Alley of Dreams

Art in the Flights of Fantasy

2012-01-24T15:11:00.005+05:30

Travelling has always been a passion for me.

As a child, I used to love clutching on to the handle bar of my Dad’s scooter looking around at the everyday life of Trivandrum, a verdant city in the southern tip of the Indian peninsula. As I grew up, the distances of my travels increased and Great Indian Railway trains became the mode of travel.

Train journeys every vacation from Delhi to Kerala and back became an integral part of my life. These journeys which often lasted more than 54 hours were a test of patience, if not for my friends travelling on the same route or other fellow travellers who always made these journeys interesting and worth remembering.

As I metamorphosed into a professional from a college student, I almost stopped travelling by train, mainly owing to the fact that half of the holidays get spent in the train and I end up spending lesser time at my destination. That’s when Aeroplanes came to my rescue. The number of flights that I’ve been taking in the recent years can easily qualify me to all the frequent flyer memberships, but what use can collection of virtual numbers ‘reward’.

During our childhood days, whenever we used to take a flight, my brother and I would fight for the window seat. Eventually our parents found the magic solution for avoiding this combat- always ask for 2 window seats. Peace of mind while in the air was important to them too. Even now, I find myself rushing to the check in counters early with the hope that the attendant will ask me sheepishly “Would you like a window seat or an aisle, sir?” The answer to which goes unsaid.....

But many a times I find myself a victim of the ‘oh-so-tech-savvy-crowd’ who’d web check in or self check in into all the available window seats even before I could reach the counters at the crowded Delhi Airport. It is during those flights that I tend to get lost in thoughts, splashing through a kaleidoscope of memories. Sometimes I tend to document these intangible thoughts into sketches.

There is no better medium than a tissue napkin or a paper cup to doodle around aimlessly. The only tough part is parting it when the cabin attendents come over for cabin clearance. I guess it is the ephemeral nature of their existence that makes them so beautiful for me. So many of those impromptu sketches have disappeared, but of late I’ve started clicking them before I drop them into the waste bag.

Flying amongst the clouds gives me a rush of adrenalin. It fills my heart with a sense of joy and peace. No cellphones to ring. No calls to take. Completely detached from the worldly entanglements....it’s just me and my thoughts. Truly, taking a flight is therapeutic for me. It gives me time to think, to search for the loop holes in my life, ponder over dreams, visualise the moments I want to-the way I want to....Flights for me are times of Fantasy.

The Years shall run like rabbits.....

2011-10-25T03:21:00.001+05:30

Today I turn 30 !!!

Well...the dreaded 30 as I had always imagined it. As a kid, 30 year olds seemed like uncles and aunts to me. I somehow couldn’t really imagine myself in their shoes. Even the Fairytale Princesses and Princes never turned 30! They only ‘lived happily ever after’.

Never thought one day I’ll also turn 30.

And when I turned 20, I did realise that sooner or later (well, a decade later to be precise) I’d turn 30. But then 10 years was a long time to go and so why bother was my instant stand, every time this uneasy thought cropped into my mind.

And now that I’ve actually turned 30, I am compelled to ask myself over and over again about how I really feel about it.

The only thing that I can remember right now is a particular scene from the movie ‘Before Sunrise’, in which the character played by Ethan Hawke recites the verses from a poem ‘As I Walked Out One Evening’ by W.H.Auden. As he says those verses in the backdrop of a European Town Square with his beloved by his side, I was mesmerised...

“The years shall run like rabbits,

For in my arms I hold

The Flower of the Ages,

And the first love of the world.'

But all the clocks in the city

Began to whirr and chime:

'O let not Time deceive you,

You cannot conquer Time.”

And today when I am already there, I don’t really feel sad...no dread...not even an iota of fear...Because I know that life is designed to be like that. I do remember my parents in their thirties and now that I am thirty, I only feel that it is as natural and normal as it can be.

May be it’s all these past years which have given me the maturity to understand this, or maybe I am still in a self-denial mode. Well well, no....I choose to believe the former. Turning thirty wasn’t difficult and definitely my life did not end at the strike of the midnight clock, as I would have imagined it to be when I was younger. On the other hand, Shalini and I are really looking forward for the days to come, when our lives will change....change for the better.

As each day passes by, I realise the importance of ‘living’ and not just ‘existing’. Each day gives way to a new day ....and in the end as Abraham Lincoln (1809 - 1865) had once said; it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years.

Thus spake the Butterfly....

2010-11-20T04:09:00.004+05:30

Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you.

~Nathaniel Hawthorne

It came to Shalini while we were strolling on the white sands of Coral Island in the Pacific. The powdery white sand, the azure blue waters, the cool breeze and the sound of the rolling waves on the coral reef were enough to transcend one to a dream world. Her pursuit of finding the most beautiful shells to carry home as memorabilia led her to one of the simplest yet beautiful creations of God-the Butterfly shell. (Scientific name: Donax variabilis, Common name: Coquina)

She ran to show us the shell, while we stood around it admiring its beauty, I couldn’t but notice the similarity it had with the butterfly.Holding it against the backdrop of the Pacific Ocean, I wished if it could speak to me.

