In the name of a Rose

Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;

- The Bard

Everything. Almost everything has a name. A name to peg it to, a name to exalt, a name to tarnish, a name to remember, a name to forget. Strange, since there are so many of them. Why?

Since there are so many of them names overlap. The rose in the vase of your table is also as much called a rose as the thousands growing wildly in some soft hued valley. The name chases the roses back to the carnation, or on a lovers lip. When lovers make love in a bed of roses, red and unsullied, is it’s the name that is crushed or the rose?

“Nature and signature never change” – The Bacchant

Shakespeare is wrong! Why does a monkey want to be man, why does a poor want to be rich, why does the stupid want to be happy, why does Celal want to be Galip? Why then?

“If we touched it with the tip of a finger, it would feel like something between iron and copper. If we took it into our palm, it would burn. If we tasted it, it would be full-bodied, like salted meat. If we took it between our lips, it would fill our mouths. If we smelled it, it’d have the scent of a horse. If it were a flower, it would smell like a daisy, not a red rose.”

- The Bandit.

The name is a name; it is not its meaning. As the thinker says, the letters of our names are engraved on the lines of our faces, wash it, scrub it, do whatever you want, it never goes. The cloak of inherited uniqueness. Ha!

Only man has names. Strange!

Yesterday, I went to a exhibition of photographs by Raghu Rai at National Gallery of Modern Art, with few of my friends from college. My friends here were photographers themselves, but for me it was a novel experience. I have been to quite a few exhibitions of painting, but my exposure to good photographs was limited to those of Shibnath Bose – slide shows after treks and expeditions. Obviously, then, the prerequisites of a good shot for me were strong lines, insightful perspective, a beautiful out-of-the-world scene to draw the moment from, and of course a mélange of colours that only nature can offer.

But yesterday I received a jolt, albeit a pleasant one. Here mostly the frames were in black and whites, and it was mostly the India I see around me, and seldom stop to notice. However, the perspective and lines in the photo, what they call the composition, was impeccable, Da Vinci-like. At times, he used reflection of light to great use: be it on the windshield of a car, or window panes. It was tough to believe that most of these were taken way before the digital camera came in, such was the exactness of the angles. This is expected of any good photographer, to earn them their bread and butter, I suppose.

The brilliance, according to me, lied elsewhere. The photographs combined the energy and chaos of India, with a slice of time and history. Be it wrestlers in Babughat, Camel merchants of Pushkar, or cart-pushers of Delhi , it made for great re-reading sessions like poetry of Eliot and essays of Pamuk. The significant others, employed the slow exposure technique which rendered a meditative quality in the monochromes. Ustad Zakir Hussain on tabla, Pt. Gandharva with sitars flanking him, Pt Bhimsen Joshi, Indira Ghandhi, Mother Teresa, a non descript tribal woman from Tripura, took over the white walls of the gallery like zeppelins falling from a cloudless sky. It transcended the moment it captured and became a reality by itself. Hats off!

You are the king of smooth — enough said. Take the What Pulp Fiction Character Are You? quiz.

Mankind learnt to paint. He painted on the walls of caves, on paper, on canvas, celebrating discovering doodling. The fall came when he tried to imitate and communicate with paints: the Great Renaissance! Came technology, came photographs and image processing, and relieved the brush of this worrisome burden. Again it learnt to play, and take the line out for a walk.

Mankind learnt to make sounds. He tapped wood, blew on pipes, and strummed on strings. To the beat of his heart, to the rhythm of his soul, he played. Slowly, he learnt to send signals with sounds and beats. Then he learnt to communicate and imitate the sounds and signals. Music became signals. Reduced, for the sake of the advance of civilization, to a mere tool of communication. Again came technology and rescued the lost notes. Now, music is again for happiness’ sake.

Mankind discovered to write. His circles and crosses on a blank page began to make sense, and he knew he could find expression. He wrote alone. Then more along with him wrote. Slowly, man wrote to tell stories, to talk about happenings. It became a tool of communication and imitation, like multiplication tables. Then came TV and Camera and Internet and whatnot, still we write to communicate. We type in reports and dabble with presentations. What was once the muse of a free mind today is used to chain it down to numbers and figures. Shameful, for the art of the writing, and its lost beauty of expression!

Did it make any sense?

Hazaaron khwahishen aisi

Hazaaron khwahishen aisi ke har khwahish pe dum nikle
bahot nikle mere armaan, lekin phir bhi kam nikle

daray kyon mera qaatil? kya rahega us ki gardan par?
voh khoon, jo chashm-e-tar se umr bhar yoon dam-ba-dam nikle

nikalna khuld se aadam ka soonte aaye hain lekin
bahot be-aabru hokar tere kooche se hum nikle

bharam khul jaaye zaalim! teri qaamat ki daraazi ka
agar is tarahe par pech-o-kham ka pech-o-kham nikle

magar likhvaaye koi usko khat, to hum se likhvaaye
hui subaha, aur ghar se kaan par rakh kar qalam nikle

hui is daur mein mansoob mujh se baada aashaami
phir aaya voh zamaana, jo jahaan mein jaam-e-jaam nikle

hui jin se tavaqqa khastagi ki daad paane ki
voh hum se bhi zyaada khasta e tegh e sitam nikle

mahobbat mein nahin hai farq jeenay aur marnay ka
usi ko dekh kar jeetay hain, jis kaafir pe dam nikle

zara kar jor seene par ki teer-e-pursitam nikle
jo wo nikle to dil nikle, jo dil nikle to dam nikle

