The Niece Tales

The Niece has always liked stories. She likes her books, is the kind who has to be read to every night. Of late she likes to hear oral stories, she is quite over books as she once informed me (not exactly those words but something similar). Others seem more adept at keeping up with her appetite but I have to work with the few incidents that take place when I meet her. The last story dates back to January of this year so my output has been meagre but here it is.

GOOD FERRY, BAD FERRY

Dee and her Dada hurried to the station to meet Anu Periamma and Shibu Mama. It was a bright, sunny day and Dee was off to the Sydney Opera House to see her very first play, it was Charlie & Lola too! They just got there in time for the train was already at the station and they hurried in before the guards closed the door. Everyone said, Dee look outside the window and see the stations passing by but she was far too excited to sit still! And then they were at Town Hall station and Dada said Dee you will have to walk a long distance to the Opera House. And Dee said, I am a big girl, I can walk. And so she did!

It was a hot day. But her Mum had given Dee a cap and she put it on. And it stayed firmly on.

They were a little late and Charlie & Lola was about to start and they hurried to their seats. And then Dee forgot about everything else except Charlie & Lola till the ogre came. Everyone thought Dee would be scared and indeed she looked a little pale. But the ogre turned out to be nice after all and Dee told herself, you silly billy you needn’t be scared of the ogre.

And then the play got over and they all walked out into the bright sunshine and everyone asked, Dee were you scared of the ogre? And she said of course not!

But now there was a breeze and Dee was having a hard time keeping her cap down. And then there was a sudden gust and the cap flew from her head. Oh no, cried Dee, my cap’s flying away! Dada ran and tried to catch it but the cap just flew by and next you know it was on a ferry called Trixiebelle. Everyone – Dee, Dada, Anu Periamma, Shibu Mama – ran to catch the ferry and get back the cap. But Trixiebelle was a bad ferry, she loved to make trouble! And with a toot she pulled out of the harbour. And with her went Dee’s cap.

Just then Dee spotted another ferry, Pixiebelle and said, Pixiebelle will you help me? And Pixiebelle, being a gentle and good ferry, said of course. So on hopped Dee, Dada, Anu Periamma and Shibu Mama and Pixiebelle then pulled out of the harbour too with a toot to give chase. But as fast as Pixiebelle was, Trixiebelle was even faster. Soon poor Pixiebelle got tired and Dee lost sight of Trixiebelle. And with it went her cap!

Pixiebelle then pulled into one of the coves. She was sad she couldn’t help but Dee said, never mind, Pixiebelle and thank you for helping us. Pixiebelle said if they walked a bit, they might find Trixiebelle in another cove. So Dee had to walk again in the hot sun, this time without a cap! After they had walked a while, Dee suddenly spotted Trixibelle. There she is, she yelled and ran towards the ferry with everyone else following her. Trixibelle tried to pull away and escape but this time the Captain had her firmly in hand. Dee then went up to the Captain and said my cap is on this ferry and I want it back. The Captain said, I have seen no cap on this ferry but come in and search. At this Trixiebelle protested but the Captain said, shush and she went quiet. Then everyone – Dee, Dada, Anu Periamma and Shibu Mama – looked high and low but could not find the cap! Then Dee sat down and thought a bit. She then looked carefully under the seats on top of the ferry and sure enough Trixiebelle had hidden it away carefully under a seat. There’s my cap, yelled Dee and everyone said my you are a clever girl for having found it. And Trixiebelle sulked but no one paid her any attention except the captain who gave her a good scolding.

A little distance away was the zoo. Should we go there? said Anu Periamma. No, said Dee, we will go there another day and see the giraffes! And that is another story!

_*_

In its retelling, I often forget details but the Niece is always on hand to correct any deviations. I wish I could illustrate it for her and make a hand made book but for this I have to rely on my brother and cousin :-)

A beginning was made with the picture accompanying this story which is done by my brother and illustrates the niece and the ogre.

Dahanu-A Town by the Sea*

The guide books said there was nothing to see in Dahanu and they were right.

Why did we go there? The hoped for Easter weekend break had dwindled down to a day’s outing so we decided to chance Dahanu hoping to spot a few chikoo orchards and the odd Parsi mansion and with a bit of luck even Warli settlements. Instead the road out set the tone for the day, with NH-8 passing through uninspired landscape. The jumble of traffic on it was not helped by what seemed to be various overpasses under construction.  Every now and then a township (Welcome to Vegas!) claimed to provide serene, green landscapes that were nowhere in sight.

Turning off from NH-8 was a relief but arriving in Dahanu in the mid-afternoon heat, we knew the town wasn’t promising. Most tourists come for the beach; along it are the kind of guest houses that are populated by mid-level government functionaries and small businessmen enjoying a break. The waters around here are slightly muddy and the beach has a few indifferent attractions.