If it could speak to me, may be it would have spake thus…

"Just living is not enough," said the butterfly,

"one must have sunshine, freedom and a little flower."
~Hans Christian Anderson

I do not know whether I was then a man

dreaming I was a butterfly,

or whether I am now a butterfly

dreaming I am a man.

~Chuang Tzu

Bidding Bye by the Bay.....

2010-09-12T03:45:00.066+05:30

Gajanana , the Elephant headed God ,

Vighneshwara, the slayer of obstacles,

Ganapati, The chief of the ‘Ganas’

Kshipraprasadi, The instant bestower of wishes

Known by a thousand names as is the case with all other Hindu Gods, Ganapati, is one of the most playful Gods in Indian Mythology. Vinayaka Chaturthi or simply the Ganesh Utsav in local parlance, is celebrated every year towards the end of the Monsoons in reverence to Lord Ganesha when the idol of the God is installed in either the household or in the locality in decorated Pandals (Pavilions), worshiped by the devotees and finally the statue is taken through the streets in a procession accompanied with dancing, singing, and cheering to be immersed in a waterbody symbolizing a ritual see-off to the Lord in his journey towards his abode in Mount Kailash while taking away with him all the misfortunes of his devotees. This act of immersion, also known as ‘Visarjan’ marks the end of the Festivities.

Hailing from the southern coasts of Malabar, I’ve never been a part of the Ganesha Festival since the cradle of this festival is the Konkan coast, mainly Maharashtra and the neighbouring states. The city of Mumbai pulsates with vibrant energy during the Ganesha Utsav.

Last year, I got an invitation from a dear friend who lives by the sea to join him for the Ganesha Utsav at his native place, a quaint old seaside hamlet in North Goa. Having known Amay since my college days, I didn’t think twice before embarking on this journey. Interestingly, his name itself means Lord Ganesha in Sanskrit.

Touching down at Goa on a monsoon afternoon, I left to his native place, riding pillion on his scooter, travelling through the fresh green paddy fields wafting in the wind like a silk scarf pegged loosely in front of a table fan, white washed church spires jostling for space among towering coconut palms, temples hidden like precious gems wrapped in the vines of the sacred groves, sloping winding roads running up and down the tropical forest covered laterite hillocks. The birds and the breeze hinted the presence of the sea even though the roads discreetly kept us away from the seashore.

The village of Chapora, is as interesting as its name might suggest. The towering ruins of the Fort guard the village from atop a rocky promontory jutting into the sea, the Chapora River meets the sea at the foot of this hillock. But before it meets the sea, the river spreads out to form the Chapora estuary embracing the land almost like a parting gesture to their eternal friendship. The waters of the river then mix up seamlessly into the sea. On the bow shaped banks of this estuary lies the fishing hamlet of Chapora. Truly, a setting befitting a fairytale.

The tiled roofed cottage where I stayed with its lovely rain drenched garden overlooked the estuary and the sea beyond. The setting sun used to peep in through the Balcao-verandah into the house before taking a dip into the molten gold of the sea water.

The Ganesha Idol of the family was kept in a decorated pandal at their ancestral home with its red-oxide flooring and laterite walls. The Idol was decorated with fresh flowers, festoons, fruits and other offerings. The pujas and the aartis were sacred moments when the air gets filled with the fragrance of camphor, incense sticks, flowers and rose water.

All the members of the family got together to perform the daily puja rites and ate their meals together. The leaf platter was filled with heaps of rice and curries cooked in coconut based gravies and flavoured with the choicest of spices. The food was lovingly served in copious servings and saying ‘enough, I don’t want more’ was considered almost a taboo. The taste of the carefully cooked dishes still linger at the tip of my tongue as I punch in these words , a year later.

The highlight of the trip was a ride through the various villages of Goa with Anup and Amay on a 'Ganesha-spotting-spree’.

The pandals were put up in various places and decorated specially for the festival, using decorative items like flower garlands, lights, etc. Some were theme based decorations, depicting a mythological story or religious themes or a current event.

An eco-friendly Ganesha made out of ‘willowing-pans’ used to willow the chaff from the rice. These are locally made out of dried palm leaves.

An angry Ganesha cursing the moon, a tale from the mythology.

A Ganesha made out of spices, cereals and grains. Indeed, edible.

A Mythological diorama replete with the Kailash mountain and the river Ganges. Another story is being played out with moving statues of the Gods, while the localites walk through them and pose for snaps.

The evening of immersion was a moving experience as I watched people from neighbouring villages bringing the Ganeshas idols from their households in a procession one after the other with cheers of “Ganapati Bappa Morya….Mangal Murti Morya…Pudhachya Varshi Laukar ya" (Hail Lord Ganapati, Come again soon Next year). Groups of devotees carrying their Ganesh Idols walked down the winding roads from their respective villages all the way to the bay where they would immerse the idol.