Khuda ke vaaste pardaah na kaabe se uthaa zaalim
kaheen aisa na ho yaan bhi wahi kaafir sanam nikle

kahaan maikhane ka darwaaza Ghalib aur kahaan vaaiz
par itna jaantay hain kal voh jaata tha ke hum nikle

hazaaron khwahishen aisi ke har khwahish pe dam nikle
bahot nikle mere armaan, lekin phir bhi kam nikle

- Mirza Asadullah Ghalib.

A Special Bond 2: a review

When I walked in, the theatre was filled with toddlers, and their parents. I belonged to the super minority of people who were in their twenties and alone. Obviously feeling terribly out of place, I closed my eyes, trying to focus on the TAAQ numbers they were playing.

The play started bang on time. Ruskin Bond on stage (not the real Bond, someone playing him), the play began with a background of Bond’s childhood in the hills and how he parried through the tormented times of Indian independence, world wars and communal riots going on the adage, “When the wars are over, the butterflies will still be beautiful”.

The play was a mélange of short stories by Bond, narrated by the protagonist Ranji, who is on vacation in his grandfather’s house in Mussoorie. His friends in the hills, Koki, and her horse Dhanno, Suraj and his romantic interest Charmaine, would take me through a journey through space and time. Short stories I have read, pranks I have played (and still play), and dreams I have dreamt (and still dream) all come to life in a span of one and a half hour. There is a princess, and a leopard, and ghosts and pahalwans, and bears and guavas and lakes and buffaloes, and snakes: the mishmash seamless. Once or twice popular media is also thrown in.

Acting, direction, lights, costumes, I can’t say much. Maybe, some other day, I would have criticized them for shabbiness and lack of originality. But then, the moment had me chained. Teleported and transfixed, I laughed with the five year olds, and felt happy at the little joys of life.

Matheran Chronicles 4: The peaceful easy feeling

I stare at the glazed panes on the window, the fan creaks, monkeys jump on the thiry feet high asbestos roof above my head, and I cant hear a sound. The floors are of stone, there are five beds (the room big enough not to get cramped by them), and table with a mirror above it, and a plastic chair. Pretty spartan. As the sun hides behind the clouds, the color of the glazed panes changed. I watch this play of lights and colour, and their intermingling, intently.

Thereafter, something connects. Instead of going out and around Matheran, we begin to spend more time here. The door opens to a small balcony, from which a staircase leads down to a lawn, unkept and wild. Monekys come and steal cigarettes, as we sit and smoke idly. A friendly neighbour from the next hut comes and tells us, how he came here for his honeymoon twenty-five years back, even before we were born. We smile, and run after the monkeys. The boy from Malad, who is the only staff here, serves us tea as the sun kisses the Ghats. In the evenings, the owners (Nancy/Maria/ Joseph Vaz, as their business card reads) bring their horse and run it in circles, its white mane flows and hooves thump the earth. We play table tennis in high breeze, barely able to keep the ball on the table…

In a span of twelve hours Matheran changes colour, the lights dim out early, the streets become filled with foreigners who have had a day-out in some hilly trail. The horses bow their head after a day’s toil. Their masters bring in grass and hay and massage their legs, as atonement of their sins. Few couples giggle, as they bargain with the bangle sellers.

However, I never stepped out of Hope Hall to see any of this. I slept the best I did in my life, in that little big hut, sixteen hours straight.

The miracle of Matheran: Hope Hall.

Matheran Chronicles 3: Paradise Regained

The morning was spent walking up and down the rugged slopes, Lake Charlotte, Echo Point, One tree point, and lot more point I cant remember. In paths were shadowy even in late morning/ early afternoon, and sometimes spooky bungalows ambush us round a corner. They say wealthy Parsis and Englishmen of yore had bungalows built with the intent of spending torrid summer months in peace. Now, they stand deserted and mummified in soot and cobwebs.

Matheran is basically a steep plateau, surrounded by the oldest hills India, with water trickling down its slopes, to meet in a large distant lake way down from where we are standing. We climb down the edge to a recess few metres below the top and tourists. The sun is behind us, and burns the rocks we are staring at, in the darkest shades of red. There is a cool breeze, seemingly trapped in between stony walls, blowing on our face. We don’t talk. If footprints of time is visible anywhere, it is all around us. Time, and its brute force.

