The Stars at Leti

The dry grass plateau of Leti has more to it than cricket matches and sunrise breakfasts. Of course, the 360 degree view of the HiraMani glaciers on the left, the plunging Ram Ganga valley in front and Leti village on the right are breathtaking in their sheer serenity; however, for me the high point, the feeling “I have arrived” only came when evening set in.

The stars here are beyond written or photographic delineation. Thousands (literally) of them look down upon you, twinkling at what seems to be, within your hands’ reach.

It reminds me of the floating lanterns of Thailand, that fly away and above us, into oblivion. The eternal wonder of constellations will remain unchanged in a scenic setting such as this; city life not only numbs but also blinds one. Slowly but surely we are reaching a stage where we create our own bubble of grey around the earth. Here in the mountains, there is time to perceive, to behold the simpler, keener beauties of life steeped in nature.

In my first few days here, the silence of the mountains screamed into my ears while my mind became instinctively alert to each buzzing bee, to the flapping wings of a majestic and proud Himalayan Griffin.

A few days in this peaceful haven and I am one with the purity of its silence. It speaks volumes to me—in the chirping of birds, in the crunching of leaves underfoot, in the smoky trail of remote hill houses, in the laughter of its people and in their strengthening diligence.

The soothing yet firming contrast of the hot afternoon sun and the cold evening, convey to me, a lesson of life. The only way to sharpen yourself, and to truly feel the rewards of your fight in life, is to face the adversity with as much contentment as cherishing a warming sun. A friend once said, “contentment is easier to pursue, and slightly more long lived, than happiness”. At Leti, it is contentment I find, and happiness than causes smiles in being so illusory, in the remoteness of this place.

I am sitting in candlelight, jotting down memoirs of a greedy mind—stuffed with experiences and wanting more, fretting over its smallness. While a fire crackles warmly in the “bukhari”, ideas jostle for space in my head, wanting to be the first to have an outlet. The fire of the “bukhari” blazes domineeringly, asking me, mocking my short stay, “Where does your life lie?”.

Leti invests a sense of want—to capture every grain of it on camera, in writing, tattooed to memory, for a lifetime. The living room, lit in surreal tea lights, stone walls effervescently glowing, reminding me of the Himalayas towering all around me.

The cottage boasts of a delightful sitting area, besides the pampering warm bed. A fire pit, a planter’s chair and a miniature stool for a book await one, while mustard flowers frisk playfully in the wind.

In the evening, the clear contrast of white peaks, blue skies and brown rock is transformed into a riot of colours. The snow peaks become tinged with a delightful shade of pink, as of blushing and glowing to the onset of its fearsome, awe-inspiring love—the night.

I am greedy to be here for poetry, for writing. The place inspires one to write feverishly, maddeningly, into throes of an uncontrollable creativity that pushes aside rationale and calls for a euphoric, insane love. Of mountains, of people, of life—penned to histories of the self.

Photo copyright: Paul Kennes

Reflections at a Pyre Place

Shimmering and fragile

Ebbing into an ashen glory

While you hum into misbegotten darkness--

Am empty mind flaring incessantly

To an end of its world.

Crackling fires of hope and warmth

Are all that keep you alive.

The wood burning away

Is it not a reflection of memories?

That hurt with fiery certainty

And warm your soul to abyssmal peace

 

Nameless Verse

Man at the piano

Taking pictures of you

With melodies.

Are you even listening?

Or does obscurity madden you

To oblivion? Like me.

A dried leaf whisks by

Caressing you in withering strokes

Of a forgotten smile.

You flick it away, you pause

Chuckling at its futility, its nothingness.

The leaf sits at your feet

Shuffled away by meandering memories.

You walk on into the future

The leaf waits, quietly

Patient and silent,

In the alleys of your past.

Bread and Butter

What happens before the act begins?

In these glass halls of precision

Why do we struggle to enter

The gaping global fraud?

I do not belong here

Their eyes are empty, glassy

What happens before you talk with clarity?

Why are you afraid to be?

What happens before the act begins?

Do you ever wonder?

Do you ever imagine?

The sweeper clearing out your dust

The man putting up those balloons

The electrician who fixes the air conditioning--

Men who will never know how it feels

Cool air in the room, while the sun glares outside,

The beeping sounds of door IDs.

I am lost here forever

I want to belong to the forest

Where trees teach me to be still.

Rambling

Indian forts and palaces are “exotic” to the west. Is this a subconscious form of cultural imperialism? I have never been anywhere outside India. Yet, when i look at pictures of forts, palaces, churches, graveyards, boulevards or pebbled streets, I find them awe-striking and “exotic”. Is my feeling a latent sense of an inerasable postcolonial mindset?