One by one the processions from the neighbouring villages proceeded towards the bay, the idols of Chapora were also carried out with loud cheers and fireworks, lighting up the atmosphere with an electric frenzy. And then, as if it was pre-decided by the Gods, it started to drizzle…..the drizzle soon grew into a rain. Despite the pouring water, the idols were carried to the bay with all the people following it with chants and cheers hailing the Lord Ganesha. Fireworks competed with the thunder and lightning vying for attention. So infectious was the religious fervour that the shyest person would also get enraptured by this triumphant display of energy. Initially I was shy to shout out the cheers , but as I walked along in the rain with fireworks and Ganesha Idols all around, I found myself getting soaked in this electric frenzy. Soon I too joined the cheering group as we walked past the paved road, entering the wet beach, walking past the mud flats into the water. We paused there, the fireworks and the chants reaching a crescendo.

A few men carried the Idol walking into the waist deep water unfazed by the gushing rains, the waves, the slushy, slippery ground. My friend too joined them. The idol was finally immersed, alongwith the misfortunes of the year gone by. The crowd shouted loud hails of praises inviting the God to visit the village and bless all the coming year too. As we stood there, content and emotionally cleansed, Anshu, the little boy with a twinkle in his eye tugged at my arm diverting my attention from the statues settling gently into the water. He wasn’t sad to see the giant elephant head disappear beneath the waves since he probably knew that Lord Ganesh had not really left him.

“Ganapati Bappa Morya….Mangal Murti Morya…Pudhachya Varshi Laukar ya" he shouted out smiling triumphantly, almost as if to remind me that Lord Ganesh would return year after year, unfailingly to his small hamlet, to play with him.

Memoirs of a Rainy Rendezvous.....

2010-07-17T02:45:00.010+05:30

To find someone who will love you for no reason, and to shower that person with reasons, that is the ultimate happiness.

~Robert Brault

And when that ‘special someone’ urges you to revive your blog just so that she can read it sitting miles away (probably during a well earned break after a hard day’s work)....what would you write about? Well I couldn’t think of anything else but about those vivid memories of a rainy rendezvous with a ‘near stranger’ who’d soon become a ‘far companion’.

It happened almost a year back. The Monsoons were at their zenith and I decided to travel down south the Indian peninsula to fulfill a promise given to this someone special. The otherwise dry Deccan landscape was covered in a green tapestry of brimming life. The sun beams split into a myriad spectrum of colours across the cloud laden sky, almost like an impressionist watercolour. There was a nip in the air, hinting that the rains were there to stay.

The anticipation before meeting up with someone is probably the best and the worst part of actually meeting that person, and especially so, if you’ve been planning to give her a surprise. Well, as it turned out to be, in the end there is no surprise more magical than the surprise of being loved.

As I walked out that rainy evening with her, climbing up a ridge to the so called ‘End Point’ which overlooks a magnificent valley, little did I realise that it was the beginning of a journey of a lifetime. A lifetime of happiness and sorrows, of light and shadows, of hopes and dreams....

The rain drenched streets wore a new hue that day...it is actually difficult for me to pin point that hue...so i captured it in celluloid and believe me, that colour was all I could see.....it was everywhere....

On the petite petals of a lone flower in a fern covered swale....

On the smiling faces of a happy family of lilac blooms....

On the fresh foliage of the plants in the park...

Splashed on the monsoon evening sky....

Even the evening light had that mystic glow....

Was it pale Indigo ? Or a Purple haze?...no it was Sheer Lilac...or was it Mauve?

May be it was Twilight Lavender....indeed the light had a tinge of Amethyst like glow...

Almost as if I was looking at the world through fuchsia tinted lenses....

We walked through the undulating lanes, carefully stepping around the puddles of rainwater reflecting the azure sky , gazing at the valley below us lying outstretched till the horizons. My camera conducted its ‘unassigned role’ well... that of being the ‘conversation piece’. The ice breaker....

As we watched the sun set behind the clouds and felt the first few raindrops on our faces...we knew it was time to return back...back to the world of family, of friends, of relationships, rules and realities.

With so many words left unspoken...

so many dreams left unshared....

so many thoughts left suspended....

we walked back to part ways to the worlds where we lived our separate lives. As I boarded the overnight bus to Goa, I looked out of the window once again, for one last glimpse of her which I could treasure in my box of memories and then....at that moment I realised, she was wearing a lavender coloured dress.

Stopping by the Alley.....

2010-04-16T01:30:00.013+05:30

It's been quite some time since I last strolled down this alley. Stopping by the alley, I am reminded of the time when I had started blogging...

The world has changed or rather evolved since then...

....Laptops have given way to tablets...

.....The good old Windows XP has given way to Windows 7...

....Wi fi has become a household term...

....Blogs have been taken over byTweets...

Indeed my life has also changed....

....Sharing one’s life with someone has acquired a new meaning....

....Perspectives have been realigned..

.....Life's mantra rewritten...

.....Memory boxes defragmented...

Yet the enchantment of strolling down this alley never ceases to surprise my still ‘juvenile’ mind.

Yesterday was Vishu, The festival of renewed hopes and new dawns, a festival which promises better tomorrows as days go by. One of my first musings in this alley of dreams was about Vishu and the memories attached to it.

