberuni,
the Moroccan Ibn Batutah, the Italian Niccolao Manucci or
the Frenchmen Jean-Baptiste Tavernier and Francois Bernier.
With equal lan they told likely and unlikely tales of the
corridors, courtyards and courtesans of the Muslim rulers of
Hindustan. There were the Emperor chroniclers like the queer
fruit-loving poet Babur Padishah and his successors who (at
times through ghost-writers) philosophized like Marcus
Aurelius while fighting bloody battles and inking incredulous
M, 1423
9
accounts of exotic experiences during their sojourns in strange
lands. In a relatively recent 1869, there was the amateur but
ardent Bholanauth Chunder (of the Black Hole fame - he
tried to prove it to be a colonial exaggeration), alumni of the
Presidency College at Calcutta, hammering out his mammoth
The Travels of a Hindoo to various parts of Bengal and
Upper India. And of course we have the travels of Vivekananda
and Tagore.
What about true stories with a pinch or two of the spice
of embellishment? Many Bengalis would immediately think
of Benoy Mukherjees Drishtipat, partly perhaps because the
authors nom de plume Jajabor means wanderer. However,
the most popular and well-known Bangla writer of this genre
is arguably teacher and journalist Syed Mujtaba Ali of the
Deshe-Bideshe, Chachakahini fame. It is difficult to classify
his literature. Biography, philosophy, adventure, history,
culture, psychology, humour, satire, tragedy, travel or just plain
old-fashioned wisdom? After all, the greatest stories are those
that have some or all of these ingredients in some measure.
Readers and critics put stories in separate compartments; good
travel writing can never be slotted. And perhaps the best among
them can barely be spotted as travel writing.
(Nandan Dasgupta)
M, 1423
10
SLetters to Editors
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Dear Sirs,
Possibly the finest activist-writer of the country, perhaps of the
world, 30-year old Mahasweta Bhattacharya (nee Ghatak) travelled
through Bundelkhand collecting material for her first novel Jhansir Rani
(The Queen of Jhansi). Much later, she would live with tribals in various
parts of eastern India to motivate them and to organize them into pressure
groups. She would document their story and take it to the urban reader
through her fiction, which should therefore be as much called historical
fiction as her first novel. Though widely known for her seminal novel
Hajar Churasir Ma (The Mother of Corpse No. 1084) written during
her English don years, her other works on oppression, atrocities and
State-sponsored terrorism were no less important in establishing her as
a committed activist and a litterateur par excellence. Although heavily
awarded, Mahasweta Devi did not get the kind of recognition from
Bengalis as one would have expected for someone who, after
M, 1423
SLetters to Editors
By e-mail
Jayanta Sens response:
M, 1423
11
12
SLetters to Editors
M, 1423
13
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This issue of
HINDOL
is sponsored by
KALPANA KIRTY
ANTARA CHAUDHURI
SUDHANGSU CHAKRABORTY
&
ARJUN DASGUPTA
We are grateful to our Donors
M, 1423
14
OHETUK SABHA
Mail :
E 46, Greater Kailash, New Delhi-110048
Email : ohetuk.sabha@gmail.com
Date: .........................
Ajanta Dutt
Maitrayee Sen
Malabika Majumdar
Nandan Dasgupta
:
:
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Sign here
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93
94
Amiya P. Sen
Heidelberg, Germany
My Days in Heidelberg
(and Nights too)
M, 1423
My Days in Heidelberg
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95
96
My Days in Heidelberg
M, 1423
My Days in Heidelberg
and sizeable middle class who would willingly invest in the higher
education of their sons and daughters in a western university that offer
greater professionalism and fuller international exposure.
* * *
What I came to soon regret upon arriving in Germany was first, my
inability to procure an international driving license and second, my utter
ignorance of both the German and Sanskrit languages. Germany is one
country where you begin to relate to the road more than the car you are
driving. On the highways, as I noticed, there are practically no speed
limits and the road begins to embrace the car once you are in your top
gear. The unsavoury side to this emerges only if you are doomed to be
a pedestrian as I was. For one, vehicles here are left hand driven and in
my first few days in Heidelberg, I was nearly run over by cars
approaching from an unexpected direction or else made to look stupid
when I tried entering a cab from the wrong side. The bigger menace
though is the German cyclist. Here, as in other German towns, there
are dedicated tracks for cyclists, not always distinguishable from
pedestrian paths. But even the Devil hath no greater fury than the
German cyclist forced to stop in his tracks. Cyclists here are more
possessive about their tracks than motorists are about roads. The average
German motorist is polite enough to wait and allow you to cross the
road, even at busy intersections, not so the cyclist.
My linguistic limitations, however, have probably cost me more than
I can account for. Here, at Heidelberg, I have had the opportunity of
accessing on open shelves, the rarest of Sanskrit texts with no illconcealed hostility from the clerk at the library-desk, unhappy at the
thought of having to work at all and always suspecting visitors of some
misdemeanour. In India, one suffered the disinterestedness and
discouraging remarks from the Library staff; at Heidelberg, I have come
to grow under their benign care. As I have also realized over time, the
Heidelberg library allows you to access to about as many texts online
as books available on the shelf. Back in India who would have thought
of taking down from the shelf, a book published in 1822 or staring at a
digitised copy of private collection of books belonging to a India returned
civilian! On the whole, this has been a most humbling experience and I
shall return home convinced more than ever that knowledge will always
be greater than the knower.