People are attracted to India on account of its vibrancy, its warm people; it is a colourful country with a gamut of cultures, cuisines, dialects and geographies stretched across the subcontinent. Indian people are quick to adopt Western clothes, food, architecture and technology. Yet, the sense of Indianness remains rooted in even the most corporate companies of India. For example, you walk into an Indian consultancy that prides itself in being such an ape of the West. They use the latest softwares, operate on fast speed internet and machines, travel in BMWs, wear formal trousers and suits. And then you notice the tiny sandalwood paste mark on the forehead, the touch of vermilion in a woman’s hair, a black and golden chain on her neck (a “mangalsutra”) signifying her married status; or, stones set in gold rings on their fingers.

The same people live in houses styled in Western architecture, travel in imported cars, use First World gadgets, buy imported foods and clothes. Then you notice the ring on the finger; it might strike an outsider as “oh, cool ring”; it is actually steeped in gemstone terminology and belief in their healing powers.

Even the most sceptical of Indians, will most probably be found with such a ring. It might have been worn at the behest of a loving parent who gifts, lets say, a pearl ring to keep anger at bay.

Christians in India are culturally so different from their counterparts in the West. The women wear saris on their wedding day and the couple does not kiss at the end of the ceremony. Indians are uniformly shy of kissing or displaying physical affection in public. So much so that hugging or holding hands is looked down upon in most parts or you might be glared at with disapproval.

India prides itself in copying the First World, down to the last detail. What we fail to realise is, that we cannot break free from the binds of our heritage. Even the most modern of young girls wants to wear a sari and not a dress, for her graduation dinner. Even the most “hep” boy sighs deeply when he sees his girl in a sari.

The sari is such a sexy outfit. One size fits all; it can be worn in various ways, it makes fat people look thin and skinny people look healthy. The subtle show of skin is sensuous and the draped effect brings out femininity in the most tomboyish of women.

Indian streets never fail to simultaneously shock and please the senses. Corporate parks, a swanky metro rail, dozens of cars. And then, street vendors with hand woven baskets stocked with boiled or roasted corn cobs, sweet potatoes and the infamous tea with fritters. Also, the rickshaw pullers lugging metro travellers to their destinations; or the illegal but profiting minivans that are less crowded but more expensive than buses.

Similarly, people dressed in office formals walking right past little kids sleeping on the roads, or nestling comfortably under the shade of a tree, in makeshift swings made of their mothers’ saris; while these women actually sweep the road which is to be redone.

With food, Indians are spoilt for choice. A north Indian mother caters to her son’s demands for idly-sambhar and uttapam while her south Indian compeer efficiently churns up kadhai paneer and parathas. Families argue not over restaurants but cuisine. And even though the chimpanzee effect has struck the children as well, they still crave Indian dishes over pizzas and burgers—mere snack foods to which we limit food of those “exotic” to us. “firangi khana” (foreign food) if you will.

India is complex and simple, at the same time. People might be warm hearted and help out without any selfishness or they might rip you off. For example, no matter how crowded, train passengers will squeeze in and make space for a needy person; on the other hand, you might give your laptop for reformatting, and on discovering no partition drives within, be told non-chalantly, “oh that costs extra”.

It is a good change in Indian tourism that luxury arrangements are available now. However, we also tend to overdo it. As you walk through a hotel lobby or garden, the employees will stop all work, bow at you and say “Namaste” with a smile that belies its genuineness.

Fixation is something that comes easy to Indians; be it food, movies, clothes, sports, music or books. If we like it, we will obsess over it, till it exhausts us or becomes redundant or more often than not, is succeeded by something new.

Look at what happened to cell phones, laptops, mp3 players, KFC, McDonalds, pub culture, action movies shot in foreign lands, western clothing or even cars. Suddenly, everyone wants one to flaunt it. Even if they do not require it. A minimum wage earner will painstakingly save money only to buy a touchscreen phone (whose features he is most likely, clueless of) because all his friends own one.

In my opinion, this country is worth a visit on account of its idiosyncrasies alone. And if you are a nature lover to boot, then it is a must-visit place. This country offers its guests beaches, snow-capped Himalayas, endless other mountain ranges, lakes, cosmopolitan lifestyles, gourmet food, swanky corporates all infused with the focus on inherent spirituality and what allures foreigners the most being “spa therapy” with yoga.

This country is a multifaceted space. The same state that produced its own form of martial arts, is home to some spectacular classical music and dance forms and is also the land of backwaters and cruising houseboats. The state which is most overrun by insurgency, is also home to the largest number of migrated call centre employees, where music and football run in its’ people’s veins.

The diversity of culture between places a few miles from each other, is exhausting. Your mind is treated to the sudden changes which, before you can say “jack Robinson” turn into another hue. Delhi, the capital, is a culmination of seven cities through history. It is a metropolitan, a slum, a historical locale and a career goal all rolled into one. Journey a few miles away, into Rajasthan, and a desert greets you with its colourful people, tremendous forts, royal families and camels.

Travel north-east, and you meet a fusion of Aryan-Mongol culture; rife with Chinese and Tibetan influences and monasteries set in isolated environments, the north-east part of India is starkly different from Rajasthan in every aspect.