Memories of those carefree childhood summer holidays spent without an iota of guilt for 'doing nothing'....the excitement on the eve of Vishu day to collectbunches of Konna Flowers(Amaltasin Hindi, Cassia fistula) to auspicate the dawn of the New year... To peek into the puja room for a sneak preview of the auspicious Kanni (coiffured ‘Omen’) which mom and the other ladies of the house would have carefully arranged ....helping Grand Dad polish the old traditional bronze lamps until they shine as if dipped in molten gold...watching the blue green mangoes ripen in the mellow sunlight...counting and recounting the money gifted by the elders on the day of Vishu (the only day when cash is legitimately and willingly gifted to kids by elders as a token of prosperity). Time and distances have of course mellowed down the glitter of the festival but the memories it brings are still as fresh as the fragrance wafting from the burning Camphor flames.

‘Reclaiming one's life’ is a cool catch phrase which has been doing rounds now-a -days. But reclaiming one's own life isn’t easy when it comes to putting it into practice. The tendency to get stuck in the cobwebs of one's mundane thoughts and tiresome actions is so strong that repelling it becomes another task of its own. At times I feel that it is indeed a bliss to lose oneself in one's dreams, disconnected from the chaos around, like a kite that has just broken free from its thread, willing to lose itself to where its fate and the wind takes it to.

Recently, I happened to read a thought provoking quote on one of the most unlikely places....scribbled onto an aging tattered diary in my own handwriting with its carefully articulated cursive hand (which the nuns at school used to enforce) which I thought had gotten lost in those growing up years.

The quote was by none other than Mark Twain and it read like this

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did do.....

So throw off the bowlines.....

Sail away from the safe harbour...

Catch the trade winds in your sails...

Explore...Dream...Discover...."

...and here I am yet again trying to light up my alley with lanterns of stardust hanging in the frail threads of memories.... Indeed memories are like the shade of a cool glen...they are inviting enough to run into from the heat and burden of realities.

The Road Not Taken…..

2008-04-13T02:57:00.012+05:30

An unusual title for an unusual poem. I first read this poem on a ‘tense’ summer afternoon, neatly printed on our English Examination paper under the title Part I (Reading Comprehension). My hands trembled as I lifted the question Paper carelessly tossed on to my table by the invigilator. Tiny rills of sweat trickled down my temple. It was indeed a hot afternoon. The roll numbers written on the polished mahogany desk had already started to fade. The lengthy question paper and the pin drop silence of the examination hall made me more uneasy. Quickly I whispered a small prayer, ( the sure shot antidote to such situations) and sifted through the questions. But little did I know that I was about to confront a piece of writing that I’ll remember for the rest of my life. …. Never before did I become conscious about the power of words to invoke a metaphor so vivid that it expresses an uneasy dilemma in life so effortlessly.

Many a summer has passed since then, but the hidden meaning in the poem still holds true and continues to intrigue me.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

- Robert Frost (1874–1963).

The images were clicked on an impromptu trek into the Kumarakom Bird Sanctury , Kerala.

Romancing the Magical Monsoons…..

2007-06-29T23:38:00.001+05:30

Monsoons are always magic days. The sparkling raindrops lingering on the palm fronds, the fresh smell of earth, the lightness in the air, the rejuvenating greenery all add to the magic. My love-hate relation with monsoons dates to those days when my little brother and I were tugged out of our cosy bed in the morning to catch the school bus in time after a long, long summer break. Either by sheer coincidence or probably a ‘well-calculated prank’ of the Raingods, (I prefer to believe in the latter) it always used to rain the first day of school, year after year. I still remember the time when I had wanted to do research on the correlation between “the first day of school and the first heavy downpour of the season”. It used to be such a nuisance then, just an addition to the misery … of one having to carry that heavy load of books with an even heavier heart to sit through another grueling year of school.

Rains meant cool nights when swift scary winds blew unseen whistles, breath taking sights of the otherwise inconspicuous drainage channels swell and gush down in full glory, ‘disco lights’ of lightening flashing across the blue unknown., tiny streaks of water slithering down the car window and the ‘pearly beads’ of water balancing themselves on every flower and leaf. The constant morning reminders of my parents, not to forget the umbrella (an almost irreplaceable accessory of all Keralites) on the way back from school. Monsoons have been a part and parcel of this state often referred to as the “Gateway of Monsoons”. Everything seems normal when it rains in Kerala…the life goes on in its routine manner and set pace.

I missed the monsoons during my early days in Delhi. Slowly I got used to a lifestyle where I unknowingly started hating the untimely rains. Rains in Delhi meant wading through a dirty pool of water to college with the ‘protective’ polythene cover crushing the painstakingly made paper model. My hatred for rains only kept increasing as years went by until one day when I was trying hard not to doze off during an afternoon Postgraduate lecture.