M, 1423
97
98
My Days in Heidelberg
Not knowing German has probably been the greater loss for this
prevented me from returning the feminine gaze or making the most of
an encounter with some curious on-looker. Romancing in a third
language is a difficult task under any conditions but for me, that seemed
to be overly compensated by the charm of making the acquaintance of
a European woman. There was some consolation in the fact that I
share this weakness with two of my favourite figures from the history
of modern Bengal. Halfway through his American tours, Vivekananda
was heard to remark that compared to Western women, Indian women
appeared only like black owls and Bankimchandra more famously
recommended that Radha-Krishna figurines be made in Europe alone if
these were at all to be counted as objects of art. I realize how ruinous
or politically incorrect it would be to support such statements today and
yet, if the act of judging the delicateness of colour, form or features in
the woman were somehow to be temporarily freed from such measures
of propriety or correctness, my views may not be as partisan as they
seem. Personally, I have always been reluctant to believe that beauty
always lies in the beholders eyes!
* * *
Heidelberg is by and large a University town, small even by German
standards and a good part of the population is indeed made up of students.
The town takes pride in hosting the oldest university in Germany
(c. 1386). That it also has a fairly old castle does not add up to very
much since much of Germany is dotted with cathedrals and castles.
Once, on a journey from Heidelberg to Cologne situated on the Rhine, I
could see one such structure standing on practically every hill-top. And
here, there are also monuments and artefacts that date back to the
early years of the Roman occupation. This, sadly, calls to mind our
collective failure to preserve a far older and richer heritage but worse
still, to thwart the unthinking and utterly insensitive acts of defacing
monuments or structures that have somehow survived the ravages of
time and human neglect. The medieval domes and arches at Lodhi
Gardens in New Delhi bear testimony to just how eager our romancing
couples are to immortalise themselves by etching their names on stone!
Unlike Oxford or Cambridge or even our own Delhi University,
Heidelberg University is not a fraternity of colleges. It has various
faculties or departments spread all across the city. In the latter respect,
M, 1423
My Days in Heidelberg
it resembles Oxbridge and Delhi but its institutions are spatially divided
into broadly two halves, intersected by the river Neckar, a tributary of
the Rhine. The old town generally known as Altstadt comprises the
main administrative offices and some old faculties like those of
Philosophy, Theology or History; the other half of the campus is located
at a place called Neuenheimer Feld (the field at Neuenheim). This area
now has fancy shopping malls and some of the highly valued institutions
connected with academic life at Heidelberg. There is, for instance, the
imposing Mathematikon (Mathematics) building re-built over the last
two years or so and the prestigious Cancer Research Institute, University
hospitals but not least of all, the South Asia Institute itself, the idea
behind which, I gather, was first conceived by Radhakrishnan in the
1960s. Heidelberg can boast of quite a few Nobel Laureates most of
whom belong to the fields of Chemistry and Medicine. Even in the
fields of south Asian history and cultural studies, it has produced eminent,
internationally known scholars like Dietmar Rothermund and Herman
Kulke.
Topographically, the distinguishing features of the town are the
massive hills on either side of a deep gorge carved out by the river
Neckar. These hills visibly change colour through the year, turning barren
and ice-covered during winter, to massive mounds of earth and rock
covered with thick green foliage in summer, to a rusty crimson in the
autumn. What does not change at all is the flow of the river. The Neckar
never came close to freezing even under severe conditions as I had
once watched the Thames do at Oxford. Spring is really the best time
of the year at Heidelberg; I deliberately exclude the summer since going
by personal experiences again, temperatures reached 42 degrees only
last June. The funny side to this of course is that the Germans are still
not thinking of investing in a fan, not to speak of air conditioners. In
spring, Heidelberg is a riot of colours beginning with the magnolias coming
to resplendent bloom in early April followed by fruitless Japanese cherry
trees of which there are many, finally giving away to narcissus, tulips
and button-sized flowers of motely shades that grow abundantly both in
the wild and carefully manicured kitchen gardens. This is a time when
one also meets raucous parrots, very similar to ones back home, happily
chirping away on tree tops that have just begun to grow tender foliage.
Summer also produces fruit laden trees of which there are many in my
M, 1423
99
100
My Days in Heidelberg
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My Days in Heidelberg
M, 1423
101
102
My Days in Heidelberg
with just a blanket and a tin mug placed before him. I have often
wondered what such homeless people do in winter. The more gifted or
enterprising among them take to musical performances,- a pan European
and American phenomena and often, truly entertaining. I once heard an
Indian friend quite cynically remark that the Europeans and Americans
had brought dignity even to the act of begging. I found that remark quite
off the mark. Much of the Western world functions on a Do it yourself
kit and founded as this is on fierce individualism, the act of begging
would not be easily acknowledged, at least not morally.
Not all Germans as I can see are happy over the governments
open border policy, the commitment to the resettlement of refugees and
the falling Euro which especially took a beating during the Greek crisis.
Some of my friends and colleagues at the Institute have complained of
how the ethnic character of German towns was visibly changing and
how shockingly rude some migrants could get. That notwithstanding, I
can reasonably say that the exodus of refugees has not deeply affected
the German economy or made worse the law and order situation in
daily life. Heidelberg itself is a perfectly safe town to travel at any time
of the day or night which, from some personal knowledge again, I would
hesitate to say of either the UK or the USA. For one, there are no
prowlers or chain snatchers on the street even though over week-ends
there is considerable fun-making and drunken revelry in the numerous
pubs that litter the old town. If anything, there are cases of suicide that
are reported occasionally, mostly on railway tracks.