Travel to central india, and you will wonder if the north-east was not a different country altogether. Travel to south india, and you might just be convinced you are on a different continent. Kashmir, with its virginal beauty, its quiet yet strong people, and its political dilemnas will not fail to arouse the aforementioned thoughts in your head.

Walk into any Indian city or town, and the prices of almost anything, within the city, will range from a couple of pennies to thousands. It is also perhaps the only place where marketplaces will have a row of shops selling the exact same commodity or services and happily doing business without worrying about competition sitting right next door.

Adjustment is the keyword to understanding India. Everyone survives here, somehow. The RSS (a Hindu political organisation) creates a ruckus on Valentine’s Day, attacking popular coffee shops and malls to “save” our Hindu heritage. The most westernised people loathe them, look down upon them; yet, the very next day, they can be seen travelling shoulder to shoulder on a local train, dismissing the previous day as “it was their day, what of it now”.

Families allow their daughters utmost (sometimes, even extreme and unneeded) freedom with the mindset of “let her have fun while it lasts” only upon the agreement of entering into an arranged marriage. The girl is transformed from a bikini babe sipping margaritas to the docile “bahu” (daughter-in-law) dutifully packing off her husband to work, with a hot, fresh lunch.

So, visiting India for merely its monuments or geography is like missing the point by a mile. Visit it for its people. No anthropology or socio-economic work can describe them and no guest to the country can claim to have had the exact same experience as another.

The only thread of commonality running through the country, is the link with spirituality. Its almost like a patriotic or nationalist duty. Even the most cosmopolitan city will be dotted with temples (hideous in architecture) in the most unexpected areas. An entourage of drunk youth heading toward a pub blasting metal music will suddenly stop, bow their heads in supplication and continue with their nightly ravings.

In short, India offers itself up to its guests as a place of history, diverse cultures, intriguing architecture and varied geography. But, primarily, it is a place worth travelling to, for its people and their genetic (almost) spirituality. It allows you to form your own stories about it. And that is an experience no other could provide.

A Child's Prayer

You held hands and breathed in deep

The scent of the flowers you bloomed.

I'm dried up, torn and lonely now

The petal left adrift a half-dead tree

You ask me for the wedding band

Wrapped so carefully in soft tissue

I wish you had kept me that safe too

I smile at the idea

I give it to you, dusting the grime away

Joyous to see you smile, torn within to sighs

That should have been his who is now--

Driftwood holding me aloft

In your unknowing fluttering rivulet of joy

That only saw its own.

Luminiscent Monotony

It snowed in the mountains, hailed in the valleys and rained in the city. I walked down the muddy lanes of my neighbourhood, buoyed by a sense of excitement because the sky had been washed clean. I breathed in deep, ignoring the grey blasts from engines; and made my way to work.

The metro ride was done with a childlike gaiety and gazing out the window. As I walked down the stairs of the metro station to work, I noticed the clean grey roads with their neatly stacked traffic cones, scrubbed by the rains.

The sense of buoyancy vanished within a second as thoughts lurched in turmoil within me; I realised how urbanism makes robots out of us. How city life in its sheer repetitive and similarity makes us numb. Any part of the city would look no different than where I stood at ten am this morning—metal grey streets, muddy by-lanes, grumpy immigrants heading to work while the elite splash through the puddles in their cars, only to later berate the middle class inferior about this shoddy sense of dressing or mud spots on his shirt.

The Delhi sky is still a dull shade of grey, not a brightly washed blue and the sky in its all encompassing omnipresence seems to affect the people’s moods through mere colour. I begin to marvel about the hills where some lucky friends are ensconced and I find myself wondering, what does rain sound like on a roof in the jungle, uninterrupted by horns and music and technology? Would it not be music in itself, the sound of rain on the parapet akin to the sound of wheat husks falling onto the field of freshly harvested wheat while an army of mustard flowers hums methodically in the wind?

In the city today morning, when it was at the most tolerable that it could be, nothing had changed. People were still trudging to work, brown paper bag breakfast in hand, headphones fastened on, tapping away on phones and occasionally chuckling  “what a romantic day, wish we could go for a movie”. This conversation made my hopes rise and dash quicker than the woman next to me could text.

It is so disheartening to live in a city of robots. People talk the same, walk the same, wear the same, do the same. Life is all about work on week days, drink and fuck on weekends. I wish I would not use strong language here, but this is the true face of the city. People save money for spa getaways, fancier phones and even fancier homes. Everyone goes to the gym to be fit but prefers taking the lift or the escalator everywhere else; women fret over their skin while men worry about the beer belly. Yet, not one of them stops to think of resorting to a simpler lifestyle that in its own cycle takes care of everything.

Its disturbing that mere rain has made me so hugely happy and upset at the same time. I only wish I could walk away into the mountains where my mind, my eyes, my body will be set free to roam, to hear, to see and to be at peace amidst simpler people not charged up on android phones.

The fiercely cold mountain air can do me more good than the luminescent monotony of this neon-lit prison of the walking dead.