She Buried Him

He’s thundering on wheels in misty mountain roads

She’s blowing magic rings in duvet delight.

Distances measured on speedometers

Turn into averted eyes, on boulevards.

Boulevards, that once saw the same eyes

Hold hands so tenderly.

The poets speak of love, the hero of faith.

She buries that love in tears.

Tears, that refuse to traverse pathways they once had.

Pain and laughter are interchanging,

Much like their crossroads

Once race tracks, now dirt roads.

She knew they were a goodbye, when she buried him.

All along the pages of a journal—

Dust lathered piles of broken promises.

His drunken laughter from across the garden,

Now stirs a stammering spark in her withering flowers.

Too many words, like too many stolen glances,

Break the rhythym she sees in the humming trees.

Treading ever so softly on crushed leaves,

That are dried, forgotten reminders of their past.

In the numbing silence that now engulfs her,

She buried him. Far and deep.

Mountain Girl Problems

The silence of the mountains

Crackles within the burning wood

It screams into your city-honed mind

Myriad sounds that terrify and uplift

Chirping birds and sounds of “home”

Warm the fluttering heartache within you

Into throes of a welcoming sun.

The flapping wings of a bird flitting past

Remind you of your relished solitude

While the solitary mountain woman’s chores

Resonate methodically against the oncoming storm.

Mountain girl problems? Against all this?

They’re a fistful of snow.

22 leopards growl and grunt and I walk on, knowing they see me.

Srunching on dried oak leaves and mossy rocks, I move on.

Now, a bear threatens life as well. Oh well, thank god for pokey walking sticks.

Mountain girl problems. Chopping firewood too hardy for soft palms, too brittle for a hardy mind.

Squeezing toothpaste from a frozen tube while whitened hands refuse to move

Much like you, when you walked away.

Leaving a frozen shadow of you behind.

Walking along forest trails that are my new friends.

The moss that looks like mistletoe, and I kiss a dying red flower under it.

The trees that quietly watch me pass, whispering amongst themselves.

The men, oh the men here. Puffing beedis, chewing paan and wondering

If this girl needs city doctor help. It is crazy to live alone in a tiny cottage

That gets snowed in for over 8 days after the first snow fall.

Mountain girl problems. Controlling the urge to eat when provisions deplete.

Controlling the joy of seeing new faces, wanting to hug them for visiting.

Trying hard not to thrash people who say, “you’re so lucky to live here”.

They know not, what solitude brings. They know not, of the hunger of wild animals.

Mostly, the problems involve strength and temperament.

Mostly, I spend days lifting bucketfuls of water for weight training.

And racing sessions with my dog.

Mostly, I spend evenings wondering what Delhi is up to, when I am in bed by 730pm.

Mountain girl problems, they are many and they are few.

In the end, my fate is decided by the Camus kaleidoscope that asks me,

“Should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee?”

A Song For You

For Jennie Elliot, who left us 17 January 2014, but will live on in my heart forever. RIP brother.

It ain’t a life without your smile

It ain’t a moment to cherish and rise.

Your voice showing me the long miles

Ahead, it ain’t a place in time.

Dreams and visions of laughter, of song, of smoke.

Vanish slowly into that time.

That time which is the future, which won’t stop.

That time which is the past, where you stopped.

Guilt feeds into my cheer

Asking, why do you lie?

Nights go by with your eyes shining

Starlike, timeless, into my unstill mind.

A song for you won’t make things right.

A song for you won’t stop the time.

A song for you won’t make me smile.

It’ll only freeze this moment, in time.

The Second Homecoming in Shillong

As the pre snow hail, called “hyumun” locally softly patters outside my window and on the tin roof, I am taken back to the rolling green hills of Meghalaya. Most often, a flight can be the tedious wait toward a destination. Not so in the case of Delhi-Guwahati, where one is blessed with views of the Himalayas and the mighty Brahmaputra river barely twenty minutes post take-off.

My second trip to Shillong was a homecoming, the first being last year in September for recuperation from illness, perhaps more recuperation from life in a metro city.

I spend two hours gazing at the pure white of the peaks against the woolly white hue of the clouds. Nanda Devi, the Uttrakhand peaks and then the Kanchenjunga range keep me glued to the window. Just as I’m setting into a monotony, thinking other thoughts (similar to the effect of classical music), the mighty river makes itself visible through the clouds.

I don’t care much for Guwahati since it reminds me of the plains I grew up in but I’m sure it has as much beauty to offer as the hills that beckon me.