I consider it quite fortunate to have been able to spend reasonably
long lengths of time in both England and Germany: two places that suit
my own intellectual interest best. These were easily the best years of
my life and I will carry fond memories of them until the time memories
fail me. Sadly, I did not have either the inclination or the opportunity of
recording my earlier experiences in England but I am happy to do so
now for the German. Perhaps this is also because there was no Hindol
then!
M, 1423
103
Subhadra Sen Gupta
Delhi
M, 1423
104
sung to him, he whose magic powers, from earth withhold the genial
showers. Every year at the end of summer he gets down from his
celestial throne, takes a few draughts of the intoxicating drink soma and
then rides out on his elephant Airavat to give battle to the demon of
drought Vritra. This cloud dwelling demon is holding back the rains and
so Indra uses his arsenal of vajra thunderbolts and soon, the dying
demon headlong fell, down from his cloud built tower.
Scientists feel that the monsoons began six to eight hundred million
years ago when during the great continental shift of the Deccan plateau
upwards, the Himalayan and the Tibetan plateau were created. It was
a mighty heave that also made the land rise into mountain ranges. When
this landmass heats up it creates a low pressure zone that entices the
winds in the Indian Ocean to race up the Indian subcontinent. These
winds carry the moisture filled clouds creating the monsoons, a creature
of incredible complexity and subtleness.
Its funny how in different countries the imagery of clouds and rain
vary so dramatically. For the English clouds are gloomy, threatening
and a thoroughly depressing sight. In India the monsoons are a joyous
celebration when peacocks dance, poets sing and pretty girls sway on
swings tied to the branches of mango trees. It is a time of beginnings, of
falling in love, the sensual pleasure of getting drenched in a cool shower
and watching your money plant shoot out tendrils like an octopus. Could
there be an Indian anywhere who hates the rains?
I was once wandering around the Mehrangarh Fort in Jodhpur in
the month of August when it began to rain. Around me there were a
crowd of Rajasthani villagers in their neon coloured clothes bright
yellow and pink chunaris, bottle green and indigo turbans and of course
curving moustaches and those gorgeous kohled eyes. It had been the
usual decorous rural group, the women walking sedately, the men trying
to look patriarchal and suddenly as the rain drops fell on them the scene
changed. The women were throwing back their veils and raising their
faces to the sky, the men stood looking up grinning and the children
went berserk, running up and down the courtyard and then they all just
stood there and got drenched. Rajasthan is where you go to see what
the monsoon really means to our people.
We talk of the monsoon, sing to it, write poetry, compose ragas,
paint and create special rainy day menus of khichuri and pakoras. When
M, 1423
The music of the monsoons begins with the birds that we say only
sing in the rainy season. The megha papeeha flock to the trees as the
first shower breaks over the land. Optimistic koels have been calling
sweetly through the summer dawns as if enticing the clouds with the
music of their seductive calls. And then the humans begin to sing with
ragas like Megh and Malhar that can darken the sky with clouds and
the lovelorn lyrics of the thumri, kajari and chaiti.
So considering our ecstatic response to the monsoons you would
think we Indians named it. In fact the word monsoon comes from the
Arab word mausim which means weather. Think of the paradox of
language, where the origin of the word for torrential rains begins in a
barren desert land that does not know the sensual pleasure of a monsoon
downpour. As a matter of fact, every year, rich Arabs flock to Mumbai
during the monsoons to get a flavour of the rains from the windows of
their luxury hotels.
After all it was the Arabs who discovered the monsoon winds. The
Arab seamen in their dhows first spotted the winds that blew into the
land for six months and were perfect for sailing to India and then it blew
in the opposite direction to take them home. It revolutionised trade that
had till then been overland by the Silk Route. Later when Vasco da
Gama opened the sea route from Europe it was the monsoons that blew
his ship into harbour in Kerala. Till then the Arabs had traded with India
peacefully but soon the English, Dutch and French traders followed
with their ships armed with cannons and pushed the Arabs away. The
monsoon brought great prosperity to India but they also brought the
men who conquered and colonised us.
When the hot loo winds blow, we ordinary folks can only dream of
the rains but royalty can presume to create its own showers. In the
desert land of Rajasthan, in the kingdom of Deeg, a maharaja built a
M, 1423
105
106
M, 1423
snowfall in the Himalayas; the depth of the Antarctic ice cap, the easterly
winds over Kolkata and finally the totally puzzling El Nino effect.
What is even more interesting is that we actually get two monsoon
currents. The rain bearing clouds branch into two over the Indian Ocean,
one flowing over the Bay of Bengal to the east and the other over the
Arabian Sea to the west. They curve back over the Indian subcontinent
and when the two arms meet somewhere over Delhi no one is quite
sure which brought the rains, thus creating the usual confusion that we
Indians are so comfortable with.
In summer we look up at the sky so often we all become experts on
clouds. The low, solid mass of the nimbostratus and the thundery
cumulonimbus brings rain but it is the banks of fluffy, cotton wool cumulus
floating casually across the sky after the rains that offer that childhood
pleasure of discovering cloud monsters, castle and faces. The cumulus
covering the sky also means that Durga Puja is near. So wherever you
are travelling, stop snapping selfies on your smart phone and look up
and watch the clouds. As for me, I agree with Neil Diamond when he
sang, It's cloud illusions I recall. I really dont know clouds at all.
The rains permeate our lives, first we are waiting for it and then
complaining when it rains too much and clothes dont dry and the spikes
in the umbrellas break. It also inspires us in so many varied ways.
There is the ittar perfume that captures the incomparable aroma of wet
earth after the first showers that is simply called Mitti, earth. Hunt out
the ittar shop at the end of Dariba Kalan in Old Delhis Chandi Chowk
and the man at the counter will bring down a cut glass bottle from the
shelf and put of spot on your wrist. Take a sniff and the monsoons are
there!