But being there also made me think a bit about authenticity. Now and then the papers in Australia talk about country towns despoiled by the tourist trade and of course they mean towns that have visibly lost their actual life and instead are reduced to presenting a gaudy front for visitors complete with cute cafes that offer familiar food, knick-knacks and the like. Dahanu is poised somewhere in between, a bit like a second rate tourist town but also still the kind of town that once constituted the “native place” that one visited for long summer holidays. The kind of holidays spent with relatives where little was done except eat and while away the hours and perhaps once in a while visit the bazaar for the odd meal or cinema visit.  In fact a few of the houses with their "thinnais" reminded me of a long forgotten visit to Kumbakonam. Sort of from a time when you weren't necessarily in search of the picturesque and new experiences.  Though the odd spot in the place was charming.

Though we didn't do anything much apart from hastily buying a few chikoos from the market as evidence of the visit, it turned out that the natives were friendly enough - like bailing our car out of a tiny lane. And on a hot day, the town had its own version of the public water fountains found in cities for passers by.

Around Mumbai there were a lot of quirky stores that trade in Indian kitsch, it's sort of the Indian hipster version of converting/appropriating working class fare into "cool" products.  At least some of that kitsch lies in small towns like Dahanu that are innocent of the ironic.  Perhaps the shops and products were on my mind when I took these photographs. Though the gola syrups brought with them nostalgia - I used to have these at school in my unsupervised childhood but the adult me wasn't brave enough to try one at the beach.

 

Leaving Dahanu, we decided to take the inner road and it proved to be far better than the highway.  Along the way lay villages and small towns. Some villages looked dirt poor, others were prosperous as announced by large, garishly coloured houses and two wheelers.  There were unlovely small towns that looked right out of English, August.  And everywhere the promise of residential development projects. Some parts like the Ghats beyond Palghar were so beautiful that the thought of this made one feel anarchic,  you wanted to shout "a pox on all this development!"

At one point my brother asked "Do you think the lives of these people will ever change?". And I had no answer. 

Returning to Mumbai, a traffic jam consumed most of the evening hours and almost wiped away the day out.  It had been a haphazard kind of day, had we stayed for a few days and motored around a bit perhaps we would have seen more - though even as I write it I feel dilettantish.  But perhaps not every visit need be fun or a revelation.

* The title of this post is taken from the website for the place - it does have tourist pretensions after all!

PS: While googling Dahanu, I found a novel had been written about the place. Who knew the place had been immortalised in fiction?

A Poem

Its quite awhile since I posted a poem.

And though of all of us my grandmother is the most sad, so sad that when she looks down at her feet resignedly - as she often does - every pore of her seems aflame with sadness, it is also summer in her garden.  The gardenia, which she is partial to, is in full bloom. The mangoes have been plucked and a small amount of honey was brought down for the first time in my memory from the mango tree outside her house.

It seems a good time as any for a bit of Neruda.

Ode to Sadness

Sadness, scarab

with seven crippled feet,

spiderweb egg,

scramble-brained rat,

bitch's skeleton:

No entry here.

Don't come in.

Go away.

Go back

south with your umbrella,

go back

north with your serpent's teeth.

A poet lives here.

No sadness may

cross this threshold.

Through these windows

comes the breath of the world,

fresh red roses,

flags embroidered with

the victories of the people.

No.

No entry.

Flap

your bat's wings,

I will trample the feathers

that fall from your mantle,

I will sweep the bits and pieces

of your carcass to

the four corners of the wind,

I will wring your neck,

I will stitch your eyelids shut,

I will sew your shroud,

sadness, and bury your rodent bones

beneath the springtime of an apple tree.

Bangalore

Brief visit to Bangalore to meet friends who I was meeting after a long time. It all felt lovely - though you do worry a bit about the friends having to go out of the way to accommodate your schedule. Like a trip on a Sunday afternoon to see the  Maitreya Buddha Dhyana Vidya Viswalayam which turned out to be a fair distance away (Bangalore traffic of course is as chaotic as any in India, there are only degrees of differences).

I can't say I am big on new age philosophies or meditation so the place itself was of little interest. But the company was lively, the landscape charming and the place itself serene so it turned out to be a pleasant outing.

There are villages around the place - some very evocative of ancestral villages - so out came my camera but I ended up with just a few  because it was end of day.

Bangalore itself has changed a lot from when I last visited. There is the long drive from the airport, the cars on the roads, the different languages on the street and the  buildings of modern India that are deluxe, prestige and fill the landscape. In other cities perhaps one thinks of it as the natural remaking of a city by a new generation, in Bangalore you are filled with a sense of wistfulness, regret for not visiting it when the city was at its best. Because the city is one of few in the country that has an aesthetic coherence.  Even the yellow distinctive road signs that dot the city now have an air of melancholy. And though there are moments like rain and darkening skies on a Tuesday evening or the blaze of colour afforded by the roadside trees that remain you know that the city's genteelness, its mellow beauty will not last.

 

Still, the trip felt happy.  One thinks often of friends (and family) but the pleasure of meeting is different. There is happiness in hearing a voice, in banter, seeing a face - the intensity of this catches one by surprise even in the closest of relationships. So perhaps a small thanksgiving for such events is in order.

