tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158390432024-03-14T09:12:54.284+04:00The River's WingA road beneath a sunny sky.Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.comBlogger64125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-85047515221826402402011-05-20T09:51:00.002+04:002011-05-20T09:51:30.095+04:00I've moved...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">..to <a href="http://bywaystar.com/">http://BywayStar.com</a><br />
<br />
See you there!</div>Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-70738963726230648592011-04-11T21:09:00.001+04:002011-04-11T21:09:46.913+04:00Trunk Call - On the Thrissur Pooram<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">On the Thrissur Pooram, festival of sound and fury.<br />
<br />
(This piece appeared in Mint Lounge on 9 April 2011).<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.livemint.com/2011/04/08202446/Trunk-call.html">http://www.livemint.com/2011/04/08202446/Trunk-call.html</a></div>Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-89160050463907381582011-03-16T14:52:00.003+04:002011-03-17T10:54:39.038+04:00Remains of Naxalbari - on revisiting the start of a revolution<div>This is my piece about Naxalbari in the March 12 issue of Mint Lounge.</div><div><br /></div><a href="http://www.livemint.com/2011/03/10213956/The-remains-of-Naxalbari.html">http://www.livemint.com/2011/03/10213956/The-remains-of-Naxalbari.html</a><div><br /></div><div>(If you liked this piece(or not), let me know by leaving a comment. I welcome feedback and comments, bouquets and brickbats, offers of free lunch(or not)).</div>Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-58769314694838002302011-02-06T10:59:00.003+04:002011-02-06T11:04:13.817+04:00En route to elsewhere - going cross-country across IndiaThis is a piece on taking a train journey across India by the Himsagar Express. It was published in Mint Lounge on 29 Jan 2011. Here it is:<div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.livemint.com/2011/01/28185447/En-route-to-elsewhere.html">http://www.livemint.com/2011/01/28185447/En-route-to-elsewhere.html</a></div>Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-5829998314628466692011-01-19T21:15:00.014+04:002011-03-31T16:17:45.042+04:00The rain train – travelling through Kerala in the monsoon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><i>(This piece appears in the Jan 2011 issue of India Today Travel Plus. There is no direct web link to the piece. This is a part of the special year-end edition - India, the all weather country. It has pieces on each state in India in one of the 4 seasons. This piece is about Kerala in the monsoon).</i></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></i></b></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">**</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>(14 hours and 600km in pouring rain - on spending a day with the South West Monsoons.)</b></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><b></b></span></i></div><a name='more'></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><br />
</b></span></i><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><br />
<div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Day tripper</span></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Mangalore Central wears a disembodied look at 4am. Crowds of sleepers sprawl across the floor in uneasy half-sleep, whom you have to adroitly sidestep to make your way to the Parasuram Express.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span">The Parasuram Express is usually mostly unoccupied. Because of its 4:15am departure, only the most intrepid or desperate board it. The few sleepy faces inside are invariably foraging for their last fragments of sleep, as they moodily fight the bright white tubelights throbbing down.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span">In spite of its early morning discomforts, the Parasuram Express remains the best way to see all of Kerala in the monsoons. Every year, when the South West monsoons reach India, the rains hit Kerala first. From June to September, India’s favourite tourist state is embraced by near-continuous rains. One way to experience the monsoon is to reach any town in Kerala and watch it pour down. Another is to take a day trip across Kerala, and watch the rains drape the state all along the route. The best way to do the latter is to take the Parasuram Express from Mangalore to Trivandrum.</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TTchW2D6NiI/AAAAAAAAAjk/dN0TI0SsHSY/s1600/343.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563952540992288290" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TTchW2D6NiI/AAAAAAAAAjk/dN0TI0SsHSY/s320/343.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 180px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></span></span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"></span><br />
<div><span lang="EN-IN">This isn’t for everybody, though. The train can look forbiddingly spooky in the pre-dawn. The journey can seem like forever – it’s 14 hours and 634 km in non-stop rain. You’re likely to be sleep-starved and exhausted by the time you reach Trivandrum late in the evening. It isn’t an easy ride. But if you hop on for the ride, you can see one of India’s wettest regions from a viewpoint it’s not often seen from – a train door.</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"><br />
</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"><b>Sea sighting</b></span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"><br />
</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN">Soon after the Parasuram rumbles across the Nethravathi river outside Mangalore, it picks up speed and decisively cuts through the pouring rain.</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"><br />
</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN">There is no border to demarcate Karnataka from Kerala. But name boards on wayside stations switch from Kannada to Malayalam. Hoardings for Hoorulyn brand burqas and MCR brand dhotis surface. Silhouettes of the first coconut trees emerge from pre-dawn shadows.</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"><br />
</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN">Soon, the darkness lightens, but visibility is muffled by sheets of rain. Inundated fields and gushing streams become slowly visible. Even small rivulets furiously toss about branches and debris of vegetation dislodged by the rains.</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TTchZiJ7ZZI/AAAAAAAAAkE/2lYZzQLIPeM/s1600/Image026.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563952587188430226" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TTchZiJ7ZZI/AAAAAAAAAkE/2lYZzQLIPeM/s320/Image026.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 256px;" /></a></span></span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"></span><br />
<div><span lang="EN-IN">Near the fort town of Bekal, around 5:30am, tearing streams occasionally reveal a glimpse of the sea. Soon, the green of the coconut groves abruptly gives way to a vast openness. Just a few hundred metres away is the open sea, its greenish-blue stretches merging into the inky twilight sky. Inevitably, the train swerves inland and moves on, ruthlessly pushing back the view until it is a mere memory.</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"><br />
</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"><b>Medley</b></span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"><br />
</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN">The Parasuram express is named after the man who, according to legend, carved out Kerala by hurling his axe into the sea. Though it plies a distance of 634km from Mangalore to Trivandrum, it’s practically a series of short distance trains. People hop in and out every hour or two. Hardly anyone travels more than 4 or 5 hours. Office goers, college students and work delegations replace each other in a relay until the last batch of office returnees alight at Trivandrum, a world away from the faraway mists of 4:15am.</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"><br />
</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"><b>Water everywhere</b></span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"><br />
</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN">Though it’s soon light, the sun never really comes out amid the grey-white skies. At 7:30am, Parasuram reaches Mahe, an erstwhile French colony and now part of Pondicherry. At 8:35, it reaches Calicut, best known for being Vasco da Gama’s port of call. All along, I have seen nothing but torrential rains swathe train platforms, grounds, roads and rivers. Some wetness invariably manages to trickle into the compartments. By then, as I'm joined by freshly bathed and breakfasted co-passengers, I'm already a long way into your day.</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"><br />
</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN">There is water everywhere. Lakes and streams encroach into flooded fields. Often, all you can see is a continuum of water punctuated by stubbles of grass within. The waters of the Thootha and Bharathapuzha rivers lap up bridge spans, flowing seemingly right under the train’s wheels.</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TTchZB_6vKI/AAAAAAAAAj8/q2SmvB1NJuE/s1600/Image025.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563952578556509346" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TTchZB_6vKI/AAAAAAAAAj8/q2SmvB1NJuE/s320/Image025.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 256px;" /></a></span></span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">In spite of this inundation, there is no despair anywhere. There are no refugees shivering in shacks, as you come to expect from TV news coverage of floods. Houses stand steady, their sloping tiled roofs brushing off torrents. Schoolkids wave to the train, happily jumping through puddles. Women unmindfully wade through water-logged verandahs. Everywhere along the route, groups of men crouch under colourful umbrellas, intent in games of cards.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">Lunch arrives at 1:30pm in Ernakulam. The menu has just vegetarian and chicken biriyani, both badly cooked. Both are warm, though, which is all you really ask for amid the dank wetness everywhere.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Onward</b></div><div class="MsoNormal">Town names lengthen. Attempts to register Tripunithura’s name can result in nearly missing the pagoda-like station building standing in proud isolation in the downpour. At Mulagunnathukavu, you don’t stand a chance of noticing anything about the station.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sometimes, the sun comes out briefly. Waterlogged rice fields stretch out in the fuzzy light, their silver surfaces carrying imperfect reflections.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TTchYmWsY1I/AAAAAAAAAj0/QSaPR2hKbfU/s1600/1505.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563952571135845202" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TTchYmWsY1I/AAAAAAAAAj0/QSaPR2hKbfU/s320/1505.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></span></span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"></span><br />
<div><span lang="EN-IN"><br />
</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN">Pepper and rubber trees surface. Kottayam comes at 3pm, and looks like a forest-town. The pouring rain forms a screen alongside the train. Pattering sounds carry a dull familiarity.</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"><br />
</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"><b>Amid backwaters</b></span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"><br />
</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN">Soon, Parasuram express enters Alleppey district, which has most of the backwaters Kerala is known for. Canals and rivulets surge ahead with vehemence, with none of the languidness suggested by the word ‘backwater’. The Pampa and Kallada rivers are full and overflowing with violence. The Pampa plays host to the Nehru Trophy boat races every August further downstream at Alleppey. But in the fierce downpour there are hardly any boats by the trackside streams.</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"><br />
</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN">Parasuram then skirts the Ashtamudi lake, which is the centre of Kerala’s wetland backwater ecosystem. Perhaps by its enormity, the Ashtamudi gives the impression of placidity even in the furious rain. The contours of the lake curve tantalisingly away from the train. Some way ahead, the Kilimukkam lake melts into the immensity of the open sea.</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"><br />
</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"><b>Another Twilight</b></span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"><br />
</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN">After another stretch amid coconut groves, the inevitable happens. The smoky grey that fills the sky turns just a shade deeper – a foreboding of the arrival of evening twilight. Thatched roofs, copses and rivulets give way to persistent concrete buildings, shops and traffic filled roads. Trivandrum, the end of the journey is nigh. Fourteen odd hours by greenery, in the rain approach their end.</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"><br />
</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN">The Parasuram express squeaks into the solemn, majestic stone buildings of Trivandrum Central, whose square, clean-cut edifice rounds off a day spent with a newly washed state.</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"><br />
</span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN"><b><i>(The first and fourth pics in this piece are by Arun Rajagopal.)</i></b></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div></div>Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-60340319438021944052011-01-19T19:16:00.023+04:002011-03-31T16:18:39.447+04:00Gokarna - The Lost Waterfront<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"></span></i><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span">(This piece appears in the Jan 2011 issue of India Today Travel Plus. There is no direct web link to the piece. This is a part of the special year-end edition - India, the all weather country. It has pieces on each state in India in one of the 4 seasons. This piece is about Karnataka in the summer).</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"></span></i></span></span></i><br />
<div style="display: inline !important; text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"></span></i></span></b></span></span></i></span></span></i><br />
<div style="display: inline !important; text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span">**</span></i></span></b></span></span></i></span></span></i></div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"></span></i></span></b></span></span></i><br />
<div style="display: inline !important; text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span">(On exploring four forgotten beaches in Gokarna on Karnataka’s west coast).</span></i></span></b></span></span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"></span></i></span></b></span></span></i><br />