In the Rajasthani style miniature paintings there is a set of twelve
miniatures that depict all the seasons called Baramasa, twelve months.
In the Varsha paintings they show women on swings, white cranes
flying across a dark, cloudy sky, peacocks dancing, musicians singing,
blooming lotuses in a pond and parakeets perched on trees. Everything
speaks of rain without the painting actually showing any rainfall. When
asked how he would paint real raindrops one miniature painter said,
Rain is done like ropes of pearls.
A perfume, crooked smiling lightning, lotus petal clouds and pearl
raindrops, for us that is the magic of monsoons.
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Sagarika Gupta
Delhi
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Kritika Kirty
Delhi
Fragments of Allahabad
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Fragments of Allahabad
sail, and then, the fear abating and me joyously trailing a hand through
the water, sparkling with the promise of redemption. The early morning
chants of sadhus who bring out the cynic in me now were merely colorful
and musical backgrounds then. They were the backdrop to something
far more profound and intangible. It is surprising how rarely I come
across that feeling now. Hot jalebis accompanied by a side of delectable
cool dahi remains another fond memory.
But most of all I remember the silent, enigmatic presence of my
grandfather. My grandmother was gregarious and used to mercilessly
tease me till I dissolved into tears. But my grandfather was a mystery.
Never talking more than was required; he used to perpetually lounge in
his rocking chair, reading. I dont ever remember seeing him without a
book. If atavism can be regarded as not just a physical throwback but
actually a personality throwback as well, then, I would have to
acknowledge that despite never having spoken to him I have always
felt a strange sense of affinity with Dadu. His retreat into the make
believe world, his complete disregard for social dos, his reticence seem all too familiar. When I read out my first poem to him he had said
"Mondo noi" meaning "not bad" high praise from him considering his
personal vocabulary never had the word good in it. I guess he believed
things could always be perfected, made better than they were. We
found a diary after his death. In that he talked about his visit to China.
My dad was taken aback; no one seems to have known about that trip.
We still dont know if it actually happened or was the beginning of a
work of fiction.
I feel a little at a loose end now. Through space and time I lean
back across the years and ruffle the hair of an eight year old kid who
cribs about the heat and swats away the mosquitos. I look into her eyes
and tell her to take it slow. I tell her to explore this rambling old house
and to feel its stories in her bones. I tell her to hold on to these days
because she does not realize it yet but they are truly golden. I tell her to
breathe in the warm air perfumed with jasmine. I tell her to run her
fingers through the yellowing pages of a hundred year old book. She
will reluctantly do all of this. And then one day she will sit down to write
about it and not be able to capture any of it. She will simply try to fill up
a blank screen with words that try to encompass the memories of a
childhood - and fail.
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Smita Chaudhuri
Kolkata
When writing about travel, it is usual to dwell on the places one has
visited. I would like to pen my experience of the rail travel during my
childhood and youth. Since both my father and husband were officials
in the Indian Railways, my experience is limited to travelling by first
class or in official carriages more commonly known as saloons. These
entitlements went with the job and covered the families as well.
Rail travel in my childhood was a pleasure. Trains were on time
and the platforms were clean and well maintained. Many of the wayside
ones, especially on the Oudh Tirhut Railway, even had small gardens!
Train journeys were usually overnight ones. I remember the one from
Lahore to Calcutta took thirty six hours. The one from Rawalpindi to
Bengal was even longer. We always travelled with a fair amount of
luggage as did most people those days. The minimum was a hold-all
containing the bedding - a duree, a light mattress, bed sheets, pillows
and blankets if it was winter, a few suitcases, a tiffin carrier and
sometimes even a surahi in a wooden stand.
At every station there were coolies dressed in a white dhoti, red
shirt and a long piece of cloth rolled like a turban around their heads.
Each coolie had an oval brass plate tied to his upper arm. This had his
license number and the name of the railway, like ER for Eastern Railways
engraved on it. A coolie slung the hold-all over his left arm, holding on to
the suitcase with one hand and carried the tiffin carrier in his other
hand. The charge per coolie if my memory serves me correctly in
the late forties was four annas.
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The coaches were made of wood, except for the Assam Mail and
the Darjeeling Mail. The doors were made of solid wood with latches
both at the top and bottom. I do not remember any corridor coaches like
you see in the Rajdhani Express today. Individual compartments four
berthers or a centre one with two berths was the norm.
A four berther had two lower and two upper berths usually aligned
along the track. The upper berths were hooked up to the wall during the
day. At night these were let down, held by stout iron chains suspended
from the ceiling of the compartment. The lower berths had backrests
that were let down at night converting the berth into a bed. There would
be a hand rest at the foot of the berth which was also used as a foothold
to climb up to the upper berth.
Between the two lower berths would be a small folding table above
which was fixed a mirror with hooks on either side. These were used to
hang hats and coats. Apart from lights, night lights and fans fixed to the
ceiling, each lower berth had a reading light and a metal glass holder
fixed to the wall of the compartment.
A centre cubicle had a lower and an upper berth aligned horizontally
to the track. There was usually an armchair at the foot of the lower
berth too. All the berths, armchairs and even the chains holding the
upper berths to the ceiling were upholstered in coloured leather and
embossed with the initials of the particular railway. For the North Western
Railway, the colour was red and a deep green for the Eastern Railway.
The mirrors were also similarly embossed.