What I Know about TV Dramas

I rarely watch sitcoms, soaps, TV dramas and the like. Not for any particular reason other than being scatty and impatient when it comes to anything that requires prolonged attention.  That and the direness of most of them. Sometimes though they come seeking you as in the case of the three serials that my father watches (the rest of the time luckily its just cricket and the news).  These occur in the time slot of 8-9:30 when simply being sociable and in the living room will result in deep knowledge of the tedious details of all three. This is particularly awful because even in the tedious world of TV, Indian TV achieves new depths of tediousness. 

Of the three, the serial my father is most devoted to is Jhansi Ki Rani. He assures me it was "very good in the beginning", in which case its deterioration is spectacular.  The only history in it lies in the barest details, the rest is wish fulfillment of a kind that is supremely absurd and surreal.  Today, for e.g. a shouting sort gave a speech on the besting of Queen V by the home grown version. One need not be a fan of Victoria to know that a Queen who presided over an empire cannot strictly be compared to a naive, albeit brave, Queen of a small Indian kingdom.  Other sorts preen and parade through this travesty. The Indians are always brave, the English are always rascals.  Horrifyingly some English folk are played by Indians in bad wigs and  white paint. Mysteriously some have a modern American twang. Its all about as accurate as a work by Frank Miller  - but stripped off his inventiveness and layered with the verbosity of Indian historicals.

This is followed by a soap so ludicrous that I can't be bothered to set down any details except to note the abundance of over dressed women and the abundance of very slow episodes.

Things get down scaled a bit in Pavitra Rishta, the kind of chawl drama that was popular way back when television was quite different. Beneath its updated facade beats the heart of the Indian social drama.-it is in fact based on a Tamil serial, Thirumati Selvam. I can understand how it might hook people in, its like an Indian Packed to the Rafters replete with actors from the 80s/90s in older roles.  But one tires fairly quickly, the novelty of a simpler soap wears off pretty fast.

At which point it all ends and normal programming resumes. Thankfully.

On Beauty-II

Age is not all decay; it is the ripening, the swelling, of the fresh life within, that withers and bursts the husk.- George MacDonald

There is a beauty in youth.

And there is a beauty in old age (picture via the Sartorialist).

Of course it helps if you are Joan Burstein.

But that beauty is also in everyday folk.  As seen in this picture of my aunt's mother. I never come away without being touched by her kindness, the gentle beauty of her face.

Somewhere in between there is middle age which is rarely lovely. Youth is lost and the husk is yet to burst open.  But there is the promise of it and that is enough.

On the Road to Poona

Travelling to Pune always reminds me of the time when my parents lived at CME and I used to take the train every other weekend from Mumbai to meet them. Being a   cash poor and time rich student, I usually hopped on to any available empty train and spent most of the ride admiring the scenery or writing furiously in my notebook. Some of those pieces made it into the student magazine but most are lost, their vanishing a little unnoticed and perhaps justifiably unsung. The more common route these days is the Expressway and though the buses are quick and efficient, something of the romance of the trip is lost, especially the arrival into Karjat and the climb and descent from Khandala. A mid travel eating spot remains and though this centralised facility is a little different from the quick grabs from a station or unscheduled stop, the eats on offer remain somewhat similar. I took a few quick snaps on the break. 

The staples of train travel - nuts, berries, fruits are of course still around.

As is the vada pav and the omelette pav.  The Karjat sellers would be swamped but now things are a lot more leisurely.  The meal I bought reminded me of a line from English August, where an urban type becomes a babu in rural Maharashtra. Spying a market meal, he thinks of it with a cartoon bubble - Hullo, my name is cholera, what's yours? I survived  my meal just like August.

What I don't remember is the Science at Home. I was intrigued by this - who runs it? - but the bus left before I could ask questions.

In Pune, I caught up with friends and family.  We went to Kirkee, which is much changed. Mid way through my trip we took a leisurely drive through the cantonment. Which has also changed but the old bungalows survive.  I am not overly sentimental about Army life but there is something of an ease in  being among things that formed part of a life already left behind.

Visiting old friends in Pune also reminded me of the Marathi Natyasangeet tapes that used to play in our hostel rooms.  There was one particular song I liked and never found in a tape - of course it is on youtube.

Gorai

Pictorial posts are what I call "lazy as fuck" posts - though there is a degree of effort in uploading the pictures.

These pictures were taken on a morning trip to Gorai, part of some downtime with the bro.  I was seeing the place after many years and in parts it was quite unchanged. In many ways it remains a sleepy village with a distinctly East Indian/Portuguese Catholic flavour.  It turned out to be a pleasant excursion. Here are the better pics (the camera is having a bit of a workout here).

Front of a House

AB at my window

Cross at a Square

Bougainvillea

On the Porch

House at the end of the street

East Indian movie poster

Hibiscus

Pink is the new Black

At the Beach

Tadgola/Toddy fruit

Salt Pans

Vegetable Farms

First Mangoes