Shillong town’s beauty lies in its rolling hills, vast lakes (Umiam lake on the way up is a must stop) and it’s people. As the car passes through the city’s roads, I see women dressed in long aprons called "jainkyrshah" over their clothes, a tradition in Shillong; people munching on kwai (betel leaf and nut); liquor shops lined up alongside an impressive four lane highway and a scarred hillside baring deep red soil, recovering slowly from the onslaught of human infrastructure.

My home for a week is a Khasi home in upper Lumparing. Light green walls, linoleum floors and dainty white lace curtains greet me as does the loveliest flower I have ever seen—the “Lady Slipper”.

I’m tired from a long journey and after enjoying a breathtaking view from the terrace of the town, a monastery fluttering my heart with its prayer flags and a church swept clean next door, I retreat for a nap.

Khasi people are obsessed with cleanliness. Even dustpans are washed, wiped and kept away. Community cleaning on national holidays ensures that most streets are clean, grass cut short and fences painted. Despite the kwai chewing culture here, there are little or no spit marks to be seen.

The Khasis have a matriarchal society and it’s an interesting contrast for a North Indian girl to see—women donning the mantle of head of the house and men living with the wife’s family, children taking on the mother’s surname.

Music lies at the heart of Shillong. It is quaint to see how the people have combined tribal tradition with modern life. Church sermons are held in Khasi which as a language has a Roman script; western dresses are covered up with the checkered long apron, songs strum out of nearly every house and life is lived in harmony.

Food here is simple, like the people. “Jadoh” or a plateful of rice, meat, lentils, salad and hot chutney is served in special “Dukan Jadoh”, the answer to North Indian “dhabas”.

It is sad to see the effects of alcohol here though. A number of youth have no jobs and spend their time drinking away the monotony of a seemingly purposeless life.

I attend a traditional Khasi wedding where the beautiful dresses, the understated materialism and yet incredible happiness on all faces sweep me off my feet. Food is served in small guest rooms and no one complains. Everyone is happy, everyone is satisfied.

The people here are not very expressive. They’re shy and they’re a mystery, atleast to me. It’s not necessary that a Khasi person will smile back at you, or immediately come to your assistance. But it’s not because they’re rude. Their actions become generous with time; and no words are ever spoken when they do a kindness to another. I experienced this when as a vegetarian I was struggling with the food and when my hostess learnt of this, she quietly woke up early one morning and cooked me a North Indian meal of lima beans curry, eggplant and rice.

Most love, affection, anger, hurt is expressed in their eyes. And I’m slowly learning to appreciate the beauty of these people.

Religion is big here and Sundays are spent dressing up their best for church, where young love begins to sprout in shy smiles, elderly people chanting on their rosaries for heaven and animated sermons by dedicated pastors. One such pastor was so warm toward me, I could have convinced my atheist self to attend a sermon just to hear him speak.

After the madness of a wedding, I am invited to help at the bride’s house. All the women are here, while the men are sent to clean up at the guest house. Having been a single child with no siblings or cousins, I’ve always wondered what family truly feels like. In a tiny kitchen, eleven people squeezed in on small wooden stools, sipping “sha” (red tea) around a small coal stove, I now begin to understand what “family” really means. Being invited to share in the intimacy warms my heart to tears but I hold them back, smiling and wishing I could kiss each one of these ladies to show my affection toward them. Bahun, my friend, politely translates what her five aunts and mother are trying to convey to me in a mix of Khasi, Hindi and English—“we hope you’re not thinking we’re fighting; this is how sisters talk. We wish we could talk to you more”… I cannot explain the beauty of being in a community beyond such a simple statement. The feeling of inclusion is immense.

The next day, we celebrate Bahun’s birthday and I try and memorise the “bah” names of all the men in the family. It is an exhausting and boggling process and here’s what I’ve grasped- Bahbah, bahdeng, bahrit, bahdon. All the “bah” names mean eldest son, middle son, youngest son etc. Names like Hame, Wanna, Daphi, Adorea, Daker, Lit, Nahmar make my list longer but my love for them grows as I am fondly called Kong Deng. I did secretly want a Khasi name!

The last two days of my visit now appear and I feel heavy, having to leave so soon. We decide to go camping. My fellows in this are Mark (bahdeng) and Andrew (bahrit). Andrew’s dog Brunzi is my special friend and obliges me with a perfect camera pose.

We go camping near the local airport of Umroi. It’s amusing to see a road running right through the airport parking lot. Our camp spot is next to a deep, green stream and no human establishment in sight. We walk through fields of ginger and sweet potato to reach a pebbled, sandy bank, lush green grass and fresh running water.