<div style="display: inline !important; text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></i></span></b></span></span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"></span></i></span></b></span></span></i><br />
<div style="display: inline !important; text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span">**</span></i></span></b></span></span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"></span></i></span></b></span></span></i><br />
<a name='more'></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></i></span></b></span></span></i></div></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span">Playing hard to get</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">Gokarna on Karnataka’s west coast can play notoriously hard to get.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">Gokarna’s name features prominently on milestones along the Mumbai – Goa – Mangalore - Cochin highway NH17, but these mentions can be deceptive. The town doesn’t lie on the highway at all. It’s 9km away from the highway on a narrow, bumpy side road traversed only by infrequent rickety buses.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">Gokarna’s main beachfront, the Om beach, lies 7 km away from town. There’s no public transport to Om beach. From there, the other beaches in Gokarna(Kudle, Half Moon and Paradise) are 2, 1.5 and 3 kilometres away respectively. There are no motorable roads to these 3 beaches. You have to hike across hills to get to these beaches from the main Om beach.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">Every beach feels just a little farther off, just a tad unattainable. Gokarna, then, is just the sort of place that can leave you feeling like Tantalus.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TTcCH5sv0LI/AAAAAAAAAi0/kmXfuhct38k/s1600/Om.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563918199410380978" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TTcCH5sv0LI/AAAAAAAAAi0/kmXfuhct38k/s320/Om.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 214px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></span></div><div>**</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Om</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">From Gokarna town, the road to the main Om beach lies along a nondescript bylane, with thatched houses behind shrub fences. Some 2km before Om beach, a hill on the right drops away to reveal a yawning valley underneath. The vast expanse of the Arabian Sea shimmers below in the valley. The empty grey of the road waves about ahead, reminding you that the shore is still some way off.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">The Om beach is named thus because it is shaped like the letter ‘Om’. While you can see the two semicircular shores that form halves of the Om, the meager elevation at the shore isn’t enough to reveal the Om-shape very clearly.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TTcE2E39mtI/AAAAAAAAAi8/gspRWONuJO0/s1600/Om2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563921191707450066" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TTcE2E39mtI/AAAAAAAAAi8/gspRWONuJO0/s320/Om2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Because Om is the only beach in Gokarna accessible by road, it is the only one that draws crowds. It is an interesting mix of people too. Beer guzzling Europeans occupy tables in the numerous seaside restaurants, sitting alongside Indian joint families. Middle aged women wrapped in wet saris get out of the water and walk past sunbathers. Kids gaze at bikini clad women as parents make frantic attempts to divert their attention.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">Along the fringe of the two arcs of the Om, there are shack-and-cottage hotels that offer rooms for rent, with hammocks slung out in front of them. Restaurants dot the contours of the Om, with boards advertising Italian, Lebanese, Russian and Israeli cuisines, presumably for the delectation of foreign travelers.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">At the southern end of the Om beach, a narrow hill-path snakes out behind the last restaurant on the beach - Sunset Cafe. This path quickly rises upwards and ascends a hill, from where you can see the Om shape stand out in clear relief. This path is the route to the other beaches at Gokarna – Half Moon and Paradise.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">**</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span">Half moon</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">Atop the hill, after a kilometer of walking through a canopy of forest cover, the path steps outdoors onto a ledge right above the sea. Below, gentle wrinkles of wavelets twinkle in the sunshine. The crowds, the restaurants, the noises that lay just across a hill seem a world away.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TTcE4gAQ6MI/AAAAAAAAAjc/5teQTNF7I34/s1600/Trek%2Bbetween%2BOm%2Band%2BHlaf%2BMoon.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563921233349765314" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TTcE4gAQ6MI/AAAAAAAAAjc/5teQTNF7I34/s320/Trek%2Bbetween%2BOm%2Band%2BHlaf%2BMoon.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 214px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span">Across this hill is the next beach – Half Moon. Half Moon beach is empty. The golden sand looks never stepped in. The beach is just some 40-50 metres across, yet its solitude gives it an air of purity, of peace. There are a few shacks being built - wannabe restaurants and hotels. But they haven’t yet managed to spoil the calm of Half Moon.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">**</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>In Paradise</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Paradise beach is two hills away. This trek spares you forest walks, but throws up rocks to climb, sometimes amid clear water that gurgles in frothy pools under your feet.</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TTcE2mPePfI/AAAAAAAAAjE/iuAA9EiAhkE/s1600/Between%2BHalf%2BMoon%2Band%2BParadise.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563921200664428018" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TTcE2mPePfI/AAAAAAAAAjE/iuAA9EiAhkE/s320/Between%2BHalf%2BMoon%2Band%2BParadise.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 214px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span">Paradise beach too has seaside restaurants and shacks-cottages for rent. The beach is much smaller than Om, just 150 metres or so long. There isnt much space between the rocky cliffs and the water, and the six or seven restaurants pack what little space there is. Rooms and shacks for rent lie tucked in the hills behind the restaurants.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Even though boats ply to Paradise beach from Om beach, it remains an outpost with few visitors. A few foreign tourists lie slung in hammocks, in the midst of idyllic seaside vacations. In the open air restaurants, languid conversations waft across the still air.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Paradise is a place foreign tourists are in love with. Many stay here for months together. It fits the image of a tropical paradise – trees, shade, hammocks, quiet beaches, a conspicuous lack of noise and crowds. It’s the perfect location for a summer spent away from the world.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">**</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>Standing alone</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Because the hikes to Half Moon and Paradise aren’t easy, these beaches aren’t crowded. The beaches still preserve a near-natural state. Thankfully for Gokarna, this doesn’t look like changing anytime soon. There are far too few tourists arriving here for it to be worthwhile for local bodies to build a road across the hills. Without better connectivity, more tourists will not arrive. Thanks to this virtuous cycle, the far reaches of Gokarna look like they’ll be spared bright lights, noisy resorts, plastic bottles and other debris of mass tourism for some time at least.</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TTcE309BMlI/AAAAAAAAAjU/MPKWn8Kyeqo/s1600/Trek%2Bbetween%2BHalf%2BMoon%2Band%2BParadise.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563921221793428050" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TTcE309BMlI/AAAAAAAAAjU/MPKWn8Kyeqo/s320/Trek%2Bbetween%2BHalf%2BMoon%2Band%2BParadise.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 214px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></span></div><div>**</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>Another seashore</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">Gokarna has yet another beach - Kudle, lying to the north of the Om beach. From Paradise you have to retrace your steps to Om beach, and then go further north. Kudle lies two mounds across from Om. These mounds are relatively tame compared to the rough treks to Half Moon and Paradise.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">The Kudle beach is a semicircular bowl of hills that contain the sea within. The water is nearly still. Waves roll in, not crash through. Kudle looks like a placid backwater, a forgotten lake, a long way from civilization. Along the sprawling half-kilometre circumference of the beach, there are no more than a dozen bathers.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">As sundown approaches over Kudle, the late evening sun lowers itself into the water far away. Soon, the only remnant of the day is a diffuse orange light draped over the water.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TTcE3SIbMXI/AAAAAAAAAjM/QJSP2kSF-WM/s1600/Kudle%2BBeach.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563921212446028146" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TTcE3SIbMXI/AAAAAAAAAjM/QJSP2kSF-WM/s320/Kudle%2BBeach.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 214px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></span></i></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px;"><b><i>(Second pic(of Om beach) by Kelly Martin. Other pics by self. The print article has pics by Parikshit Rao & Gireesh VV).</i></b></span></div></div>Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-66043152089183834702010-11-25T19:32:00.012+04:002011-03-31T16:18:58.025+04:00Riding the quiet backwaters<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">(This piece features in the November 2010 issue of Outlook Lounge. There is no direct web link to the piece online).</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">**</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">(Kerala's backwaters come alive at the annual Nehru Trophy Boat Races in Alleppey.)</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;">**</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;"></span></div><a name='more'></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TO6FTUcUKDI/AAAAAAAAAgs/rquUJNxzPeY/s1600/Alappuzha002.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543514758291138610" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TO6FTUcUKDI/AAAAAAAAAgs/rquUJNxzPeY/s320/Alappuzha002.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 213px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">Getting ready for battle</span></b><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">The</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">Devas</span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">is getting ready for the big day. Its surface is of thick, seemingly unbreakable wood. The pale wood is slowly acquiring a luster under the polish being applied. The metallic spear at its tip makes it look like an arrow ready to be let loose. The</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">Devas</span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">lies in a nondescript backyard. Four strategically positioned houseboats protect it from being viewed from the lake just yonder.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">The</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">Devas</span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">is a snake boat that is being readied for the Nehru Trophy Snake Boat Races in Alleppey, Kerala. A team of 15 carpenters fuss over the boat - rubbing, scraping, polishing - making sure it is just right for tomorrow's races.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TO6FR9XsSKI/AAAAAAAAAgc/uOVDequ4QUw/s1600/Alappuzha002-2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543514734917863586" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TO6FR9XsSKI/AAAAAAAAAgc/uOVDequ4QUw/s320/Alappuzha002-2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 226px;" /></a></span></span></div><div><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><br />
</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">(The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Devas </i>in its yard)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;">I am in Alleppey, South Kerala, sometimes known as the Venice of the East. Alleppey is a major access point to the Vembanad lake, which is the center of the Kerala’s network of backwaters that have put the state on the world’s tourism map. I’m here to see the Nehru Trophy Boat Races, the highlight of the monsoon season in Alleppey.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">My friend Kuriachan is showing me around Alleppey on the eve of the race. Kuriachan had promised to arrange a sneak peek of one of the snake boats before the race – he has brought me to the yard of the massive</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">Devas</span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;">The boat <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Devas</i> has sitting compartments for some 50 rowers that somehow suggest the rigid discomfort of slave ships. The raised prow towers upwards to some 7-8 feet. At over a 100 feet in length, it is massive and intimidating.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;">I ask Kuriachan if I could get to meet the architects of the boats. He’s well connected in the town, but he says it’s unlikely during a race weekend. However, he adds, he can connect me to someone who’ll be far more informative than any architect, or for that matter anyone else in Kerala. He knows one of the commentators for the Nehru Trophy, and he might be able to get me some time with him.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;">Soon, I have an appointment with ace-commentator VV Gregory at 8am the next day.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">**</span><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">The beginnings</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;">VV Gregory has a pencil moustache and a near-diffident, almost shy smile. Gregory has been a commentator at the Nehru Trophy Boat Races since 1977, and is somewhat of a legend in the region.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;">Gregory gives me a bit of a historical perspective about the races. South Kerala hosts 47 boat races every year – Gregory commentates on more than 30 of them. Most of the other boat races in the state are held on religious occasions, and are connected with temples. The races are, in a way, religious processions. Indeed, in these races, having elaborately decorated boats and paying respects to deities is as important as winning.