That day the sunny skies suddenly gave in for a gust of dust storm and soon got shrouded in a veil of dark clouds. I was quick to muster the uneasy thoughts of this ‘rain’ happily drenching away my clothes ‘sun basking’ on the line back in my hostel room balcony. I was so distracted that I kept peering out of the window to find out the progress of the advancing clouds. But to my surprise my eyes met the jovial faces of the Urban Designers crowding in their tiny studio balcony trying to catch a glimpse of the first rain drop. And soon the first drop fell and was greeted by a familiar shriek of happiness. Sorabh and Sonal were waving at me from the tiny balcony with a twinkle in their eyes. I looked around to see everyone in my class looking out with content faces….a few were glad enough to let out sighs of respite from the heat. The whole mood of the class had changed. Everyone wanted to go out and get drenched. A few even whispered enviously how lucky the Urban Designers were to have a balcony in their studio.

That day I realized how different…. things seem when viewed in a different light….it is all a matter of perspectives or rather an issue of misplaced priorities. I searched for that old ‘Sandeep’ in me who used to love watching the rains falling through the boughs of the coconut palms, relishing the homemade snack of crisp dosas and spicy coconut chutney. Memories flooded back. As soon as the class got over, I along with a dozen other happy faces rushed downstairs to enjoy a hot cup of tea with pakodas sitting around on the drenched ‘planning ramp’.

Many of the ‘smiling faces’ then would have hence forgotten that day…but I couldn’t afford to do so…..because it was a magical day when I rediscovered a few small pleasures of life…indeed ‘small’ but enough to bring back a ‘long-lost affection’ for the Monsoons.

United Colors of Fountainhas

2007-06-19T20:20:00.001+05:30

A city which can be dubbed as Kevin Lynch’s Delight and Ian McHarg’s Disappointment. Well that’s what Panjim or Panaji, the capital city of Goa seemed to me. The capital city of Adil Shah’s mighty state, a jewel in the erstwhile Portuguese Crown, the Indian answer to the famed French Riviera: city of Cannes …Panjim has been the hot favorite since its inception. Tucked away on the gently sloping southern bank of the estuarine mouth of the magnificent river Mandovi, this city has its colonial flavor still intact. The tree covered Althino Hill, the colorful streets of Fountainhas, the Miramar Beach, the famed and well maintained Riverside Corniche all add up to the beauty of the city.

Once a sleepy sea side fishing village replete with natural springs and coconut gardenlands interspersed by mangrove swamps, Panjim has come a long way. But the transition from its pristine estuarine bank to the present urbanized human settlement is not a smooth one. It can be seen as a perfect demonstration of the four staged “Man-Nature Relationship” .

The first stage of ‘I-Thou’ was when Panjim was still a natural hillside sloping down northwards to meet the southern banks of the majestic Mandovi, the river free to flood the low lying portions of the Ourem and Marshy Lands.

The second stage of ‘sustainable co-existence’ was when the fishermen built a non-descript hamlet and using the sources of the freshwater streams, started farming and made salt pans on the marshes.

The third stage of “I-it” was initiated with the construction of Adil Shah’s Fort and Palace. This was followed by the construction of a causeway "Pointe de Linhares" linking Panjim with the historic Ribandar village by the then Viceroy, Count de Linhares, Dom Miguel de Noronha in 1632. The massive destruction of Old Goa by plague and other sanitary related conditions led to the idea of structuring Panjim as the new capital for Goa. Its well drained topography, its “naturally-protected-on-all-sides” location and its proximity to the sea which ensures tidal flushing thus cleaning up the water aided this decision.

The Portuguese slowly started the process of reclamation of land, rampant construction of government buildings, and a magnificent riverfront. Over time the city has undergone many a change and today lies in the crossroads of 'development gone wrong' with scant regard for ecological processes. The old quarter of the city is thankfully well preserved and echoes its rich cultural past. But the more recent developments around the Panjim, many initiated by the unmindful bureaucratic aspirations leave much to be desired. “Patto Plaza-The Central Business District of Panjim” proudly published around in government publications as the new face of Goa is one such example. It is nothing but an ugly demonic concrete jungle with no reference to the strongly vernacular architecture neither in terms of style nor in scale, mushrooming out of the ecologically sensitive patto marshes. The rampant construction on the Bambolim Plateau with absolute disregard to the sensitive natural processes is also a matter of grave concern. The eying of the saltpan lands with luxuriant mangroves by the ‘Building Mafia’ and ‘Political Eagles’ is also a constant threat looming over the sound future of the city.

But it is not all that bad for Panjim, the still intact and well preserved precincts of Fountainhas and Campal are indeed encouraging enough to believe that a better future for Panjim is possible. The fact that Panjim is only the administrative capital of Goa and not a commercial capital, neither does it have a railway station nor is it the main sea port are all factors that will aid the city in slowing down the ‘urban decay’ which is a bane for most Indian cities.

It is time we moved ahead to the fourth and final phase of the ‘Man-Nature Interaction’ i.e. the realization that ‘Nature has to be cared for and nourished for the well being of Mankind’. The global awakening to protect nature has already dawned, and it is time for Panjim to become both Lynch’s and McHarg’s Delight.

The Citadel of Frozen Legends....

2007-05-27T00:40:00.000+05:30

Last November, my officemates and I got all geared up to attend Nidhi’s marriage in Jodhpur. The marriage was a truly pompous traditional affair. Rajasthani hospitality at its best- great food…spicy to the last ‘y’, great music and lots of vibrant colors. A rush through the forts and palaces of Jodhpur was another highlight of the trip.