Bahun, bahbah and a little girl called Dama help us carry tents, food and utensils to our spot. They leave and we begin to set up camp. Bahrit has promised to teach me how to catch fish with local techniques and although I know I won’t eat fish, I’m eager to catch one. Angling as a sport also has many, many takers in Shillong.

Mark and Andrew begin to set up the tents while I busy myself with the task of collecting firewood, deeply enjoying the process of chopping wood with a large khukri (knife/dwarf sword).  We light a fire and evening hunger pangs are satiated with red tea and Maggi (I doubt our country would survive without these two minute noodles).

Two little cowherds now drop by the campsite and I have a rather funny, exasperating conversation with them since they know only Khasi. I do manage to give them food, know their names (Damanbha and Khlembok) and am asked to name their new calf who I promptly call “Pitkoo”.

Bahrit uses the presence of the cows to get fresh cow dung which mixed with wheat flour is excellent bait for fish. I, however, refuse to touch it, watching Bahrit make the dough and fix it on our fishing rod and bamboo poles used for angling, locally.

I am now told that in the middle of the stream lies a whirlpool and many have drowned here. So, it’s not surprising to hear sounds of walking right outside our tents in the middle of the night.

Bahrit, for a while becomes a little boy, when he burns his hand (rather badly) on a hot stone from the stove and I mother him, fixing him up with toothpaste rubbed onto the burn.

Beer and homemade sohiong (Meghalaya cherry) wine makes all three of us happier as our country chicken roasts on a makeshift bamboo barbeque and we prepare to make curry and rice. After the drive and hours spent setting up camp, we’ve all got ravenous apetites and silence descends for a while as we munch.

Now, Khlain (meaning strong), a middleaged man from a nearby village visits us. He is Bahrit’s friend and he also conveys a message to me—“ you and I don’t share a language but we have love in our hearts and that should be enough”. He smiles after saying this, baring betel stained teeth and a heart of gold. He regales me with Hindi songs he picked up (laughing hysterically at the end of each one) but has no idea of what they mean.

I go to bed happy, leaving the men to converse late into the night.

I re-visit Shillong café, an uptown little retreat in town where I met Lou Majaw, a maverick rockstar whose mutlicoloured, unmatching socks , leather cuffs, waist length silver hair and short pants have him etched in my memory.

It’s nice to meet work colleagues in a place where none of us work. It’s different and amusing, especially when we are kicked out of a bar because women are not allowed (and I’m the only one).

My visit ends and I leave with a heavy heart. Mark and Bahrit drop me off, with a bottle of hot local chillie pickle. I know I will be back again; to unearth this place’s secrets and mine too.

Shillong, nga ieid ia phi (I love you).

If you're interested in camping holidays in Meghalaya, message me and follow us on Instagram: Tented_Tribals

This is My Story

Four years old, plucking white jasmine flowers in a tattered, tiny wicker basket

Hoping to spread a fragrance into the slowly rotting lives of a fighting couple

A year passes by and now visuals include broken beer bottles thrust just an an inch away from flesh

Threats, tears and fights as she sits by the courtyard door, gulping down fear

Wondering when she will see them hug and smile again.

At seven, life becomes about fooling the creche nanny into believing she is asleep.

Forcing dreams to come to her, asking the mind to play movies as she does even today.

Teenage meant DOS games, cheap English music and telephone conversations held in incandescence

In a hot study room, far off from the main house where grandmother fought off asthma to cook a square meal.

School meant making chart drawings that could never compete with the straight lines drawn by mothers.

Embroidering with vengeance, for an extra grade, knowing deep down she was the only one in the classroom doing this alone.

Silence would come naturally, the only alone time coming in the toilet where she spent hours scanning newspapers for happy stories.

Stories became essential to living, they still do; except now, she creates them to bely reality.

Invitations to birthday parties were joyous occasions; Junk food satiated the need for a mother’s love

And yet, she drifted away from the biological mother—wanting to act cool when she visited as the whole classroom stared in confusion and relief at having their own mothers back home.

Homework was about individual struggles and when a teacher got her homemade cookies, she lit up.

Food was so essential, and still remains; except now she cooks with a vehemence—my child will never suffer this.

As the years passed, sports became the punching bag against bitterness, drugs and alcohol.

Each “takk” of the ball against the racquet, raising up dust and tiny hairs was revolt.

Stories became so essential, she sometimes altered her own reality and smiled when people walked away intrigued.

Pity was hated, pity was scorned. So were those that gave it to her liberally.

This is my story and I am not ashamed to share it anymore.

Moving to the mountains because

City noises were so loud she thought she was shrinking.

In poems, came out words, expressing feelings she never knew she really had.

In crowds, she still stands in a corner, puzzled at moving jaws, hidden smiles and open politics.