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;">While most other races are very old(the oldest, at Aranmula, is about 600 years old) , the Nehru Trophy boat race is far more recent. In 1952, when Jawaharlal Nehru was passing through Alleppey, people organized an impromptu boat race to welcome him. Nehru donated a trophy for the winners, and the race continued to be held every year thereafter.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">But why, I ask, did the Nehru Trophy become far more popular than the older, traditional races? Most other races, Gregory tells me, were organized by temple committees, or at best by village/town officials, who had meager budgets. Because of its association with Nehru, the Nehru Trophy was organized by the</span><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">district and state administration. This gradually led to much more money being spent on the Nehru Trophy, which in turn resulted in its much greater popularity.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;">**</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Snake Boats</span></b><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">Gregory tells me it takes at least 4-5 months and Rs. 20-30 lakh to build a snake boat. Snake boats are built from a local variety of wood called ‘anjili’. Each boat, typically more than 100 feet long, needs around 700 cubic feet of wood. The wood needs to be fortified for strength and stability, so you also need around 300 kg of iron and 30kg of brass for each boat. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">It’s a delicate balance, having to pack enough power into a boat without making it too heavy.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;">Gregory tells me that most people get involved in the boat races out of pride. Each team represents a town or a locality. The locality’s people often pool in money to build boats and maintain them. It helps, of course, that prominent rich men from the region pitch in, for it is a matter of prestige for them to be involved in the races.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">**</span><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">Raceday</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;">It’s raceday. There are stands on the lakeshore that are but rusty metallic steps. The race starts 2pm, but there is no sitting or standing room by 11am. These are no railings, nothing to prevent an accidental push from turning into a splash.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;">Across the water from the stands, houseboats line up in a row with spacious decks. There are tourists atop them, peering at the water from camera lenses.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TO6FSdJJziI/AAAAAAAAAgk/_mABYZw9brQ/s1600/Alappuzha003.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543514743446818338" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TO6FSdJJziI/AAAAAAAAAgk/_mABYZw9brQ/s320/Alappuzha003.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 214px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;">At 2pm, rowers on the 16 snake boats begin a mass drill in front of the chief guest, the President of India, raising the oars up and down in response to the conductor’s whistle. While the ancient boat races elsewhere in Kerala pay respects to temple deities, the Nehru Trophy Boat Race pays its respects to the President and politicians.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">*</span><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">An upset</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;">The races begin. It’s the second heat of the snake boat category. There is a quickening in the crowd’s shouting and cheering, for an upset is on the cards. Jesus Boat Club from Kollam, the winners of the last two editions and hot favourites for this one, are in third place with the last 400m to go. Jesus find inspiration. Their intent, muscled arms plow into the water. But it isnt easy to surge ahead in a 100 foot long boat, not when you’re up against another such furiously rowing boat. Jesus’ burst is too late, too little, they finish third and are knocked out of the finals.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;">There are 4 categories of boats – snake boats are but one of them. Heats and finals for the other categories go on, one after the other.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;">While some teams are in uniforms and some in coloured vests and shorts with sponsors’ logos, there are some teams in lungis and shorts. Most rowers don’t quite have the sculpted bodies of sportsmen. Many rowers have prominent paunches. Some have prominent white hair and wrinkled skin. Rowing clearly hasn’t become a professional, full time activity yet(according to Gregory, most teams practice only for a month before the races).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;">The packed audience in the very full stands decides it needs a release. Some viewers jump into the lake, and with tyres around them float next to the first track, thereby getting a close-up view of the races.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;">**</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TO6FUAGxskI/AAAAAAAAAg0/qJl1_pi02XQ/s1600/Alapuzha1.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543514770011959874" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TO6FUAGxskI/AAAAAAAAAg0/qJl1_pi02XQ/s320/Alapuzha1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 281px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></span></span></b></div><div><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 14pt;">A photo-finish</span></b><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;">The last race of the day, at 6pm, is the snake boat finals. Even with the favourites out, there are some big names in the fray – the UBC Kainakari and the Town Boat Club Kumarakom have both won multiple times in the past. The race starts, and the boats appear far in the distance. There is a flurry of rapidly moving brown of the oars. As they come closer, the boats are but a series of splashes from the oars cutting in. The pointed fronts of the snake boats come into view.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;">The rowing of a snake boat is a neatly choreographed performance. Two members of the crew stand in between the rowers, and rhythmically ram down a pestle-like wooden block into the floor of the boats. This is to make sure the rowers row in sync to the beating of the blocks. Another man on each boat blows a whistle or a horn, again to mark the rhythm of the rowing, as he waves his arms animatedly, much like a western classical composer.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;">The boats approach the stands, the cheering increases even further when the crowds notice there is very little to separate the four teams. The boat Pattara is ahead, but only just. The boats race forward, impelled ahead by viciously rowing arms. The boat Jawahar Thayankari is crawling ahead, inch by inch, little by little.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;">It is a photo finish. Two of the teams have their arms up in exultation – who will it be? People huddle around the TV screen near me. We see four pointed fronts of the boats inch towards the finish line. Only in slow motion does it become evident that the Payippadan of UBC Kainakari and the Jawahar Thayankari of Town Boat Club Kumarakom are very nearly together in front. Jawahar Thayankari, though, seem to have pulled ever so slightly ahead. After about 5 minutes of waiting, the results are officially announced – Jawahar Thayankari, winners from 2004 to 2007 have won, but only just.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px;">Elsewhere, crowds trickle out from the narrow entrance. Houseboats with watching tourists on the other side of the shore slowly pull out. Boats of sponsors patrol the lake once again, displaying hoardings of their Slice, Minute Maid, Malayala Manorama and their ilk.</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-weight: bold; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px; font-weight: normal;">Some supporters and locals remain in the stands, as dancing and cheering breaks out. Boats of supporters near the finish line shout and cheer. The winners climb atop motorboats that lazily drift in front of the pavilion.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-weight: bold; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px; font-weight: normal;">**</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-weight: bold; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px; font-weight: normal;">(The pics here are by Anoop Krishnan(more <a href="http://www.snoopsnaps.com/">here</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/Snoopsnaps">here</a>), who I was fortunate to meet at Alleppey. The print edition of the article in Outlook Lounge has pics by Ravi Menon).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-weight: bold; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px; font-weight: normal;">(Here're some more <a href="http://reverse-swing.blogspot.com/2010/08/notes-from-travancore.html">notes</a> from this trip.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-weight: bold; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; font-size: 19px; font-weight: normal;">(<a href="http://reverse-swing.blogspot.com/search/label/published%20work">Here</a>'s a link to all my published work).</span></div></div>Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-25186167886471574812010-11-11T14:14:00.017+04:002011-04-22T07:37:21.103+04:00Nowhere in Kerala - exploring Bekal<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="line-height: 115%;">(This piece features in the November 2010 issue of <a href="http://www.indiatodayplus.com/">India Today Travel Plus</a>. There's no direct web link to the piece online).</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><i><br />
</i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="line-height: 115%;">(On a nowhere land in Kerala, and on its ambitions of being a tourist destination).</span></i><br />
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</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;">Country roads</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">The first conversation was almost entirely about bumpy rides. One of us said <i>“there was hardly any tar on the road”, </i>but was countered by <i>“there wasn’t even a road – the car actually bounced”</i>. The one person who tried “<i>it wasn’t that bad</i>” was silenced by a ‘<i>what-were-you-smoking</i>’ glare from the rest.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">The conversation was with some of the other travelers who I had happened to meet at Bekal. Bekal is in Kerala, but it’s not quite the Kerala you’ll usually have heard or read about. Bekal is in North Kerala, some 400 odd kilometers from the more famous parts of Kerala – the backwaters around Alleppey, beaches of Kovalam and the hills of Munnar.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TNvDHE1G_JI/AAAAAAAAAfc/xDzHbnctD0g/s1600/ker12.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538234693105155218" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TNvDHE1G_JI/AAAAAAAAAfc/xDzHbnctD0g/s320/ker12.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 214px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: justify; width: 320px;" /></a></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; line-height: 18px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; line-height: 18px;">The bad roads and relative remoteness are the first signs of the fact that Bekal isnt your typical tourist trap. There are no bright or gaudy hotel and resort signboards on the highway near Bekal. There are no curio shops with bizarre artifacts pretending to be ethnic. Beaches here aren’t lined by alcohol bottles and plastic packets. Passersby don’t make unsolicited offers of dope or sex. The road leading up to the Lalit Resort & Spa, where I’m staying, is a pinched narrow village road lined by coconut trees and thatched houses.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">**<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;">Swimming across<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">There is a thin line between inaccessible and pristine, between desolate and idyllic. This is a line that Bekal has attempted to go across over the last decade and a half. What makes Bekal’s journey unique, though, is that it’s been a carefully planned effort. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">In1995, Government of Kerala formed the Bekal Resorts Development Corporation(BRDC) to develop Bekal as a tourist destination. The Government expected tourism in Kerala to grow over time, and wanted to develop alternatives to traditional destinations to accommodate the increased number of tourists. Another less immediate objective was that tourism would promote an ecosystem of development. Resorts would lead to shops, malls and recreational facilities, all of which would lead to employment for locals and economic growth.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">At least that was the idea. But when the BRDC was set up, there were absolutely no roads, hotels or tourist infrastructure to speak of at Bekal. The BRDC had nothing to start with - they had to begin from scratch. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">The BRDC decided to adopt a strategy of what it called ‘integrated resort development’. The BRDC spoke to hospitality groups and resort chains and offered them concessions to set up resorts in Bekal. The BRDC proposed a revenue share arrangement, and made commitments on ensuring road and infrastructure development. The idea was that because the Government had a financial stake in the project, they’d have an incentive to ensure the development of ancillary infrastructure like roads and facilities.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">**<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
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<b><span style="line-height: 115%;">The first step<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">But the waters were completely untested. Resorts coming up there would still have to face huge risks. Supply chains would be difficult to set up, it’d be difficult to convince staff to relocate. Most importantly, a hitherto unknown destination would be difficult to sell to visitors. It was a chicken and egg problem – nobody wanted to set up shop until someone else did it and proved that it was profitable.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538235217800889250" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TNvDlneUg6I/AAAAAAAAAfk/sSAbwTbCO5o/s320/ker9.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 214px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; line-height: 18px;">**</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