The windows had no bars but three sets of sashes which could be
hitched up and let down singly or all together. Each sash was a wooden
frame holding a panel of glass, fire iron mesh or wooden slats. The
glass kept out the dust but not the sun. The iron mesh kept out insects
and the glare, but not the dust while the wooden slats kept out only the
sun. It was drilled into us children never to keep our hands on the window
sill in a moving train as a sudden jerk could bring one or more of the
sashes crashing down. We were also instructed never to look out towards
the engine in a moving train. This was to prevent the coal dust from the
engine smoke getting into our eyes.
All first class compartments had their own well fitted bathrooms.
At every junction station, railway sweepers would come in to clean the
compartment and the bathrooms. The coupling holding the bogies were
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checked at the junction stations too and the call coupling cuss was a
familiar round which we would repeat with happy smiles on our faces.
First class passengers were indeed privileged as they were allowed
free travel for at least one servant. For railway officials it was two.
Each first class bogie had a servants compartment at one end.
In Northern India, the railway catering service was run by Kellners.
Their men appeared at stations well before meal times to take down
orders from the passengers. The message would be telegraphed to the
station where the train would reach for lunch or dinner as the case
might be. Piping hot meals on well laid out trays were served by
impeccably dressed bearers. The company even took special orders
for children. I still remember the delicious soups, chicken, pish-pash (an
Anglo-Indian dish we even made at home) and caramel custard puddings
that were served for lunch and dinner.
Some prestigious trains had a dining car attached. This was a long
coach with a row of small tables and chairs along each side with a
narrow aisle in between and a kitchen at the end. Each table was laid
out for four people with snow-white linen, shining crockery and cutlery,
careful to the last detail to include salt and pepper cellars. Safety must
have been excellent to allow passengers to go to the dining car for
meals. I do not remember if the servant was summoned to look after
our luggage while we were in the dining car. Tempting puris, aloo subzis
and sweets of various kinds were sold by hawkers on the platforms but
unfortunately Ma never allowed us to taste them.
Railway officials touring on duty were allowed saloons. Families
could also travel in them. I remember we once had some cousins also
traveling with us. These saloon cars were either four wheelers or eight
wheelers. A four wheeler had a living room with a table, some chairs
and a folding bed which hung along the wall during the day. A door from
one end of the living room led to a narrow passage which had a bathroom
on one side, and opened into a small kitchen at the other end. The
kitchen had a chulah lined with iron sheets and a chimney, which
opened out into the roof of the carriage. Opposite the chulah was a
wooden bunk for the peon who accompanied the officer on the tour. A
Line box was issued when going out on tour and had all the necessary
crockery, cutlery and cooking utensils that would be used for the comfort
of the officer spending his days in this home away from home. Dry
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rations were carried from home and fresh vegetables, milk eggs and
other such products were purchased from markets near the station.
The fuel used was cinder and hot water in winter which was fetched
from the steam engine.
Eight wheeler saloons came in various sizes. The smallest had a
living room, a bedroom, a bathroom and a kitchen. Some also had a
small room for the stenographer. You must remember that the officers
had to work every day although the families were relaxed, enjoying the
holiday. Quite a few of the saloons had a long glass panel fitted
horizontally across the back wall of the living room. This was known as
the Trailing Window and allowed inspection of the track over which
the train had just passed when the saloon was attached to the rear of
the train. One particular scene is etched in my memory. We had gone to
Jogindernagar from Pathankot on the Kangra Valley Railway- incidentally
one of the most scenic rail-roads I have ever seen. We reached
Jogindernagar on the day of Kojagari Purnima. The night was clear
and the entire Dhauladhar Range bathed in gorgeous moonlight was
visible from the Trailing Window. Even after fifty years I only have to
close my eyes for the entire scene to re-appear before me.
The larger saloons had a living room in the centre with a door at the
end leading to the stenographers room and the kitchen. Another door
at the other end led to a narrow corridor into which opened two or three
bedrooms and a bathroom at the rear. These saloons had their own
crockery, cutlery etc. with a saloon bearer in charge. Attachment of
saloons to trains also followed a hierarchical order. The four wheeler
saloons of junior officers were usually attached to parcel trains or slow
passenger trains. As one went higher up, the saloons were attached to
faster trains. But attachment of saloons to prestigious mail trains was
only for heads of departments and above. I believe the Maharaja of
Patiala still has a well-maintained saloon and you can take a look at the
one that is on display at the Rail Museum in Delhi. If you have seen the
Agatha Christie movie Murder on the Orient Express, you will know
what I mean by the luxury of first class travel and its well-appointed
dining car.
Travelling in a saloon was not an unmixed blessing especially for
junior officers. A four wheeler attached next to the engine or at the rear
of the train shook so much that it was jokingly referred to as a filly
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box! Moreover, a saloon was the only place of residence for a railway
official when inspecting a station. Sleeping in a saloon which had stood
the whole day under a blazing summer sun was certainly not an amiable
experience.
The advent of corridor coaches with barred windows probably
increased the safety of rail travel but the toilets were a casualty. Airconditioned two and three tier coaches have no doubt made journeys
comfortable, safe and dust free. Indeed rail travel has become affordable
for a great majority of our people, but my heart still yearns for the days
when travelling in a coupe, one had complete privacy. You neither had
to queue up for filthy toilets nor lug the luggage through crowded corridors
when boarding or getting off a train with minutes to spare.
Well those were the days and they have certainly ended.
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Nilanjana Mukherjee
Gurgaon
A swirling meringue sea spreads beneath us, the rising sun below
making the clouds radiant. Dark jagged rocks pierce the fluff and rise
to dwarf the clouds, swathes of pristine snow outlining their crevices.