She cringes away from all of it—social behaviour, not something she ever grasped.

She can’t sing or chant or speak with the rest, in unison.

And she wonders, why it’s so. Her voice never matches that scale. Perhaps, its nothing.

Perhaps, she is only tone deaf. To voices too.

She spends hours gazing at people, wondering what stories lie within and around them.

She needs to be alone to express and the air around her is all that listens.

So do her dogs. She likes to talk to them. Their responses, unworded, speak more to her

Than the daily phone calls of her father.

Deaths have taken away people from her and now?

Now, she only shrugs and says “all right”

Is that rude, she wonders?

She feels most keenly when she is alone and yet she craves human touch, human love

Human words that whisper to her, “it’s going to be okay, I’m here”.

She wants to walk away and yet she is drawn in.

Peace lies in puppies and walks and staring blankly at the wall.

This is what life is about now.

Instead of work presentations, heels and thoughts of “settling down”.

She’s okay with it, but are you?

This is my story and I am not ashamed to share it.

Life is a snow flake and you’ll never see its million shapes till you really open your eyes to it.

Life is a tree—standing still but really, constantly changing, moving.

To her, life is this and this is what it might remain.

This is my story.

When Guides Become Nainital's Tourists

Hasty plans, crinkled shirts and over-used down jackets always make for a good holiday. It’s an untold delight to become a customer in your own profession; here is the story of when two guides take a holiday to one of India’s most beaten down tourist destinations—Nainital.

Usually, I spend my precious off days in Kasar Devi, a small ridge hidden in the lower Himalayas; time is spent drinking cups of hot mint tea with friends, sharing stories of quirky travellers we welcome and singing songs for bonfires to come. However, this time, I decided to visit Nainital, a place I spent delightful childhood summers in, untainted by the wisdom of being bored or being judgemental.

Nainital, a hotspot destination for all classes of people has two sides to the lake- Tallital and Mallital. Tallital is where one usually enters from and Mallital sits comfortably close to public grounds called “The Flats” and a mosque at the lake front.

Since Nainital is also a summer home to more than a few governement officials, the roads leading to it are phenomenally good. On the way, I stop for a “malta” (type of orange) under a tarpaulin sheet where a man eeks out a living from home-grown maltas and corn. There is an old cemetery here too, which one can miss in the blink of an eye. Walk around, amidst climbing skullcaps, broken graves and lovingly engraved tombstones for those long gone; one feels an eery magic in the place, guarded by handsome cedar trees.

Upon entering Nainital, I was hesitant. A noisy bustop, dozens of vehicles and people, and crude hotel agents hound us and chaos seems not far from the cities of the plains. I decide to stay at the “Lake and Woods” guest house, perched atop a steep road, just above the Tallital rickshaw stand. Priced at Rs 1500/- a night for a lake view room, this place is for the budget traveller who also likes to soothe her aesthetic sense and keeps away from the gaudiness of other hotels that mark each alternate building in Nainital.

The room is basic and clean. After a hot shower, I decide to walk alongside the famed “Mall Road”, keenly turning a deaf ear to the men offering boat rides on the lake. I want to experience Nainital for what it was before it became a noisy cocoon for summer burnt city people.

Lunch at the “Café de Mall” is average but the impromptu dance of a little girl seems to brighten more than my palate. I spend the evening listening to music and watching the lake front bejewelled in fairy lights as evening sets in. A great thing about Nainital is that Mall Road closes to all traffic after 7pm and one can walk at leisure, without the fear of being run over.

Next morning, the bright sun awakens me and the glittering green waters of the lake pull me out to the town. I begin my day with a ride on the cable car to “Snow View”. At Rs 150/- a person, the cable car and waiting areas surprise me with their cleanliness and punctuality. I am delighted to give in to the giddiness of this fragile ride and watch the boats and yachts turn into ants as I climb higher.

At “Snow View”, the only things of attraction are the old government guest house and a horse named Gulfam. While the guest house reminds me of doll houses (that I never had or played with as a child), Gulfam is a handsome young creature, well trained and well groomed. It’s nice to see people treat their animals well, in a country such as mine. I leave smiling, having fed Gulfam a packetful of biscuits, the stickiness of his tongue still tingling on my hand.

“Snow View” has the usual tourist trappings of gun games, video games, joy rides, binocular views of the Himalayas and shops where you can dress traditionally and pose for photographs, guaranteed to be delivered, printed, “in 20 minutes”.