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<b><span style="line-height: 115%;">Undiscovered lands<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">For all its growing pangs, Bekal still had plenty of raw material with which to make itself into a tourist destination. There are backwaters of the Valiyaparamba around Bekal. There are the hills and ghats that lie between Kasargode district and the more popular Coorg in Karnataka yonder. Then of course, there are long stretches of beaches. All of these are quite bereft of hordes of tourists, so </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; line-height: 18px;">they still give one the thrill of a new discovery, of finding a new land.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">There was just the small matter of convincing everyone that the place was good enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">**<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
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<b><span style="line-height: 115%;">Seaside fort<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">The Bekal fort is perhaps the only thing most people know about Bekal. The Bekal fort is a mystery of sorts. It seems so out of place and context, simply because there is nothing else around that’s related to it – palaces, towns or places of worship. Yet, because the fort lies on the seaside, the unprecedented views from there have made it a favourite short stop for travelers driving on the National Highway 17.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TNvEVQRP9AI/AAAAAAAAAfs/3XMm3ii7hbA/s1600/ker23.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538236036205769730" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TNvEVQRP9AI/AAAAAAAAAfs/3XMm3ii7hbA/s320/ker23.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 214px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; line-height: 18px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; line-height: 18px;">I take a quick tour of the fort. At the entrance to the fort is the garish brown front wall of a Hanuman temple, the loud blaring of whose songs follows me into the fort. The ramshackle tea stall inside the fort sticks out amid the neatly trimmed lawns like a sore thumb. There are Archaeological Survey of India signboards - I wonder if the Survey has done anything at the fort other than put up those boards.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">The fort thankfully is big enough for me to leave the music and the tea stall behind, as I walk along the 1.5km circumference of the fort. Walking along the moss-covered fort’s ramparts is like having a gallery-view of the entire district. Every bit of my view that’s not taken by the sea is occupied by a vast expanse of coconut trees. A row of boats lie immobile on the sand at a nearby fishing village. From the upper-circle viewpoint, I see the evening sun slowly descend upon the open, empty sea.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TNvEVy771II/AAAAAAAAAf0/j_yJKConUUM/s1600/ker22.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538236045511611522" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TNvEVy771II/AAAAAAAAAf0/j_yJKConUUM/s320/ker22.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 214px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; line-height: 18px;">**</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></b><br />
<b><span style="line-height: 115%;">Baby steps <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 115%;">The Government’s integrated resort development program made slow progress – Kerala Tourism and BRDC advertised Bekal at travel tradeshows and travel marts. Resorts were cautious about taking the plunge. Eventually the Lalit Resort & Spa became the first of the resort groups to agree to set up shop – their property became operational a few months ago. They took the chance mainly because they had a long term strategy of developing properties in relatively unknown areas. After years of the initial hesitation, other resorts slowly bought into the possibility that lay in Bekal. Right now, 15 years after the formation of the BRDC, 5 of the 6 areas earmarked by the BRDC for resorts have been booked. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 115%;">So resorts have said yes. Investment of Rs. 750 crore has come in, and the BRDC is set to start making money. Yet the promises of infrastructure development haven’t materialized, as partly evidenced by my ride there. I’m surprised at the tardiness, partly because Kerala tourism’s marketing is so ubiquitous and well thought out. A familiar lament I hear from people I speak to is that Government agencies are enthusiastic and optimistic when they invite investments, but once it’s their turn to keep up their end of the bargain, progress is slow.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 115%;">One reason for the slow pace of development, I’m told, is that any on-ground project needs approvals from a myriad of Government bodies – water deparment, PWD, highways department, local bodies and more – which slows down progress enormously.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">**<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></b><br />
<b><span style="line-height: 115%;">Flowing quietly<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 115%;">The absence of tourist fixtures in a way accentuates the natural charms of Bekal. The road to Bekal passes close to the sea, sometimes opening up to reveal the yawning empty openness of the water. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 115%;">The Lalit resort lies on the banks of the Nombili backwater. The Nombili is a sea change from the waterways of Alleppey and Kumarakom I’d visited a while ago. The water here is clear and transparent, unlike the algae-and-weed-choked waters of South Kerala. There are no houseboats chugging by or speedboats rushing past every few minutes. There is none of the effluvium of mass travel – plastic and waste floating atop the water surface. The Nombili emerges quietly from amid a green blanket of vegetation unbroken by buildings or houses, and placidly tiptoes to the sea. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 115%;">There are 12 such rivers in Kasargode district around Bekal, all of them as yet untouched by tourism – so there’s immense possibility here. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TNvEWDjMplI/AAAAAAAAAf8/DOwO0pfIv9Q/s1600/ker14.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538236049971258962" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/TNvEWDjMplI/AAAAAAAAAf8/DOwO0pfIv9Q/s320/ker14.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 214px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bell MT', serif; line-height: 18px;">**</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></b><br />
<b><span style="line-height: 115%;">New shores<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 115%;">The beach near the resort appears brand new. It looks like it’s just been discovered. There’s just the endless unblemished sand on either side, unbroken by plastic or dirt. There are no bathers or picnickers, there’s no noise or bustle. There are no shacks, stalls or eatouts. The glimmering steely grey of the water is unbroken by speedboats. As I take a languid walk on the sand, a blue kingfisher flits by. There’s a pinprick on the placid water surface, a solitary dolphin punctures the horizon.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="line-height: 115%;">(Photo credits: Bhavati HG, </span><span style="line-height: 115%;">the print article also has pics by Amit Parischa</span><span style="line-height: 115%;">)</span></div></div>Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-41919211964619342002010-08-20T19:07:00.007+04:002010-08-20T21:00:33.731+04:00Notes From Travancore - where there are salesmen, refreshments and murdered romantic notions<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">**</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">A town of salesmen<o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">“</span><span style="font-family:";"><i>You have to go to YMCA? Left and straight – half a km</i></span><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">” he said, and paused to add, </span><span style="font-family:";"><i>“Do you need a houseboat for tonight, sir?”</i><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">As I park my car 5 minutes hence, another man walks over, looks rather conspicuously at my out-of-town license plate, and comes over, </span><span style="font-family:";"><i>“Houseboat night stay, sir?”</i><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">Far, far away, some 15km from town. I’m taking an evening walk in a field off the Quilon-Cochin waterway. There is the vast emptiness of paddy fields around. There are but 2 houses visible in the far distance. A man walks from the village that lies 2km away, and moves away from me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">This man suddenly stops, turns around. There’s nobody else around – just the two of us. He asks, </span><span style="font-family:";"><i>“Houseboat, sir? 6000 rupees only for 1 night”.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">Just like Bombay offers sex to newly arrived visitors, Alleppey offers houseboats-by-night. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">**<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">Finding refreshments<o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:";"><i>“Toddy?”</i></span><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">, I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:";"><i>“Bar?”</i></span><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";"> comes the reply.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:";"><i>“No. No. Toddy.”</i></span><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";"> I insist.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:";"><i>“Why toddy? Go to whisky, brandy bar. Next road only”</i></span><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">, the man persists.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">Finally, I decide to take my friend <a href="http://samanth.in/">Samanth’s</a> advice .</span><span style="font-family:";"><i>”Shaaaaap?”</i></span><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">, say I.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">No avail. Perhaps I had missed the precise intonation that Samanth insisted was the key to success.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">I try again , imploring, </span><span style="font-family:";"><i>”Kallu shaaaap?”</i><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">I immediately receive detailed, precise directions to the nearest toddy shop. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">I also get dirty stares for being a car-driving, jeans-wearing toddy-shop visitor.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">**<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">Where romantic notions go to die<o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">After I’ve booked a place to stay in, I look up directions for getting there. I find, </span><span style="font-family:";"><i>“We are not reachable by road. We are located on the Quilon-Cochin waterway.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">Wow, I tell myself, a place with enough attitude to stay away from the path of tourists. This, I tell myself, is precisely the sort of thing one writes about.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">An hour before reaching, I call the resort to tell them about my arrival. The manager asks </span><span style="font-family:";"><i>,”What will you have for dinner?”</i></span><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:";"><i>“I’ll come there and order.” </i><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:";"><i>“No, we’ll need to cook for you, so tell me now.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">Ah, I tell myself, here’s a place where they cook especially for guests, which doesnt have stocks of what could be leftover dishes. Here’s a place that isnt business-like in taking orders and mass-producing dishes listed on big menus. This really must be a place </span>one could call quaint and nice. This, perhaps, is a place that is a house, but merely calls itself a resort.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">I reach the resort, taking a 10 minute boat ride across the waterway to get there.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">There are but two men there. One’s in the kitchen, the cook. The other man, who’s driven the motor boat, and also mans the reception, is the manager. There are just 2 other guests in the resort tonight.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">See? Quaint is just the word, I tell myself. Very nice and non-commercial. This is the way resorts should be. Owner runs the place, talks to guests, manages everything. No corporate management, no indifferent staff. Owner relaxes and lives happily because he doesn’t have to sweat himself to death about ‘scaling up’.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">Romantic notions, alas, die a cruel death.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">As I chat with the manager over dinner, he laments, </span><span style="font-family:";"><i>“So many staff are on leave. The boat driver is taking a vacation. The MD wants me to handle all the work.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">At least, I tell myself, the place maintains its peaceful seclusion. It’s not for everyone, just like any place with any notion of pride should be. It’s so far away from the town, only the most intrepid, only the worthy come here. See how un-crowded it is?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">That notion, too, dies an ignominious death.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">Sometime later, he says, </span><span style="font-family:";"><i>“This is a very busy waterway. Boats pass all day. We pick up guests directly from Alleppey. Sometimes, we have houseboats stop by for parties at our resort. Today somehow we hardly have guests.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">Sigh.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:";"><i>“Sometimes, people book the entire resort and hold parties and bonfires here. They have a great time. Especially software engineers from Bangalore.”<o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Bell MT","serif"font-family:";">Well, so the place didn’t quite match up to the exalted levels of chastity I demanded. Oh well, at least the place was <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/74896667@N00/sets/72157624642662185/">memorable enough</a> to make me want to stay two extra days. One cant have everything, can one?<o:p></o:p></span></p>Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-13154223142363714332010-07-02T05:00:00.003+04:002010-11-25T20:01:29.363+04:00On the ball - world cup watching in North KeralaThe soccer world cup as seen from North Kerala - my piece in today's Mint Lounge.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.livemint.com/2010/07/01214849/On-the-ball.html">http://www.livemint.com/2010/07/01214849/On-the-ball.html</a>Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-82498652772748582172010-06-13T16:48:00.005+04:002010-06-13T17:30:02.173+04:00Driving North for the summer - 1<b>Home stretch</b><br /><br />Earlier this summer, I went on a slow-driving vacation covering most of the National Highway 17. The NH17 is one of India’s longest highways, running along 1400km of India’s west coast from Cochin to Mumbai(although the purists will point out that it plies, in fact, from Edapally to Panvel). <br /><br />The NH17 wades through vast coconut groves, coasts through plains, climbs the enormous Sahyadris, and deposits one at the edge of the snarling metropolitan traffic of Bombay. All along, it stays tantalizingly close to the shore of the Arabian sea.