The view of the ‘Blue city’ from the top of the Mehrangarh Fort is indeed a treat to one’s eyes. Quite contrary to what I had expected, Jodhpur turned out to be a colorful place where the ‘old’ and the ‘new’ coexist quite well, of course with the former getting the roses it rightly deserves.

Our impromptu tour started with the royal Umaid Bhavan Palace perched on a low hill away from the old city. The well laid out palace was designed by H.V. Lanchester in 1929 in an Indianised version of Art-Deco style. The palace when it threw open its doors for the first time in 1944, was the world’s largest private residence. The palace now houses a Museum(the only truly public space in the whole complex), a five star Heritage Hotel (of course public but for the ones who wouldn’t mind burning a hole in their pockets) and the private residence of the present King. I was impressed to see the carved motifs and the embellishments. Distinctly European yet have an Indian touch to them.

The next stop-over was at the majestic Mehrangarh Fort. Built on top of a rocky cliff, this fort is actually what legends are of made of. Built in the fifteen century, by Rao Jodha, it has truly stood the test of time. It now houses a series of museums. The whole complex is well preserved, probably the fact that it is still with the royal family explains the reason for this. The fort had all the colours and textures one could imagine hidden behind its impregnable walls. But the show stealer was the spectacular view of the city from its ramparts. The effortless transition of courtyards to rooms , the maze of stairwells to connect to the different levels, the discreet division of public and private realms, the ethereal quality of the streaming day light through the stained glass windows into the rooms, the carefully framed views of the city below (or probably they were just accidental) , intricately carved rajasthani jaalis all added to the richness of the experience there.

As I bid farewell to the city, there was just one last wish in my mind. Knowing very well that some wishes are fated to remain unfulfilled, I did so in vain….. to be reborn as a medieval traveler lucky enough to have a glimpse of this city when it would have been at its zenith of glory.

Back to the Alley of Dreams......

2007-05-25T01:25:00.000+05:30

It’s been almost a year since I last punched in a few words on this blog. Well I have a thousand reasons to explain my absence from the blogosphere…..but I’d rather refrain from citing them. In between, I started my professional career as a landscape architect in Delhi. Along with it came a surge of responsibilities and dead lines. ‘Office’ got so much precedence that it kind of eclipsed those small pleasures of life. The alley of my dreams, got shrouded in a veil of complacency. Now that I am taking a break from office, I thought this is the best time to dust my alley and rekindle those dying ambers of hope.

When the Clouds Beckon........

2006-07-07T00:41:00.002+05:30

Clouds have always been a fascination for me since childhood. Especially in the monsoon laden months in Kerala, the clouds come in all shapes and colours, much to my amusement.

When I was a kid I used to think they were made of cotton wool, whole loads of them. And to strengthen my conviction, once when I injured myself, our maid told a reluctant and bleeding me that she herself had plucked the cotton stub dipped in dettol ( which she was holding) from the clouds outside. And since our “terrace” was a forbidden area for kids …I really thought that one could touch the clouds from the terrace and even collect cotton wool …as much as one wants….

When I used to accompany dad to drop mom for work, I used to be happy seeing her Hospital building which “seemed” tall enough to touch the clouds….My small brain was immediate to reason out the logic of why this building had to be tall when its neighbors were so squat…. “Tall so that the doctors can collect enough cotton wool to treat their patients!!!”

Fortunately or unfortunately I never got a chance to present my “derived logic” in front of any august gathering of grown-ups…who would have had a great laugh at my expense and then would have had an added advantage of making me understand “how far the clouds are…”

One night…long back…probably I was in my third standard when I dreamt of my brother and I playing on the “terrace” and a cloud came swooping down…I touched the cloud and it pulled me away…away from home…away from my family …away from the city I knew so well….I was startled and woke up. Then for a brief stint I hated clouds… “Child-catchers” I used to think.

As time moved ahead…I also learnt like a million other kids of my age, the science of cloud formation and the art of differentiating between a “Cumulus” and a “Cumulo-nimbus” cloud…

When I was in 8^th standard we had an old, interesting Malayalam Sir who used to recite poems and passages from epics to us. I still remember the excerpt from Kalidasa’s legendary “Megh-Dootam” where the king who is a captive sends his messages to his beloved through the clouds…..I was enamored by this concept…how romantic would that be…a cloud outside your window whispering into your ears the message sent by your beloved who is in a faraway land.

In the past few years in Delhi, I almost forgot the existence of “clouds” in the sky…probably I was too caught up in the mundane realities to look up and notice. One proverb which I really held close to my heart all these years was that “every cloud indeed has a silver lining……” a truth which I often forget only to be reminded by Sorabh, time and again. A very optimistic thought when the time is tough.

Recently, I was lucky enough to get a chance to travel down the sub continent to Goa , just when the monsoons decided to storm northwards….and I couldn’t resist but click those wonderful amorphous forms and rich hues that would give any painter a run for his money. Those beautiful unknown landscapes through which the train moved were reduced to mere foregrounds to these brilliant tapestries of nature.