Dawn is breaking over the pinnacle of Africa Kilimanjaro!
I watch spellbound as our Rwanda Air plane carries us across
Tanzania, passing the 18,500 feet tall and the highest African peak to
our right, and then over the sea-like expanse of Lake Victoria, into
Kigali, the capital of Rwanda. Kigali is beautifully laid out over several
rolling hills and is sparklingly clean and green. Unlike in cities in many
African countries, even late in the evening men and women were out
shopping, walking and jogging on tree-lined sidewalks of Kigali or in
driving on its wide, brightly lit streets free of traffic congestion. The
landlocked little country of 11 million people was made infamous by the
tribal warfare and genocide of 1994 that butchered more than a tenth of
its population and razed everything to the ground. But Rwanda has put
its strife-torn history to rest and made amazing progress under the
continuing leadership of President Paul Kagame. In recognition of
Rwandas remarkable development achievements, the country was
hosting the third all-Africa sanitation conference AfricaSan 3 in July
2011 the purpose of my travel.
* * *
Not all who chased the giraffe, caught it.
But the one that did, did chase it
..... African proverb.
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at night and get under water as soon as the sun comes up.
Yellow green grasslands spread as far as eyes can see, broken by
clumps of trees and hills on the horizon. Lilac-breasted rollers are chirping
on the acacia branches. Deep blue-green kingfishers dart about. On
the ground there are clucking herds of guinea fowl and Kori bustards.
Even the few crows we see look different, with white collars around
black necks. Male ostriches with bright pink colouring indicating their
prowess as mates, are strolling about with a collection of females. Zebras
look up from their grazing to stare at us. Two zebras chase each other
playfully and stop for a moment face-to-face as if kissing, and give me
a memorable snapshot. Large herds of golden impalas and Thomsons
gazelles seem to light up the greenery they are feeding on, as their
silken bodies reflect the early morning sun. They start as the car changes
gear, and fifty pairs of doe eyes turn their wide-eyed gaze our way.
We have reached the gates of the chimpanzee sanctuary started by
Jane Goodall.
* * *
A guide leads us through the dense forest which is now the chimps
protected habitat. A chimp mother is suckling her baby under a shady
bush, and simultaneously picking out lice from its fur. A male, presumably
her mate, lies on his back by her side, one foreleg (or forearm?) scratching
the opposite underarm. A young chimp swings from a low branch over
the river kicking up a splash, gibbering happily. The sight of chimpanzees
playing, eating, resting peacefully mask the harsh truths. Chimps rescued
from poachers and animal traders are brought to this sanctuary within
the game reserve, and helped to recover and re-learn how to survive in
the wild. Only one out of every four rescued animals survives, so
traumatic is their experience in the hands of man. Wood planks on trees
bear stark messages Humans are our greatest threat
through logging and the bush-meat trade
Our parents were killed for meat.
If you kill our trees, you kill us
We are your closest relatives
so like you, highly intelligent
We are refugees from a war against forests.
Please stop the war!
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The sun is low in the sky as we walk through the bush with Korok
and Meshakh in their bright red Maasai garb. They carry decoratively
handled daggers and double edged spears. They believe that the red
colour confuses lions. They teach us to identify differences in the tracks
and dung of antelopes, buffaloes and rhinos, and how the acacia fruit
hosts ant colonies to avoid being eaten by animals. They sing Maasai
songs as we walk and show us how to throw their heavy spears which
I can barely handle. Back at the camp we watch the orange sun sink
behind the water hole. Gazelles, elands, baboons and zebras float in
and out of the scene in the red-orange afterglow. A lioness brings her
cubs to drink. As the light fades, a black rhino drops in, a dark shadow
blending into the foliage. With four other camp guests we sit around a
bonfire with sundowners in hand, under a brilliantly starry night. All the
familiar constellations seem to be in the wrong places in the southern
hemisphere sky and the Milky Way flows clear and wide across the
inky velvet.
The end to a perfect day, in the lap of the ultimate perfection called
nature.
Maasai Mara and Lion Camp, July 30-August 3.
the wind lies asleep in the arms of the dawn,
like a child that has cried all night1.
A rainstorm has raged all night. The dawn breaks with clear coralstreaked skies. As the impalas stir and birds take to the sky, we wend
our way back through the fresh green stillness to the Nanyuki airstrip.
People wait at the little coffee stall as tiny 10-seater planes land from
time to time. Waiting passengers go up to the plane and ask the pilot
where he is headed next. Once you hear the right name of the destination,
you have to throw your bag in and climb on board. We find the plane
going to Ol Kiombo airstrip in Maasai Mara national park and take off
for the hour long flight.
As we cross over hills, farmlands and forests, the topography
gradually changes to dry, yellow highland savannah, broken by sparse
lines of greenery marking streams and rivers. Scattered circular human
settlements are visible, with huts along the fenced circumference and
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an inner ring fence which we later learn as built for the cattle. These
are Maasai settlements called enkangs. We are approaching the first
airstrip Serena Springs when someone calls out excitedly there they
are the wildebeests running! and videocams began to whirr...
On the golden landscape several long undulating black lines are
converging at a spot and joining together to become one thick moving
black swathe. The migrating wildebeests! The lines pulse with
movement, raising dust clouds. Thousands of animals are flowing forward
like a black cloud rolling over the grassland, crossing a stream and
spreading out on the greener pasture across the stream. We descend
into their midst in Maasai land - where humans and animals share the
boundless wilderness. We are welcomed by an acre of gnus and zebras
on the side of the airstrip near the Talek river.