<br /><br />The NH17 is among India’s best loved roads. Many friends began their vacations with a drive along the very pretty Bombay-Goa stretch of the NH17. Those who didn’t take the road went along the just-as-beautiful Konkan Railway that runs alongside. The NH17 was also the stretch where I spent many weekends on motorbike-trips a few years ago. <br /><br />A drive along the NH17 was, in a way, a homecoming, a return to roads once traveled and loved.<br /><br />**<br /><b>No seasides on this highway</b><br /><br />Calicut in Northern Kerala is where this journey begins. For the purely practical reason that I stay in Calicut, I skipped the southernmost 200-odd kilometers of the NH17 from Cochin to Calicut.<br /><br />Calicut is a seaside town, but you wouldn’t know if you passed Calicut along NH17. You pass along clumps of coconut trees, along the yawning Ferok river, along quiet cottages, but the sea remains hidden from view. <br /><br />For all of NH17’s charms, its one shortcoming is that it offers very hardly any glimpses of the sea. It passes within a few kilometers of the coast throughout its 1400km length. But like a jealous lover, it snorts stubborn refusals when asked for an introduction to the Arabian sea.<br />**<br /><br /><b>Another English channel</b> <br /><br />North of Calicut, coconut trees cloak the highway in a cool, protective shelter from the summer. You see the open sky only where occasional rivers puncture coconut groves. <br /><br />At Mahe, some 60km away, the highway is chock full of alcohol shops. That’s because Mahe is a union territory(it’s a part of Pondicherry), and has lower alcohol prices. Mahe was a French colony – but the only symbol of its French past that you can see from the highway today is the St Theresa’s church that comfortably dwarfs the coconut trees around.<br /><br />Thalassery town is across the Mahe river. Thalassery was British and Mahe French, so the Mahe river wedged between the towns is oft nicknamed the English Channel.<br /><br />One billboard for a real estate company announces – ‘Thalassery - the cradle of Indian cricket’, referencing a mostly forgotten bit of trivia – the fact that Thalassery is widely held to be the first place in India where cricket was played. The 200th anniversary celebrations of the Telicherry Cricket Club in 2002 went mostly unnoticed too.<br />**<br /><br /><b>Driving by the sea</b><br /><br />Thalassery’s chief attraction is that it has one of only two drive-through beaches on NH17. But there are no signs or boards to prepare one for the arrival of this beach. It is rather abruptly, then, that I find myself on a half-kilometer stretch of the highway on a ledge right above the sea. There are no crowds, parked vehicles, picnickers or swimmers that you’d expect of a popular beach. Mine is the only vehicle parked on the highway. <br /><br />Buses, trucks and cars whiz by in a tearing hurry. Some of their passengers peep out, and make frantic efforts to see as much of the vast open sea as possible before the road disappears into the interior of the town. <br /><br />I shift into first gear, crawl alongside the sea, and gaze wistfully into infinity in the late morning sun before the highway veers me away from the sea-view.<br /><br />**<br /><b>The seen and the unseen</b><br /><br />The highway traveler goes places, but never really gets to stay long enough to appreciate any one place in depth. He has to form an appreciation of each place purely on the basis of the meager clues afforded by the surroundings of the highway. Such are the implications of choosing to take a highway vacation.<br /><br />On the NH17, most towns and places worth seeing lie off the highway. Now, for instance, a signboard, like a dangling carrot, tells me that the seaside fort at Bekal is 9km off the highway. Yet another tells me that the ancient pagoda-like Malik Dinar mosque is off the highway as well.<br /><br />But the highway does give enough clues about what is changing. As I go further into Northern Kerala, green crescent-and-star flags and red hammer-and-sickle flags slowly reduce in number, until I find Kasargode town full of flashing saffron flags for a BJP rally. Vegetarian restaurants start to appear instead of open air chicken-grill-displays. <br /><br />The shade of coconut trees diminishes. Shrubs and undergrowth hardly compensate for the lost shade, as the summer heat beats down directly. The car interior starts to get stuffy. Soon enough, I go across the Karnataka-Kerala border, traverse the immense Nethravathi river and enter Mangalore.Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-61228736520971528282009-12-19T15:04:00.004+04:002010-02-21T10:17:05.660+04:00Another Seaside Idyll.Reaching the best parts of Gokarna can leave one feeling like Tantalus. You’ll find Gokarna’s name on milestones along the Mumbai – Goa – Mangalore highway NH17. But on approach you’ll realize with dismay that the town doesn’t lie on the highway at all. It lies 9km away on a narrow, bumpy side road that is traversed only by infrequent rickety buses.<br /><br />Once you get to Gokarna town, you’ll have another twinge of disappointment awaiting you. You’ll find that the Om beach, the biggest attraction in town, is 7km away from the bus stand, and that there is no public transport to the place.<br /><br />Then you’ll be helpfully told that from the Om beach, you’ve to traverse 2, 2 and 3 kilometres respectively to get to the three other beaches around (Kudle, Half Moon and Paradise). Now, that wouldn’t be so much of a bother if it weren’t for the fact that there are no roads to any of these beaches from Om. The only way to get to these beaches is to hike across hills.<br /><br />I had all day, and was curious enough to travel slowly, to take my time seeing things. So I set out on walk from Gokarna town bus stand. The road to Om beach lay along what looked like a nondescript bylane. I walked along the deserted village road, past thatched houses hidden behind shrub fences.<br /><br />Shortly after the 5km-to-Om milestone, the road rose to reveal just a little glimpse of the wide open sea in the distance. I regretted walking on, for the road dipped again, and the sea hid behind a hill. As I impatiently awaited the shore, the road swerved around a couple of hills. At the 2km-to-Om milestone, the hill to my right dropped away to reveal a yawning valley.<br /><br />I stood staring across the valley, as the vast expanse of the Arabian Sea shimmered across it in the late morning sun. The infinite silvery stretch seemed just beneath me, yet the intervening forests made it seem tantalisingly unreachable. The empty grey of the road waved about ahead of me, and I walked on, for the shore was still some way off.<br /><br />The Om beach, my first port of call, is named thus because it is shaped like the letter ‘Om’. While you can see the two semicircular shores that form halves of the Om, the meagre elevation isn’t enough to reveal the Om-shape very clearly.<br /><br />Because Om is the only beach in Gokarna accessible by road, it is the only one that draws crowds. It was quite an interesting mix of people too. Beer guzzling Europeans occupied tables in the numerous seaside restaurants, as did Indian joint families. Middle aged women wrapped up in drenched saris got out of the water and walked past sunbathers. A 6 year old girl pointed excitedly at a bikini clad woman and screamed in Kannada - “she’s in her underwear!” as her parents made frantic attempts to look elsewhere.<br /><br />I walked across the two arcs of the Om, past the numerous restaurants dotting the fringe. At the southern end, a narrow hill-path sneaked out behind Sunset Cafe, the last restaurant on the beach. The path quickly rose upwards. It made its way into the forests that just a little while ago had been a green blanket covering the hills bordering the sea.<br /><br />Trees on either side were slender and short, and accompanied by undergrowth. The foliage completely obscured the sea. There were no people along the trail. At times the path dissolved into a clump of trees and became ill defined. Sometimes two roads diverged in a wood. I found my way from the fact that Half Moon and Paradise beaches lay in a general southward direction, across a couple of hills.<br /><br />After what seemed an age of walking through the canopy of forest cover, the path stepped outdoors. I walked along a ledge, right above the sea. There was nothing but the cold blue of the boundless water below me. The gentle wrinkles of wavelets twinkled in the sunshine. The crowds, the restaurants, the noises that lay just across a hill seemed a world away.<br /><br />I climbed down to Half Moon beach. It was empty. The golden sand looked never stepped in. The beach was just some 40-50 metres across, yet its solitude gave it an air of purity, of peace. The few shacks being built, the wannabe restaurants hadn’t quite managed to spoil the calm of Half Moon.<br /><br />Paradise beach was two hills away. This stretch spared me forest walks, but furnished rocks to climb across, sometimes amid clear water that gently gurgled in frothy pools under my feet.<br />Paradise beach was a mass of seaside restaurants. The beach was much smaller than Om, just 150 metres or so long. There wasnt much space between the hills and the water, and the six or seven restaurants packed what little space there was. Shacks for rent lay tucked in the hills behind the restaurants, where a few foreigners lay slung in hammocks, in the midst of idyllic seaside vacations. My initial surprise at the existence of commerce in this outpost lasted only till I noticed boats depositing people here.<br /><br />I stepped into one of the open air restaurants for lunch. Conversations wafted across the wet, still air from neighbouring tables. There was a <span style="font-style: italic;">“but I’m just disillusioned with all the commercialism”</span> as was <span style="font-style: italic;">“and then she found another boyfriend”</span>.<br /><br />From the edge of Paradise, I retraced my steps on the two hour trek back to Om. It was late afternoon by the time I got to Om. I began walking towards yet another beach – Kudle, to the north of the Om beach. Kudle lay across two mounds that were relatively tame compared to the others I’d faced earlier in the day.<br /><br />The Kudle beach was a semicircular bowl of hills that contained the sea within. The water was nearly still. Waves rolled in, not crashed through. Kudle looked like a placid backwater, a forgotten lake, a long way from civilization. Along the sprawling half-kilometre circumference of the beach, there were no more than a dozen bathers. A dolphin’s leap punctured the grey water surface in the distance.<br /><br />The late evening sun lowered itself into the water far, far away. Soon, the only remnant of the day was a diffuse orange light draped over the water.<br /><br />(Images <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/74896667@N00/sets/72157622779700843/">here</a>.)Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-65084775714404324202009-11-18T16:30:00.005+04:002010-02-21T10:17:25.476+04:00A walk through Old Delhi<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5Cshamanth%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5Cshamanth%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" 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<![endif]--><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-IN">The stuffy, cramped DTC bus deposited me in front of Red Fort. The sheer length and height of the red stone wall looked imposing, impenetrable. Flocks of pigeons pottered about within the unpeopled lawns.<o:p></o:p></span> <p><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-IN">I had a free evening during a business trip, and decided to employ it by taking a walk along Chandni Chowk, which, as you might know, has been variously described as ‘quaint’, ‘right out of the 18<sup>th</sup> century’ and having ‘awesome food’. Though I'd been there a few years ago, there was much curiosity to experience it all over again. </span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-IN">Chandni Chowk is the road perpendicular to the Red Fort’s Lahori Gate. It is the main street, therefore the central market of the walled city of Old Delhi, which was established in 1639. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-IN">Around me, the Saturday evening traffic inches past the entrance to Chandni Chowk. Sweaty pedestrians zigzag through the maze of stuck vehicles, making no distinction between the road and the sidewalk.</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-IN">The Lal Jain Mandir at the entrance to Chandni Chowk has a porch packed with feeding pigeons, with an empty verandah separating the gate from the sanctum. The sense of spaciousness is relative – the temple looked like an oasis in contrast with the choked road.</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-IN">The crowd looks like it will spill over into the Gurudwara Sis Ganj that stands at the edge of the road, from where I can see a part of its inner hall. Its clean floors hold no props or furniture, only devotees occupied in their private prayers, covered heads bowed in reverence. Pigeons flutter atop the Gurudwara’s golden coloured dome that is splashed with a rich yellow cover by the rays of the waning sun.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-IN">Matchbox-like shops huddle together. Ancient houses with spacious, shady verandahs hide behind them. Most buildings in Chandni Chowk are grey, unpainted, nameless. Some are clumsily boarded up, hiding frantic attempts at bandaging ruptured surfaces. Crumbling, doddering are the words that come to mind – not historic, monumental. </span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-IN">Here, even the new and the modern dons a sober garb. The Cafe Coffee Day is on the ground floor of a wrinkled yellow building that looks like a seedy lodge. State Bank of India’s branch is situated in a town-hall like building, complete with wide staircase and tall pillars by the entrance. The golden arch of McDonald’s fronts a dull red house with fading paint, the grey underneath showing in places like a badly patched dress. </span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-IN">Chandni Chowk is dusty, old fashioned. Yet people throng in their multitudes, in expensive cars, autos and buses alike; its streetside shops are patronised alike by hip teens and tentative young women in cotton salwars.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-IN">Families came for an evening outing; young couples came to court; groups of collegians hung out. Shirtless daily wage workers push brimming hand carts past the shoppers.</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-IN">Food is Chandni Chowk’s chief occupation -- some might say preoccupation. Purani Jalebiwala, whose board reads ‘Old Famous Jalebiwala’, serves up glistening jalebis dripping with ghee and replete with a wholesome taste I had never experienced before. The pea samosas that followed would have been great their own right, but they paled in the bountiful presence of the jalebis.