Be it “Bundles of Cotton wool” or “ Demonic Child-Catchers” or “Romantic Messengers”…the clouds and their silver linings have always had a special place in my heart.

...And the Birds Flew Away....

2006-06-28T01:22:00.000+05:30

Finally my thesis is over….
..another milestone of time conquered…making it 7 years in delhi.
….seven years …..
…I still remember the first day I walked out of Hazrat Nizammudin Railway station to find a sea of humans rushing out of the platforms…..
…never thought that I would stick on to this city for so long.....
Yet I did.

Life's been a maze all these years…
….so many souls walked in and out of my life…
….many left without a whimper…
…some left a few footsteps
…and a few left a heartful of memories.

And yet again the monsoons are on its way…
to drench everything that comes its way….
and yet again the birds have flown away….
….leaving behind a handful of colourful plumes….
plumes of moments well spent together….
which I have collected and kept in my box of memories.

Mélange de Thesis:

2006-05-03T19:55:00.000+05:30

A mélange of images from my thesis site at Bekal, a quaint little sea side village in North Kerala (former ly known as Malabar)……the sea, the beach sand and sand dunes, the gleaming Kalanad Backwaters dividing my site into two parts, the bright lateritic hills with sandalwood trees, the abandoned paddy fields bordered by the swaying coconut palms, a mystic Sacred Grove with flowering temple trees, a million birds and butterflies….

Beyond the horizon of reasoning

2006-05-01T23:03:00.000+05:30

As the day slips into the robes of darkness,

Wandering through the turbulent waves of realities...

…beyond the horizon of reasoning,

My mind reaches the world of imagination…..

….to gather a handful of stardust……

... just a handful…to adorn my world…

…the alley of dreams.

Loneliness.......

2006-04-29T00:31:00.000+05:30

Loneliness is but a blessing……

....a blessing in disguise……

….for without it ……

would one realize the value of friendship?

The Day I First Fell in Love.......

2006-04-22T13:13:00.000+05:30

Just a few days back, on a bright sunny day I walked to the ATM at the Community Centre market to draw out cash…a man’s biggest necessity to live in this world. Was in for a rude shock to find out that India’s largest public sector bank had gone into an indefinite strike….and the silent witness to the numerous disappointed faces of the customers were the ATM Dispensers with ‘empty tummies.’ As I walked back my mind was clouded with the apprehension of how to make both ends meet with the sole tattered 100Rs note in my wallet. Just to divert my mind from such serious and uneasy thoughts, I bent down at the roadside book vendor to muddle into his collections. Seeing my familiar face (and knowing by now how bad I am at bargaining), he flashed a bright smile. Soon I found myself holding a small black leather book with printed golden letters on it titled ‘LITTLE SONGS by MRS. FOLLEN’. It contained a collection of Nursery rhymes beautifully written and illustrated by a lady called Eliza Lee Follen in 1832…(174 human years back, Phew!!!)My heart missed a beat ….when I saw the Rhyme on Page no 6… the wordings were so familiar ….indeed it was the same rhyme I was taught on that fateful day…the day when I first fell in love…

Memories flooded back to one of the many days I had spend at “Sunbeams”, a day crèche near to my home…a quaint old building with a nice little verandah running all around and its tiled sloping roof covered with creepers full of flowers…red, orange, pink…. On this day, we were taught a new nursery rhyme …..a rhyme which I treasure in the depths of my heart till date….

Butterflies are pretty things,
Prettier than you or I;
See the colors on his wings;
Who would hurt a butterfly?

Not to hurt a living thing,
Let all little children try;
See, again he's on the wing;
Good bye! pretty butterfly!

I still remember Teresa maam taking us out to the garden and showing us the butterflies…there were so many of them that day…or probably they were always there…I noticed them for the first time then. And it was that rosy day which made me fall into a ‘love trap’ for life…indeed I fell in love with those colorful creatures which flutter by.

My sketchbooks were filled with heavily ‘crayoned’ disproportionate “frontal elevations” of butterflies…..the spindle shaped body in black…those four/two wings (the no of wings depended on how large the available drawing area was..) with a mélange of colors splashed on them and of course the 2 antennae springing out of the head like claws.

It was hard to believe when dad told me that butterflies are “cousins” of cockroaches and mosquitoes…. I agreed but was baffled at that very thought…..how can they all belong to the same “family”…..those dirty looking cockroaches and ever-hurting mosquitoes and my sweet little ‘flutter-byes’….