Two tall, ebony-hued Maasai men in their bright red knee-length
wraps and beaded jewellery around necks, waists and arms, come
forward with welcoming smiles and Jambo, bwana ! They introduce
themselves as Jackson and Jared, which is so incongruous with their
appearance that I cant help asking for their real names. Jackson is
actually Linguis Saiyalel, named after a famous Maasai warrior. Jared
is Koshal Saiyalel. His name means the rainy season, which is the
season of plenty in the local calendar. Both stay with us as our guides,
drivers and delightful companions through the four nights and days we
spend at the Porini Lion camp, deep within the Olare Orok conservancy
in the vast Mara plains.
Local Maasai communities own the land in Maasai Mara. Since
the early 1990s, they have begun to set aside these vast Conservancies
as protected reserves for wildlife and receive rental incomes from tourism
activities, as well as employment as game rangers, trackers and camp
staff. In return the communities honour partnership agreements with
the government and eco-tourism agencies to not hunt or harass wildlife
or cut trees, nor construct or occupy land for dwelling inside
conservancies. This has resulted in wildlife numbers significantly growing
in these regions over the past two decades. The Porini and other similar
tented camps within Kenyan conservancies have no permanent
construction, no fences to separate wildlife from the camps, and adhere
to sustainable water, land, energy and waste management policies.
Maasai warriors guide guests safely around their land, sharing with
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way to its chest, a shock of brush like hair outlining its spine from the
head halfway down the back like an apology of a mane, a slight
humpback, forelegs longer than hind legs and a resultant ungainly gait.
At South Africas Kruger national park our guide had told us that when
God finished with creation He had various animal body parts leftover
and threw them together to make the wildebeest or the Gnu !
Linguis is hopeful that there might be a river crossing today. The
animals have gathered in thousands on the riverbank. But they are still
milling about, grazing peacefully. There is no movement towards the
river. We wait a while. Then Linguis drives us away to a hippo pool and
sets up our breakfast on a high bank, overlooking the dozens of snouts
visible on the muddy water surface. Toast, bacon and sausages, fruit,
pancakes with honey and steaming mugs of freshly brewed coffee to
the accompaniment of hippos honking, snorting noisily and bobbing up
to lunge at each other..........Never thought of that combination before
it works brilliantly !
A cheetah is enjoying his morning kill of a baby gazelle. Sitting
bathed in morning light, he chews every bone and sinew, licking the
carcass almost clean. The vulture waiting patiently on a nearby tree
stares longingly and flies in to clean up when the cheetah ambles off,
content. We spot a distant swirling mass of vultures and drive in their
direction to find another kill, a wildebeest killed the night before probably
by a lion, and left half-eaten. A gang of spotted hyenas are devouring it
and sniggering noisily at vultures who have also laid claim to the carcass.
Vultures crowd around it from one end.... hyenas charge them snarling
and they hop back momentarily, only to advance again as soon as the
hyenas turns their back to feed. The competition continues. The grazers
are eaten by predators; the predators die, rot and turn to dust, feeding
the producers, viz. the grass and plants. The grazers feed on and fertilize
the producers and the cycle goes on.
Where we are parked, the Mara river is a swathe of brown water
about thirty meters wide, and we are informed, up to eight meters deep.
There is a stench in the air. Some bloated wildebeest carcasses are
visible caught between tree roots along the bank. Vultures crowd the
termite hills overlooking the river where Marabou storks are pacing.
On the opposite bank we spot a tangle of hippos sprawled placidly upon
each other and looking like glistening rocks. Motionless crocodiles, their
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colour blending them completely into the muddy, sun-dappled bank, wait
silently, as we do, for the most spectacular of African wildlife shows to
begin any moment. The wildebeest migration! Their numbers have
swollen further since we saw them at dawn. More keep drifting into the
riverside congregation as we watch, much like a dam with pressure
building to breaking point. Sooner or later the wall has to breach
somewhere. Linguis manoeuvres the car to a high spot on the riverbank
to give us ringside seats, with the sun behind us and we wait, with
baited breath. We are rewarded, almost half an hour later.
At a point close to the water within the grey-black sea of wildebeest
a sudden explosion of movement begins a stampede towards the river.
Propelled by instincts that well never understand, they rush almost
blindly forward, falling over each other. Soon dust clouds obscure the
bank from which they are rushing in and the water turns into a frothing
mass of jostling black bodies broken here and there by black and white
stripes of zebras. They jump, fall, wade, swim, struggle against the
current, some drown and get washed away. Waiting crocodiles swiftly
remove what bodies they can from the oncoming flood of food. Hippos,
normally aggressive with intruders into their territory, move rapidly away
from the crossing point. Several vehicles have gathered on our side of
the river and each one has cameras focused on the spectacle. It just
goes on and on. From distant points in the west and southern parts of
the horizon long lines of wildebeest have formed automatically and all
lines are running full pelt at the crossing point of the day. How do they
know! What lines of communication inform them ?
Over nearly fifteen minutes the waves of animals keep coming till
the plains beyond the river are emptied of wildebeests. Tens of thousands
of them spread out over greener grasslands on our side of the river,
swarming all around us. Everyone is silent, listening in wonder to the
wind speaking to the rippling waves of grass and the grunting Gnus. In
another weeks time theyll consume the new growth and move further
north. By that time, if it rains on the Mara, new grass will grow to host
the next wave of animals coming in from Serengeti national park, south
of Maasai Mara. After the long rains end in Serengeti every May, the
grass does not regenerate and by July millions of wildebeest begin the
trek north, chasing storms and evading predators, to their dry season
refuge in the cool highlands of Maasai Mara where the grass is still
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green. After the rains return to the region in October, they reverse
directions and migrate south to Serengeti again every year.