<br /></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-IN">Parathewali Gali is a narrow, twisting lane full of low-roofed eateries, each proclaiming its pedigree. One was founded in 1890, another was active for 6 generations, yet another had a six word name. All announced matter of factly that they use ‘shudh desi ghee’.</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-IN">The ‘parathas’ here are uncharacteristic – more like stuffed pooris or bhaturas than the more traditional flat version. These are thick, oily, rich - the greasiness drowning the taste of the stuffed vegetable and spices. There is no nuance, none of the subtleties of taste I had anticipated from a street named after them.</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-IN">Across the road is yet another narrow lane, just wide enough to allow two or three people to walk abreast. People throng the entrance of the lane, and gradually trickle within. Natraj Dahi Bhalle, the <i>alu tikki</i> guy who had been recommended to me, is right at the entrance to the lane.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-IN">The <i>alu tikkis</i> look crisp, with a sharpness on their surface, but turn out to be soft and succulent as I dug into them. I mentally lament that <i>alu tikkis</i> are largely absent in South India, and have only a poor cousin in the form of <i>ragda patties</i> in West India. </span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-IN">There is more food all along the road – chaats, samosas, lassis, and even a government-run liquor shop sandwiched in there.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-IN">I abandoned my linear trek along Chandni Chowk to explore the streets and bylanes, tempted in part by their lyrical, wistful names – I walked along the Gali Ghantewali, Dariba Kalan ('Street of the Incomparable Pearl') and ‘favvara’ (fountain), among other places. The name Chandni Chowk itself comes from the moonlight reflecting from a canal that used to flow through the center of what is now the main road.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-IN">For all the poetry in the names, the buildings the streets house are greying, fragile. Delhi Public Library has piles of debris within. The Old Delhi railway station has carefully designed arches and precisely made metal pillars, if you can see through the cobwebs, the grime and the neglect. And everywhere, there is destitution, poverty: often, you sidestep vagrants as you progress through the narrow lanes.</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-IN">Most people who frequent Chandni Chowk insist that its charms come from its antiquity. But in practice, the romance of the ancient is masked, obscured, by grime and the all pervasive squalor. The charms of the past can be endured only in small doses – you long, thus, for a speedy return to the comfortable cocoon of swankier locales. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-IN">No sooner wished, than done - only a long, largely deserted flight of steps separates grimy Chandni Chowk from the antiseptic cleanliness of the underground Metro station. Seated in air conditioned comfort in one of its shiny cars, I leave the old world behind and head, with a sense of relief, into the comfortable familiarity of 21<sup>st</sup> century New Delhi.</span></p><p><span style=";font-family:";" lang="EN-IN">(<span style="font-style: italic;">This perhaps is a good point to say thanks to the good friend who gave recommendations</span>.)<span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></p> Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-77146710230696370632009-11-05T11:21:00.001+04:002010-02-21T10:17:33.410+04:00A day with the South West monsoon<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5Cshamanth%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link 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Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-IN" ><o:p></o:p>The 4:15 am Parasuram Express was a ghost train as it out of sighed out of Mangalore Central. As it rumbled across the Netravathi in the pre-dawn darkness, white tubelights within throbbed down upon the few sleepy faces that populated the largely empty train.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-IN" >I was on a journey that’d let me see all of Kerala in the rain. I wanted to see the South West monsoons at their most bountiful, draping what is perhaps their favourite region in India. I hoped to view India’s most popular tourist state from a vantage point that it’s not been seen from too often – the train footboard.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-IN" >As the train sped southwards in the darkness and persistent rain, name boards on wayside stations switched from Kannada to Malayalam. Hoardings for Hoorulyn brand burqas and New Age brand dhothies appeared by the trackside. Silhouettes of the first coconut trees surfaced from the shadows, dwarfing and sheltering all other vegetation. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-IN" >What remained unchanged were the inundated fields and gushing water bodies. Unchanged too was the violence of even the smaller streams that furiously tossed about branches and other remnants of vegetation. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-IN" >The Parasuram express is named after the man who, according to legend, carved out Kerala by hurling his axe into the sea. Even though it plies a distance of 634km from Mangalore to Trivandrum, it is practically a series of short distance trains.<span style=""> </span>People hopped in and out of it every hour or two – with hardly anyone traveling more than 3 or 4 hours. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-IN" >Nearly all the somnambulists from Mangalore got off at Kasargode, 46km away. Folks who replaced them would alight in another two hours at Cannanore, 86km further downstream. Purposeful office goers boarding there would go an hour or two till Telicherry or Calicut, only to be replaced by college students and work delegations headed to Trichur. This relay would go on until the last cohort of office returnees alighted in Trivandrum, 14-odd hours from the faraway mists of 4:15am. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-IN" >Around Bekal, 65km from Mangalore, tearing streams occasionally revealed just a little glimpse of the open sea. Just as the train put on a burst of speed, the green of the coconut groves abruptly gave way to a vast openness. Just a few hundred metres away was the open sea, its greenish-blue stretches merging into the inky twilight sky far, far away. The two or three minutes of this proximity seemed to last forever. Inevitably, the train swerved inland and moved on, ruthlessly pushing back the view until it was a mere memory.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-IN" >Cannanore, 130km from home, came at 7am. The folks who entered were already the fourth set of people on the train. Calicut, best known because it was Vasco da Gama’s port of call, came by at 8:35am, 221km into the journey. The day was just beginning for the folks coming in freshly bathed and breakfasted. I was already a long way into my day, as I tucked into the thankful warmth of upma and watery tea.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-IN" >Past Calicut, there was water everywhere. Lakes and water bodies had encroached into flooded fields. Often, there was just a continuum of water punctuated by stubbles of grass within. The rivers swelled, lapping up bridge spans. The Thootha and the Bharathapuzha had water rushing almost right under my feet. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-IN" >Yet, there was no despair around. In Bihar two monsoons ago, I saw refugees from the rain shivering in shacks by the trackside. There was none of that here. Houses stood steady. Schoolkids waved happily to the train. Women unmindfully waded through water-logged verandahs. Everywhere along the route, groups of men crouched under umbrellas, intent in games of cards. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-IN" >The railway was never alone. Often, coconut groves cocooned the track tightly on either side. Houses had the railway tracks for their front yards. Hillocks loomed alongside the tracks after Shoranur, 307km into the ride. The infrequent clearings, water bodies and fields felt like an opening up, a relief from being accompanied all the time.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-IN" >Lunch came by at 1:30pm in Ernakulam, lesser half of the better known Cochin.<span style=""> </span>I had the hobson’s choice of any dish as long as it was badly-cooked biriyani. As Parasuram lurched out of the city limits, the sun came out briefly. Waterlogged rice fields stretched out in the fuzzy light. Their silver surfaces carried imperfect reflections within them. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-IN" >Pepper and rubber trees surfaced. Town names grew longer. Attempts to register Tripunithura’s name made me nearly miss the sight of the pagoda-like station building that stood in proud isolation in the downpour. At Mulagunnathukavu, I didn’t stand a chance of noticing any detail of the station. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-IN" >Kottayam came at 3pm, and looked like a forest-town. Passengers, of course, continued their in-and-out-of-the-train medley. Soon, the Parasuram express entered Alleppey district, which has most of the backwaters that Kerala is known for. Most backwaters are canals that branch out from Vembanad and Ashtamudi lakes. I’d see the latter lake shortly, which gets its name from its octopus-shape.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-IN" >Dirty grey clouds loomed above. The Pampa river was an unassuming, modest stream, but as full and overflowing as the other water bodies. In two weeks it would host the famous boat races at Alleppey.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-IN" >Thick threads of rainwater sheeted down, forming a near-opaque curtain in front of me. Canals and rivulets surged ahead with vehemence, with none of the languidness suggested by the word ‘backwater’. Metres away from the deluge, I gratefully held the hot tea in my chilly hands at Kayankulam at 4pm. It was 529km into the day by now. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-IN" >The train skirted the Ashtamudi lake, which, perhaps by its enormity, gave the impression of placidity, even in the furious rain. The contours of the lake curved away tantalisingly. But the train persisted in bestowing its attentions on it. After perhaps two kilometres or so of this futile courtship, the Parasuram express impatiently swung away. It clearly had no intention of following the footsteps of the Island Express, which had plunged into this lake in 1988.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-IN" >This rejection, of course, wasn’t the end of the world for Parasuram. It cavorted with the Kilimukkam lake, rendered wetter by the pouring rain, and caught a glimpse of the lake dissolving into the immensity of the sea. This lake too, of course, turned out to be unattainable for Parasuram.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-IN" >After another stroll amid coconut groves, the inevitable happened. The grey that had filled the sky all day turned just a shade deeper – a foreboding of the arrival of evening twilight. Thatched roofs, copses and rivulets gave way to concrete buildings, shops and traffic filled roads. Trivandrum, the end of the journey was nigh. Fourteen odd hours by greenery, in the rain didn’t quite seem enough. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-IN" >The Parasuram express squeaked into the solemn, majestic stone buildings of Trivandrum Central. The square, clean-cut edifice seemed to have come too soon, as it rounded off a day spent in the abundance of unspoilt, newly washed stretches. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" lang="EN-IN" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-37400300513407243592009-07-03T22:00:00.000+04:002010-11-25T20:01:05.313+04:00Konkan Railway - Off the road, but on track<div>My piece in Mint Lounge on the Konkan Railway.</div><div><br /></div><a href="http://www.livemint.com/2009/07/03213409/Konkan-Railway--Off-the-road.html">http://www.livemint.com/2009/07/03213409/Konkan-Railway--Off-the-road.html</a>Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-77570871059703864972009-06-20T17:26:00.003+04:002010-02-21T10:16:14.197+04:00On arrivals.<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Century Gothic';">**</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Arrival # last-but-one was at Pune. The first sight there was the rear of platform 1. Cement-grey backdrop. Never been painted. Looked like it never deserved to be. Only a few bored, listless porters and tramps. Great ambience for a godown, but not exactly red carpet material.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >More bleakness when I stepped out of the station. 8am, and the sun didn’t look like it’d ever come out. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Hotel Kundan Palace gave me a heavily carpeted and cushioned room. Tried way too hard for a red carpet. Much heaviness, stuffiness in the room. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >10am. Skies diffused from mere sunless-ness to near-darkness. Dampness and dankness seeped through the gloom, I could only helplessly watch as they did so. The inevitable finally happened. Rain began to belt down, it was not to stop for two days. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Essentials such as local-food sampling had to wait. Relative luxuries such as cell and internet connections didn’t stand a chance. Vehement bursts puncutuated lulls in the rain, dissuading me from any attempts at going out.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >The watery, lukewarm tea matched the weather just fine. Pathetic attempts at continental cuisine fit the mood just right. The cook even managed to make bad curd rice.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >It was only slightly warm under a blanket. The wetness outside sucked the coziness out of any warmth there was within. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >There was only so much peering-at-rain-outside-window that you could do.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >**<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >The last arrival was on a bike. I was out of Mysore in the chill of early morning. Cold shafts of air rushed into my crouched upper body. Twas an invigorating coolness, though. The shivers it caused were those of alertness, not fright. Perhaps what coolness does to you depends only on what you feel like letting it do.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >At 7, the coolness had slowly condensed into the chirpy warmth of morning. By 8, it was a bright sunniness amid which I was coasting away. Smooth, straight, steady, amidst equanimity. The bike was a near-noiseless purr of effortlessness.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I got out of the hotel at Kalpetta after a late breakfast. The world was a different one now. A grey smokiness had come out of nowhere and flung itself across the clear blue skies of the morning. There was rumbling in the distance. There was a hint of hesitation, a teeny bit of trepidation as I left the last house behind, exit the town limits, and go into the arms of the approaching thunderstorm.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >The first refuge was under a tree. The precipitation gave no time to seek out man made shelter. <span style=""> </span>A brave attempt at driving through didn’t succeed. I impatiently waited, twiddling fingers.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >The storm subsided just a bit, I droned through the shower that remained.