Got my answer, years later in one of the Zoology lectures delivered by a bald kinky Zoology professor on the world’s largest Phylum….Phylum Arthropoda…. Don’t even want to remember those names and diagrams…

Even today sometimes I rummage through my old books stacked neatly in my room. Those carefully drawn and meticulously detailed Butterfly drawings (under the heading of Order-Lepidoptera) in my Class 12 Zoology Lab Record Book, lack the real beauty and life of those roughly colored crayon drawings…Indeed those disproportionate, ‘never-symmetrical’, patches of crayons meant a lot more to me than these tediously detailed out diagrams where the labeling (with ‘Latin-turned-English’ terms) screams out for attention. But those blotches of colors did not make sense to the grown ups and hence were never preserved…may be some unsuspecting moongphali-wala would have happily earned his Rs 2 by wrapping a handful of groundnuts in the paper cones of those masterpieces…

I logged out from my Dream world to find the smiling vendor eagerly waiting to slaughter his bakraa…”Kyon Saab….. Lena hai kya? Sirf Assi Rupaiye…” (Do u want to buy it? Only Eighty Rs…). My extremely uncommon “common sense” jumped up and warned me to keep it down and walk away…Again serious and uneasy thoughts of realities started lurking their ugly heads in my mind…..eventually I left the book on the pile and walked away with a heavy heart.

And from behind Mr. Bright Smile was constantly calling out to me “….Saabji, Pachhas de do…Sirf Pachhas….” (Give me just fifty Rs). I hastened my pace pretending not to hear him…. and walked away….. past a Moongphali wala tossing a handful of groundnuts into a paper cover.

When the Laburnum Blooms...........

2006-04-14T18:58:00.000+05:30

Today is Vishu, the festival of prosperity and hope, the festival that promises better tomorrows as days go by. The ‘Vishu kanni’ or the coiffured ‘Omen’ is the first thing seen in the morning as the first rays of sunlight touch the earth on the Vishu day. The Vishu kanni is arranged on a bronze platter whose glory tries to reflect that of the sun. Rice, Fresh fruits and vegetables, bunches of golden Laburnum flowers, a bronze mirror, a gold bordered piece of cloth and Collyrium, are all arranged as salutations offered to Lord Vishnu, the protector.

Vishu has always been a much awaited day in my life since childhood. A Typical Vishu day starts with my mom waking up my brother and me reminding us ‘not to open our eyes’ (funny it might sound to those who’ve never celebrated Vishu). We are led to the Puja room with our eyes closed. And then, the opulence of the Kanni is silently revealed to us. As our eyes take their time to adjust to the radiance of the oil-lamp lit kanni, the elders give us money as a token of good fortune….the only day when kids are legitimately showered with cash. This is followed by fire works and a sumptuous lunch.

On the eve of Vishu, our excitement would be to procure the ‘Konna Flowers’. Konna tree (Amaltas in Hindi, ‘Indian Laburnum’ in English, ‘Cassia fistula’ in Latin) is considered to symbolize Prosperity and happiness. Years back it was easy to procure the flowers since every other house had a laburnum tree. Now my parents along with millions of other malayalis feel the pinch of the changes triggered off by ‘development-gone-wrong’.

Firstly laburnum trees are hard to find in Kerala now-a-days. Secondly even if there are a few trees left….they refuse to flower during Vishu …almost like a silent indignant protest. The science fraternity claims this phenomenon of late flowering of Cassia as a product of the recent climatic changes due to global warming.

This may be just one of the many irreversible shifts in the course of nature…many of which are not readily visible and hence conveniently left unnoticed. Yet…. year after year…. the cycle goes on…. and millions of malayalis wait in vain for the laburnum to bloom in time so that they can auspicate another new year….. another year of fresh hope and good fortune.

Out of the Dust of Dreams......

2006-04-11T15:42:00.000+05:30

Yet another morning has broken.....
....the dawn of another new day....

Today I woke up unusually early...6'O clock is not a time which I usually see in my day-to- day life. May be that’s why I felt today's morning extremely beautiful....

…..the golden sunshine washing the mellowed brick walls. …
…..the light breeze playing naughty games with my ever unkempt hair….
…...the cacophony of a million birds…..

Strangely, I felt my hostel room balcony the best place in the world.

Don’t know why…..I got reminded of a poem which mom used to recite to me when I was a kid.....

"Out of the dust of dreams

Fairies weave their garments.

Out of the purple and rose of old memories

They make rainbow wings.

No wonder we find them such marvelous things!"

Times have changed....so have I. From that naughty kid who could hardly remember the spelling of 'Two" to a post graduate student lost among hard bound volumes screaming concepts of ecological sustainability and rolls of deceptively colored butter sheets scribbled with McHargian Analysis (Phew, God save this world ! ).

Despite the number of years which have faded into the pages of oblivion...I still find myself searching for those good old days...days when ‘tasks’ meant meticulously shooing away the crows from the kitchen yard, ‘music’ meant the clamor of my Xylophone, ‘Discovery’ meant opening mom's wardrobe to fish out a necklace, ‘Best friend’ meant the milk man who cycles down twice a day, ‘Life's greatest challenge’ meant sneaking on to the terrace evading the watchful eyes around….

Don’t know why am I on a nostalgic drive today?

May be somewhere behind those verdant boughs, a fairy must be weaving and singing away to glory

'Out of the purple and rose of old memories…..”

A journey down the alley .........

2006-04-07T00:26:00.000+05:30

Finally....... here i am ........another drop in this ocean of blogs. A traveller embarking on a journey down a path less travelled by....the alley of dreams. Where will it lead to? Only time can tell.......