* * *
Our principal mission for the Maasai Mara trip has just been
accomplished! Happy and hungry, we let Linguis, Koshal and another
Porini camp vehicle find a shady tree in the savannah to lay out our
picnic lunch. Theyve even brought hand sanitizers, bless them!
Dark storm clouds are gathering on the northern horizon, offering
brilliant contrast to the sunlit yellow grasslands alive with large Elands
and Topi antelopes. We start driving back to the camp. A lone tree in
the middle of the grassy landscape offers a bit of shade from the hot
afternoon sun, and sure enough, it is well occupied. Linguis takes us
closer. Resting their heads on fallen logs are the lion king, his lionesses
and cubs. The big cats are fast asleep but the cubs are awake, suckling
and playing. One of them picks up his mothers thick, heavy tail in his
mouth and lays it straight on the ground. Then he watches it intently and
smacks it with his paw every time it twitches. The lioness raises her
head and gives him a warning growl and falls back to sleep. The cub
yawns and flops on the ground, burrowing under her belly to find her
nipples, where his siblings are already latched on.
At sunset time clouds begin rolling in, but miraculously, leave a
narrow swathe of sky clear near the western horizon. Before the setting
sun emerges from the dark clouds hanging above, it turns the slice of
sky below a bright vermillion as if the entire western periphery of
Mara is aflame. Then, as the red globe slips out of the clouds and
begins to sink behind the ridge facing us, wildebeest profiles emerge as
perfectly etched silhouettes around the trunk and spreading branches
of acacia against the orange sky the quintessential African picture
postcard.
Caught in the floodlight of our night game drive are shy, dark-loving,
night-grazing hippos they run back into the darkness as fast as they
can. We come upon vast fields of sleeping wildebeests and antelopes,
but busy nocturnal animals like spring hares that look and move like
miniature kangaroos, and white-tailed mongoose. We do not see a lion
hunting and killing I am not sure I want to.
Early next morning right outside our tent is an exquisite miniature
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On the way back to the camp we come across giraffe park in the
Jurassic Park style. High on a ridge, lined up against the sky is a row of
very long legs and necks moving in unison. They tower over the acacia
thickets they are feeding on. The Maasai giraffes are taller and darker
than their reticulated cousins we saw in Ol Pejeta. They seem quite
unafraid of vehicles and stop to peer at us long and hard. Todays sunset
silhouettes are entwined giraffe necks and families of (Hakuna
Matata !) warthogs. Meanwhile, slithering on a tree trunk, bathed in
the setting suns rays, is a pair of black necked spitting cobras, leisurely
mating.
We are nearing the end of our stay in the wild wonderland. The last
bonfire of our trip is lit and last sundowner toasts raised to the Lion
Camp and its neighbours in Maasai Mara.
We reach the Ol Kiombo air strip for our return flight we find that
the wildebeest and zebras have invaded the runway. A safari vehicle
chases them to clear space for the plane to land. Our plane is late. No
one seems to know when it might arrive. Koshal asks the pilot of a
plane on its way to Mombasa and he agrees to take us to Nairobi, on his
way. We bid fond good-byes to Linguis and Koshal, wishing their families
and daughters Nashipai (happiness bringer) and Nadania (the proud
one) well. Both young men have promised not to marry a second time.
We wing our long way back home to the urban jungle. Maasai land
has carved an indelible niche in my heart, and comes with me. Every
now and then, as the sun goes down, I still cant help returning to the
Mara.....
The shadows of the acacia trees are lengthening across the golden
savannah. Lions are waking up. The leopard has left its hideout in the
thicket and the hyenas are creeping out of their holes. A breath of wind
comes singing through the grass. It crosses the endless open plains,
turning chilly upon my skin as the sun sinks low. Vultures and eagles
drop out of the sky to settle on the tops of Ol Kinyei trees. Wildebeest
go grunting and grazing into the sunset where the grass meets the
vermillion sky.......
May nothing ever change you, Maasai land.
For pictures see inside covers
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here. They worked very hard to keep her Indian identity alive, and
in the process, fragmented the only world she knew.
What about India?
In India I am a foreigner. I dont like to go to India. But here,
in the US, I have been made to feel like a foreigner too. My parents
came here to build their careers. Only their careers. Never to
understand the country they chose to come to. They didnt care
about all that. They cared about anthropology. About economics.
Those were easier. There was no emotional investment necessary.
To understand and care about America was more difficult. It
required courage. A stepping out. They took the cowards way
out, hiding behind their old identities. They exiled themselves and
they exiled me.
What did they actually do so that you felt this way? I probed.
I was never allowed to have too many friends, certainly never
a boyfriend. I had to deflect any attention I got from boys in school.
Everyone at school thought I was weird.
Did you try to talk to your parents?
Of course. But they were not interested in how I felt.
I dont remember her name anymore. Its been thirty years.
But the memory of the conversation remain. Sitting in the Bronx,
in another setting, I wonder about us South Asians. Are we that
different? The educated and the not-so-educated? Ali is afraid of
his children turning American. The economics professor was also
afraid of letting his daughter loose. Of losing her to America.
Suddenly I am grateful my experience was different. My father
and even my mother, who was more traditional, understood that
you dont lose anyone to a country. You gain a country. And you
are enriched by it. America confused them too. But they had the
courage, in the end, to let America in.
* * *
I decided to help Ali and his friends with their project. I wrote
out a proposal and met with the superintendent. He promised to
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ISSN 0976-0989