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Every piece of clothing on me was dripping. There was still 80km to go. The rain didn’t look like it’d stop all day. The morning’s sun was a distant memory. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Still amid the deluge, I descended the Wayanad ghats. Through the water curtain, I stared disbelievingly at the valley below, as the bike noiselessly glides down the 15km long downward slope. The only sound was that of wheels cutting through water on the road amid the tapping of raindrops. I was so wet, I wasnt feeling the clothes clinging to me any longer.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >A renewed burst of rain forced another stop. By now, there was no fear of the rain. There was no exasperation in the inevitable wait. There was no helplessness in knowing that it was not going to stop anyway, or in knowing that I was going to have to drive through it anyway. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >There was only the liberating feeling of knowing that the rain couldnt get me any wetter, that it couldnt do a thing. Perhaps that’s how hope begins.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >**<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >This arrival was in the morning. Not much sleep – perhaps there was too much of anticipation of the morning. The impatience for the arrival made me cut the morning run short. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I made up for the lack of exercise by lugging boxes of material possessions. Down to the auto, into the elevator and through into the new apartment.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >In every new house, there’s the inviting vacancy, emptiness, a craving for things undone and thoughts unthought. <span style=""> </span>Here, today, though, there was some preoccupation with things to be done. Even the blue of the Arabian sea stretching away forever couldn’t dislodge that. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >But not for long. It was in the evening, after-office, amidst twilight, when all sank in. That was when I really saw the dim lamplike glow of the lights on the beach road. I gently tiptoed to my switchboard, turned off the lights, and stood watching the row of orange embers below. <span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >There was the sheer immensity of possibility that lay in the eternity of the deep, deep blue sea outside my balcony, as it slowly faded to black. I stood listening to the faint hum of the waves crash into the shore.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";" >On my first day in her company, the Arabian sea made me cry.</span></p>Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-1818049638142963732008-06-06T13:05:00.008+04:002010-02-21T10:15:31.169+04:007 - Highway Star<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">The end of the platform at Zurich Brunau slopes down to merge with the highway’s service lane. A footpath fringes the highway up ahead. After a moment’s hesitation, I decide to cycle along the footpath, and see how far it goes. A short distance on, the highway acquires a cycling-lane - a one-metre-wide space at the far-right.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p></o:p>So the highway does indeed allow cyclists, unlike what I'd been told. When I notice my formals-and-tie clothing, I wonder whether I should go ahead and cycle on the highway. I hesitate, but only just, before I decide to take the plunge. Sights of other cyclists in shorts and vests, and of cyclists on super-fast geared bikes make attempts to dissuade me, all of which I resist.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">**<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">My slow, ungeared city-cycle ambles on. I’m naturally apprehensive at first, because there’s just a line-painted-on-the-ground separating the car lane and the cycle lane. A couple of minutes’ riding is some reassurance – cars stay put in their lanes, refusing to swerve an inch on either side. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that Swiss cars never ever overtake. They’re fast alright, but they aren’t in a tearing hurry, there’s none of what Bill Aitken calls the ‘animal lust for speed’. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">The ones who are possessed by the said lust are the few motorcyclists there are on the road. Heads down, clad in jackets and tracksuits and protective gear like you see on TV races, they rush by furiously. Bigger, faster European bikes do nothing to ease the feeling that these guys might careen out of control at any moment. The insistent whining of their engines isnt a reassurance either. Yet the roads are empty and unclogged, so motorcycling looks fairly easy.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">**<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p></o:p>Leimbach station is a single cottage lost in time-and-space as it lies at the edge of the forested hill. The forlorn cabin and station building remind me of some solitary, lovely railway stations on long journeys on the Indian railways. Thereafter, the highway worms its way between two factory walls on either side. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">The railway track and the river Sihl flow on the left. Deep green mountains tower on the right. High amid the mountains, metallic presences jut out, as cranes claw into vegetation. The Sihl narrows at one point to reveal a stone bed with picnicking families parked thereupon. The vegetation lying across the Sihl is much closer, more discrete – so you can make out its closely packed trees and shrubs. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p>**<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">A side road branches out from the highway and points towards Adliswil. I decide it’s perhaps a different experience to check out a small-town instead of keeping on the highway. I park the bicycle upon the overbridge and climb down to the railway platform. I take a walk along the open-air restaurant-lobby, past the couple of coffee-sippers lazing there in the sun.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p></o:p>I stand upon the arched bridge, looking at the steady, clear water of the river Sihl. Vehicles are infrequent on the road – there’s one car every few minutes or so. The town road is empty, pedestrians are few and the water below sprints quietly by.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Wooden cottages of a school look like fairy-tale huts in an orchard. There’s a white-flower-blanketed playground, beside a board with childrens’ drawings. Tis Sunday, so there’s an eerie, deserted look about the school. Under a playground-tree, two teenage girls gently hold each other as they kiss tenderly, unmindful of my passing-by. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p></o:p>**<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p></o:p>On the other side, a cycling path runs parallel to the Sihl. A young man on a bench tells me it goes all the way from Zurich to Zug(some 30km away) and beyond, all along the Sihl. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p></o:p>Families cycle by on the grassy riverside path that glows in the gentle sunlight. Mums and dads go slow enough to allow accompanying little bicycles to keep pace. Most cyclists go slowly, looking around, taking in the view of the valley and the river, some of them spotting a distant church-spire that looks dissolved amid the forested hillside. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p>Mats have been spread out and food hampers unpacked as families laugh and play together on the banks. The entire town seems to be picnicking today – the banks don’t look too crowded since people disperse themselves all along the length of the Sihl.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p></o:p>**<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p></o:p>The main street is boarded up, all businesses are closed. Tis lunchtime, and the three riverbank restaurants have their garden wicket-gates closed. Behind the river is a one room police station, and a food place that is thankfully open. An old couple and a younger woman are sipping beers in a corner of the corridor of Café du Jeannette. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p></o:p>I tentatively peer inside and find no one inside the dark, wine-bottle-lined wooden interiors. The younger woman, presumably Jeannette, springs up and almost sheepishly says<i style="">,”’morning. Would you like some beer?” <o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="">“I was looking at something to eat, lunch perhaps.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="">“Uh oh. I’m afraid I havent anything – there’re some old sandwiches, that’s all. I usually have no customers on Sundays, so I don’t really make anything. I’m really sorry.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">**<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I walk beside a closed pizzeria and electronics shops on what’s one of the two main roads in town. A side street reveals a grand stone building that is another school. Cyclists occasionally disappear around a far corner, seemingly into a hillock lying across the town. I enter another side lane, and sit down on the steps outside the closed doors of the stately, serene stone structure of the town chapel. I take in the empty, open, tranquility of the place, as I sit unperturbed by any external stimuli, refusing to even consult my watch. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">As I look at the deep, dark brown leaves of a nearby maple tree, a football flies across the street from a house down the road. Three kids run across the road amid an abrupt burst of chatter, which sight and sound puncture the uneventfulness around.<br /></span></p>Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-13496605373681826812008-06-05T10:10:00.010+04:002010-02-21T10:15:25.511+04:006 - Fringes of the town<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Tis evening. I lounge around the clean, almost-polished-looking lobby of the Youth Hostel. Most publications on display, tourist guides mainly, are in German. All else that is for sale, to my amazement, is out in the open and not in locked cases – chocolates, knives, souvenirs et al.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p></o:p>Two of my roommates are from <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Azerbaijan</st1:place></st1:country-region>. I tentatively fish around for common ground, mentioning the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Garry_Kasparov">three</a> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Teimour_Radjabov">Azerbaijan-i</a> <a href="http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shahriyar_Mammadyarov?title=Shahriyar_Mammadyarov&redirect=no">men</a> I know of. Before we know, we’re in excited conversation about the game. Gestures-with-swaying-arms, broken English and alien-words manage to come together to give all of us a general idea of what we talk about, even though we don’t quite get everything word-by-word. The 9pm summer sunlight slants down by our porthole-like-window, as we look out on the vacant, sleepy street.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p>**<o:p></o:p></span></p><span style="">I’ve borrowed one of the public-bicycles that are lent out for free by the city. I plan to cycle some way out of the city early on day 2, since I only need get out of <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Zurich</st1:city></st1:place> by evening. <o:p></o:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">On the evening walk, I notice a wide, neat highway some way from the hostel, so am much reassured. Unfortunately, the youth hostel receptionist isn’t so sure – she tells me cyclists aren’t allowed on the highway. I give myself a ‘such-is-life’.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">**<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Still, when the morning arrives, I decide I’ll at least go see the highway and will loll around the railway station next to it. I deck the self up in formals-and-tie, having decided to get out of the city right after the said stroll.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">**<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">When I’ve pushed the cycle up the incline, I reach the top of a small knoll. Down below are the plain-grey-sheets of the two empty railway platforms of Zurich Brunau. There are two halves of a highway that unroll themselves next to the station, split into smaller roads that go on to intertwine themselves into a series of flyovers that look like contorted octopi. The side of the hill facing the track has a bright splash of yellow across it. The hillside is smothered by yellow flowers that softly, gently move in the cool, sun-suffused morning breeze.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I wade my hands across the surface of the bowl at the base of a small fountain. The steely chill of the water vibrates across my hands. There’s the constant whizz of the highway cars in the background. The platform down below is vacant; the streets behind me atop the hillside aren’t awake either. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I steer the cycle onto the top of the railway overbridge. The pairs of metallic threads below me emerge from amid edifices, and swing outwards to curve around the side of the hill. I carry the bicycle downstairs, and cycle across the length of the platform. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">There’s no one else on the platform. I sit down on a bench underneath an ad, with the cycle parked next to me. Around me is the steadiness of the highway and the stillness of the flame-hued, almost-alive hill; as the plain, bare tracks quietly snake past.</span></p>Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-83772896650793196192008-05-30T14:48:00.008+04:002010-02-21T10:15:20.029+04:005 - The station again, and another part of the cityI go down to the station in the afternoon, mainly to be able to catch a sight of the train of great speed that, rather imaginatively, is named <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/TGV">'the train of great speed'</a>. I watch the sleek, earthworm-like, phallic shape pull out, even as it desists from doing so at great speed. I walk around the by-now-much-more-crowded Zurich Hauptbahnhof. It turns out there are additional platforms underneath the ones I've seen in the morning. Around the underground platforms is sprawled a massive shopping plaza that's almost hidden out of sight when you're upstairs.<br /><br />**<br />The Toblerone arena that was being set up in the station foyer in the morning has much more action and bigger crowds by now. Screens show videos of the story of the founders of Toblerone, the history of the company, and the process of manufacturing chocolates. People help themselves to chocolates from bowls placed around the arena - I do too.<br /><br />At one long table, people put their heads down and fill stenciled outlines of the words 'Toblerone' with colours. Many others huddle behind them to watch. 5-year olds happily spill colours outside the lines, sitting beside grandmothers who fill in slowly, easily; even as twenty-somethings rub the crayons back and forth in brisk, smooth motions. People who finish make way for other passers-by who start on another sheet. A bearded man is watching his wife and kid daughter bent over the table, immersed amid their crayons. He smiles at me, points at the '100-years-of-Toblerone' balloon, and exclaims 'Magnifique chocolate, monsieur'.