I have a fascination for animals so my next pit-stop is the zoo. Two Royal Bengal tigers, leopards, a Himalayan black bear, barking deer, pheasants, mountain goats and blue sheep keep me wide-eyed although seeing the unusually small enclosures for the tigers hurts me. Why must we live in mansions and these grand creatures in cages so small that the proud tiger can only speak out a cry of sheer helplessness against the teasing, noisy crowds and its imprisonment. I leave, lest I pick a fight, muttering to myself that I’d rather go back to the wildlife sanctuary I live in, than interact with humans so bereft of humanity. I firmly believe, animals have more character and life than any human.

My next stop is Gurney House, Jim Corbett’s home in Nainital. Lovingly restored and well maintained by a Delhi-based Indian lady, the house proudly shows off Corbett’s trophies, old photographs and even his bed! Visiting Gurney House is a dream come true. A place, hidden so well in the chaos of a tourist town, is truly a well found gem and I’m sure to come back to its sunlit porch and green armchairs, to daydream and shut out the noise around, to imagine it as it was in Corbett’s lifetime.

Noise and I do not sit very well, so I head to Kilbury. A 13km drive from Nainital (above the High Court premises), Kilbury has no “destination” for a tourist, but is a seamless road in the midst of thick forests for the traveller looking for more. The view of the Himalayas from this road is as vibrant, beckoning and mystical as it is from the Binsar Wildlife Sanctuary (considered by many to be the best view of the snow peaks from Kumaon). Kilbury feels like home, in its hidden wisdom, in its call to only a few, in its winding roads leading nowhere. For bikers, this road is sheer heaven; I promise you it can be more rewarding than a motorbike circuit (those F1 like things).

I end my sightseeing activities with boiled gram and instant noodles at a roadside shop which a disabled young man runs with determination and an exuberance worthy of note.

I feel delight at having discovered a book store amidst the shops selling trinkets, gifts and candles. Narain Book Shop is on the main Mall Road and its owner, a quiet old man, seems like a man of a few words. He gives me a knowing smile when I pick up a copy of Himalayan folk tales and strikes a conversation. If you’re good with words and can recognise a photo of Corbett pasted on the wall behind his chair, he might even show you a second edition copy of Corbett’s books—his prized possession in this mania of boating, eating tourists who cannot live anything but the noise of humans, even in Nainital’s quiet hills.

I end my day with dinner at The Machan—nothing worthy of note, but on a budget, the food is passable. As I leave, I smile, remembering my childhood days spent at the Commissioner’s residence, exploring gardens and forests, watching boys play football at St. Joseph’s, being accompanied by the “gunner” to the Tibetan market, walking the dogs on guarded streets.

It’s good to come back as a complete stranger, a grown woman, a traveller. And it helps to have a GoPro and a Desert Storm for company!

Memory Box

What do you do with the things people collect?

That kaleidoscope they emptied together, so full of sounds and suitcases and bees besides all the glittering broken bangles making images come alive

Those leaves she collected to bookmark the stories she read, hoping they would become real around and within her

That laughter out in the garden the wild cherry blossoms brightened and bent toward

That annoying habit of using his one favourite word each month, as he said

I’m going to shove my things into the room

I was bedazzled by the comic timing of it all

I want to eat some grub and buy some tuck for later

I always wish to help my chum with everything he needs.

What do you do with these things? These things that people collect.

The shoe box he used to keep receipts, paper clips and poems written on post-its, hoping to colour up the monotony within.

The old newspapers she used for bookshelves, keeping the botoxed faces downward and the pictures of landscapes facing the books that she held so dear

The stencils she bought and used on everything that had a blank—just so it would cover up the blankness she felt in the 9-5 job

The football matches he screamed during, wondering if he could do that in a glasshouse office

The way she flirted over a pint of beer, making men hate her

Who knew, she had dream catchers to help her sleep every night?

So, what do you do with these things that people collect?

What do you do with the pain of the beauty of quirks

The way he wiped each finger delicately on a tissue while bruised knuckles exhibited a hardiness in the boxing ring

The way she lay for days in bed in crinkly pajamas while the world outside never saw her without a pair of heels

The way he would allow vodka shots to let him dance while any day at the metro he was seen giving in to the crowd, always the last one inside.

The way he obsessed over a bicycle while expensive wines and liquers were what the world would remember him for.

The way he let out cries of pain, singing songs of love, singing songs of despair while all we saw was a man in hiking gear, droning out names of birds and trees.

What do you do with these things that people collect?

What do I do with these things?

When all these people leave or are gone, these things are all I have left.

I can only write about them, reminisce them and push myself.

Tell myself, it’s okay. These things can keep life at bay and smiles up front.

I can wait, leave this poem incomplete.

For someone, something, someday to finish it for the lines I collect.