We took a horse back to the town. We were hungry and needed a place to dumb our satchels. We were covered with a layer of redness that we badly needed to wash. The bag on our shoulders made it difficult to ride, for we were misbalanced. My horse is called Shaktiman, and my friends, SSS(Sahebo-Shah-Sahenshah). I make small talk with the guide about the horses, where they were bought from, how long they live, what they eat, and where they sleep… Back straight, look straight; rein low in hands, trot-trot-trot…

Three hours worth in sand, we come back to Hope Hall Hotel. We go in. The same lady is sitting on table. Smiling at our red selves. My friend tells her we need to stay. She says the room has been taken, and there are no double or single bedders left. We ask if there is any dorm or anything like that. She says she can let us in a 5-bedder, provided we don’t even sit on the bed. We are happy and take the keys.

“Don’t even sit on the bed”

“Never. And thanks, Ma’am”

“Don’t call me Ma’am. I am Maria “

Matheran Chronicles 2: Paradise Lost

Just about when we were tired of walking (my new white shoes had become totally red by then), we saw what we were looking for: Hope Hall Hotel, District Raigad, 410 102. We have heard it was pretty cheap, and the hosts are nice people. We step in thought the swish gates into what looked like a garden of sorts, lots of flowers and shrubs that gave it’s a distinctive aroma, with a cage in a corner, and a table tennis board under an asbestos roof. All around this garden were huts, the first being one with an open door and a door-bell.

I go in, no one inside. Empty chairs, a scrapbook on the wall, and lots of photographs. My eyes wander along the scrapbook, which has postcards from people who have visited this place and liked it. My friend, meanwhile, comes back, after checking out the place. He announces, “No one’s here!” and goes on to ring the bell. No answer. I keep on reading the scrapbook; there is a list of the pets in the Hotel and the train time tables, and a brief history of Mathrean, some sketches also. My friend keeps on ringing. When I reach the bottom of the wall, there is a note, “Please do not ring the bell more than once.” I smile.

We were about to leave, when a lady, in her late forties, in a shirt and jeans, with a high ponytail, and smelling of alcohol, steps into the room.

“What do you want?”

My friend tells her, we want a room. She is visibly irritated. He calls a boy, younger than us, to show us a room.

We follow him, he lead us to a small two roomer. Outside there is a courtyard, a girl( pretty attractive) writing her journal on a wooden bench. Fresh green and pristine brown.

The room itself is small, the attached bathroom surprisingly big, almost as spacious as the room itself. Click on the lights, flush the loo, look out of the windows, sit on the bed, stand up, walk out, and latch the door back. Back to the reception.

We tell her that we like her place and would like to stay. However, we would like to check in after 12(we didn’t want to pay for one more day). She was pretty upset and told us, “Out rooms are not of that kind. They don’t wait for anyone.” Profound! Seeing no line of logic would reach her, we step out in to the roads again, hoping we will find another hotel for sure.

Matheran Chronicles 1: The Great Escape Trick!

There is an arch on one side of Neral station leading to another platform, which is slightly stunted in height. Also the ticket counter, the food stalls, and the train. All in all, carrying the effect of mysterious platforms in fairy tales (everything proportionately smaller), albeit the characters. Which are people like us, traffic-jam weathered, weather-beaten, battered and in varying stages of decay and destitution: the vada-pao eating, local train rallying Mumbaikars.

This platform offers two alternatives: either we can take the train, which meanders leisurely over the slopes of Western Ghats piercing the canopy of dense deciduous forests, or we can take the jeep, on share, which takes the highway to the nearest village of Dasturi Naka and we can trek the rest (some 11km). Jeep is cheaper, jeep is faster. We (the two of us) climb on, both of us cramped in the front seat of a Maruti Omni. The nondescript journey takes us a few metres higher, and few kilometers closer…

We buy a ticket to the hallowed summer resort, the find of Hugh Poyntz Malet, the district collector of Thane, circa 1850. Walking into the ochre and haze shrubbery in early morning lights one suddenly dates back some hundred years. Tanga rick wallahs come promise you to carry across the 11km stretch to Matheran market. Horses are also there, looking tired and despondent, ruminating and waiting. We decide to walk, the path (keeping in mind, we are just two hours from the bustling Bombay), is suspicious desolate. Chiaroscuros, in mauve and sap greens, guide us through pebble and redstone dirt.

The suspicion is not unfounded, a man in his late thirties, wearing a moustache and checked shirts and cotton pants, joins us, form behind the cedars. Tells us about the short-cuts and the prices of horse rides, and chikki shops in markets, and inquires how long we will be around. A day or two, maybe three, not too sure. Frowns. Where are you put up? Come to Hotel Such-and-Such, we have lounges, hookah bars, disco… We scoot!

Martheran Market: chikki shops (chikki, being the specialty and highest export of the place, find its way to any discussion you have with locals here), south Indian hotels, north Indian hotels, hawkers selling chappals, a lounge bar, beer bar, park, banyan trees, horses, smell of horses, horse dung, monkeys, some more hotels, and we are out of the Matheran Market.

Matheran is a small place (though the horse-ride sellers says it is 300 miles), and remarkably easy to go around. Wherever the lanes forks, a sign reads out where it leads it to. Both the lanes equally red and dusty, both pock marked with hooves, both equally empty, equally inviting…