<br /><br />At another set of tables, people take opened-up-Toblerone-wrappers and fold-and-stick them into the characteristic triangular-prism-shape of Toblerone packs. A tower is being made of these prism-packs. A crowd cheers as it expectantly looks upwards at the tower-top where a volunteer atop a ladder adds new packs. An electronic counter reads 7571, indicating the number of prisms already in the paper-tower.<br /><br />I watch at one of the tables as two women and an old man are intent in their folding-into-prisms act. One of them, a girl with flaming lipstick and pierced chin flashes a radiant smile and invites me - "Why dont you join in?". A young mother who's doing the folding-and-sticking while balancing her toddler adds - "Yes, please do." After much struggle with the cellotape and gum-stick, I wish I had a few more hands to keep the folds in place. I finish my first pack with an exultant sigh, in the time the young mother's done three. The old man at the table and gives me a "'Tis okay, you only need to get used to it". My second pack is much faster, though it looks like the folds will burst apart any moment.<br /><br />**<br /><br />Sometime later, as I exit the station, the mum-with-toddler-at-Toblerone passes by. She spots me amid the milling crowd , lets forth an exuberant smile and does a "Hello again. How've you been?". A couple of pleasantries later comes the "Have a nice day". It's fascinating to see the warmth and affability of the people I meet, and more so when it's put in the context of prim, formal localities I see everywhere.<br /><br />After being in India, you dont quite expect uninvited greetings or good wishes - it's pleasantly surprising to be able to return compliments to people you hardly know. Even random people I strike up conversations with show an unprepossessing warmth I've hardly seen elsewhere. It's all the more surprising since most people, like their city, drape themselves in formal starched-plain exteriors that can make you feel underdressed.<br /><br />**<br /><br />I find a part of the city that doesnt look like it's dressed up in a suit-boot-tie. In a narrow lane behind the Limmat river, there's an open square that you could call the city's flea market. It's a counterweight to the culture of the rest of the city, even though it is very insignificant in size.<br /><br />Here's everything that Zurich city would shudder at. Just outside the open-square quadrangle, there're cobblestoned pedestrian-only roads; there're Asian, Mexican and Turkish food stalls; there're cloth shops that have shelves packed with clothes, unlike the spacious designer-display-shops in the rest of Zurich. Inside the quadrangle, there're vendors in t-shirts, sombreros and long beards, people who look like they have no qualms about skipping a bath. There're also Ganesha statues, necklaces made of strange beads, jewelry made of feathers, stones that are a world apart from Zurich's primary-colour-identity.Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-37997603294134772732008-05-23T09:51:00.008+04:002010-02-21T10:15:14.472+04:004 - City rounds and stumbing upon black sheep<span style=""><o:p></o:p>Across the Limmat from the Hauptbahnhof, there’s a swarm of boards announcing cafés and restaurants. There are three cyclists parked atop the Limmat bridge ponderously looking at the placid, flat stream. A dad-son-dog trio looks into the water. A preteen in dark glasses and helmet whizzes past atop her skates.</span><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">The restaurants and cafes lazily unroll themselves, spilling their tables-chairs-clientele onto the road on the banks of the Limmat. Behind these, a hill harbours a road that shoots upwards, along which a massive hoarding advertises Lindt chocolates.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p></o:p>**<o:p><br /></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I pass a movie-memorabilia shop, and stop to look at a wayside board listing theatre and opera performances in town. Almost all are in German, and none fits my budget or time.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">There are a couple of buildings with flat, towering glass facades that stick out amid the prim, ancient looking residences elsewhere. They havent the subtlety that marks the rest of the city - no statuettes and decorative motifs, not too much careful attention to detail - just one monstrous sheet of glass that rises up and spreads sideways. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p></o:p>These aren’t ostentatious or brash. There is only one small board near what could only be an entrance, mentioning, almost reluctantly, that this is the Marriott.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">At a zebra crossing ahead, four cars line up one behind the other and wait for a young father to push a pram across the road.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">**<o:p></o:p><br />I walk through residential areas, streets harbouring apartments. The houses, while neat and proper, offer hardly any sign of life. You see no people milling about, no one on the balconies leaning out of houses, hardly any clothes hung to dry, hardly any windows or doors open, no one out in the flowerbeds and gardens. There are no kids playing about, no teenagers roaming the streets. </span><span style="">In commercial areas – Bahnhofstrasse and their ilk – crowds potter around, trudge gently, sit back as they populate the roadside chairs-tables of brasseries.<br /></span><br /><span style="">Life is unhurried, there’s no bustle or haste anywhere in the town. </span><span style=""><o:p></o:p></span><span style="">But sometimes you wonder if it's the relaxed, retiring pace of life that has conditioned people to stay within their private worlds. The extraordinary level of organization and maintenance, the trim localities, blooming gardens, avenues, and the level of public attention that seems to have gone into the city, all seem a little incongruous with such unwillingness to go out, experience the city, engage with the world.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">**<o:p><br /></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">At first, I tell myself the insulation really is some form of refinement – perhaps some variant of ‘I shant bother my neighbour’. But seeing this poster sprinkled all over Zurich city(including, ironically, the vicinity of the airport) makes me wonder if there is something deeper:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/SDZesfgOWBI/AAAAAAAAAQE/U2tD3i2x1Ko/s1600-h/banner-fg___news_zoom.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/SDZesfgOWBI/AAAAAAAAAQE/U2tD3i2x1Ko/s400/banner-fg___news_zoom.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203450537937098770" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I was a tad surprised at the bluntness of the message, bespeaking some desperation. A little less paranoia perhaps could have led to a more tactful(not to mention more convincing) ad. The one below, incidentally, was another ad in the same campaign.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/SDZesfgOWCI/AAAAAAAAAQM/qCCbNO3NZmE/s1600-h/SwissSheepL_468x635.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/SDZesfgOWCI/AAAAAAAAAQM/qCCbNO3NZmE/s400/SwissSheepL_468x635.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203450537937098786" border="0" /></a><span style=""><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">You’d think that a city with so much to enjoy, contemplate, appreciate would give its denizens nothing to worry about. Still skeptical, I told myself that surely this was not really representative of the entire populace’s opinion – maybe a far right fringe bunch(<span style="font-style: italic;">for the posters were a part of a poster-and-mass-media ad campaign</span><st1:city style="font-style: italic;" st="on"><st1:place st="on"></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-style: italic;"> by the Swiss People’s Party</span>). It turns out that the Swiss People’s Party(SVP) is the biggest party in the Swiss Parliament, its rise over the last twenty years being largely founded on its anti-immigrant rhetoric. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I think back, and realize I’ve hardly seen any non-whites in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Zurich</st1:place></st1:city>. Sure, there’re some Asian tourists, conspicuous by their bag-carrying and hesitant awkwardness – but hardly anyone black or brown who look accustomed enough, comfortable enough to suggest they reside here.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">A pub owner I meet a few days later, a Kosovar immigrant, mentions how impossibly difficult he was finding it to get a Swiss passport, even though he’d stayed here twenty or so years. The process is crazily drawn out – you’ve to take language tests, and in what looks an almost medieval practice, the residents in your town have to ‘approve’ of you by a vote. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">**<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Understandably, the ad campaign set off alarm bells in <st1:place st="on">Europe</st1:place>. Doudou Diene, the U.N. special fact-finder on racial intolerance said the campaign was <span style="font-style: italic;">"advocating racist and xenophobic ideas"</span>. People have remarked how eerily similar the rhetoric is to that of Nazi Germany (and if I may add, to present day Mumbai, <st1:place st="on">Gujarat</st1:place>, you name it)<i style="">.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">The SVP, of course, has much to say in its defence. Ulrich Schueler, the man who created the sheep campaign said, <i style="">"That's nonsense. It's not against race. It's against people who break laws. People are fed up."</i> Another party member, Bruno Walliser had to say, <i style="">“The black sheep is not any black sheep that doesn’t fit into the family. It’s the foreign criminal who doesn’t belong here, the one that doesn’t obey Swiss law. We don’t want him.”<o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-2128533970406020462008-05-21T09:40:00.012+04:002010-02-21T10:15:08.269+04:003 - First steps in town<span style="">I exit the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Z%C3%BCrich_Main_Station">station</a> towards the Bahnhofplatz. There’s a statue of Alfred Escher, one of the founding fathers of the Swiss Railway network, and a fountain and a trough under the statue. The crossroads isn’t too busy this early in the morning. The glass roofing and sides, along with the early-morning-emptiness give the tram stops a newly-washed look.</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/SDO22OVY-KI/AAAAAAAAAPU/w0364eUAPHU/s1600-h/Escher.jpg"><br /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><img src="file:///C:/DOCUME%7E1/shamanth/LOCALS%7E1/Temp/moz-screenshot.jpg" alt="" /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/SDO3TuVY-LI/AAAAAAAAAPc/Xe38-2M0w1E/s1600-h/Escher+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 125px; height: 167px;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/SDO3TuVY-LI/AAAAAAAAAPc/Xe38-2M0w1E/s400/Escher+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202703544026200242" border="0" /></a><span style=""><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p></o:p>To take my tram to the Youth Hostel, I turn into the <a href="http://www.bahnhofstrasse-zuerich.ch/index_e.html">Bahnhofstrasse</a>. This one-and-a-half-kilometer long avenue is said to be one of the world’s most expensive shopping areas. I can see why – on either side are shopfronts with labels like Chanel, Armani, Cartier and their ilk. There’s even a huge Davidoff store. These facades are wide, spacious, like they’re firmly saying they don’t need to be miserly.</span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/SDO4euVY-NI/AAAAAAAAAPs/WHLeKhiyq1k/s1600-h/180px-Zurich-Bahnhofstrasse-01-01.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 155px; height: 232px;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/SDO4euVY-NI/AAAAAAAAAPs/WHLeKhiyq1k/s400/180px-Zurich-Bahnhofstrasse-01-01.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202704832516389074" border="0" /></a><br /><span style=""> <o:p></o:p></span></div> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Cyclists, skaters and walkers have begun to crowd the sides already – there are hardly any cars. The lanes that cut the Bahnhofstrasse are half occupied by chairs and tables of brasseries. These have begun to fill up with breakfasters poring over newspapers.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I need to figure out which of the stops I need to take my tram from. I ask an old man, who says he’s headed the same way. He walks me to the tram stop, and helps me with the electronic ticket dispenser. As he gets off the tram a couple of minutes later, he gives me a warm smile and a “have a nice day!”. During the course of the day, I get this pleasantly surprising greeting from the youth hostel staff, random neighbours on trams, shops where I merely browse but don’t buy - from pretty much everyone I come in contact with.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">**<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">The first tram ride takes me through two impressive platz-es(squares, plazas) – Enge and Paradeplatz. Both are broad, open, with a couple of stalls in the centre and imposing castle-like buildings on the sides. Enge has a majestic railway station to one side and tables-chairs of cafes on another. The railway-station front has tall arches spread out in a semi-circular shape, with a teeny clock on top, almost like a white bindi.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Paradeplatz, no less ambitious, pulls off its special effects with a little help from palatial corporate offices - UBS, Credit Suisse and the rest. Both Enge and Paradeplatz still manage an air of being relaxed, let-hair-down hangouts, due to the by-now-ubiquitous roadside cafes and brasseries.</span></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/SDO74-VY-PI/AAAAAAAAAP8/Eh-u5Yqeq4k/s1600-h/Enge2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 327px; height: 215px;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/SDO74-VY-PI/AAAAAAAAAP8/Eh-u5Yqeq4k/s400/Enge2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202708582022838514" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/SDO7LOVY-OI/AAAAAAAAAP0/a7nxOh2bJAs/s1600-h/paradep+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 301px; height: 224px;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Zf5ZfhExb7A/SDO7LOVY-OI/AAAAAAAAAP0/a7nxOh2bJAs/s400/paradep+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202707796043823330" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I need to make plans for the day. There are close to 40 museums in <st1:city st="on">Zurich</st1:city> – the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kunsthaus_Z%C3%BCrich">Kunsthaus</a> is among the most prominent in <st1:place st="on">Europe</st1:place>, the Musee Reitberg is fairly close to the youth hostel where I will stay. But then, I’ve only a day and a half, very little money, and everybody wanting to be my baby. I tell myself that roaming the city streets will let me pack in more of local flavour into the limited time-and-money than an art trip or, *shudder*, an organized tour.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I get myself a day pass. This will let me travel on any tram and bus in the city for an entire day. The plan, therefore, is to take random trams-buses-walks all day and explore the city.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">**<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I find <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Zurich</st1:city></st1:place> pleasantly old-fashioned, carefully crafted. Everywhere there are sloping roofs, chimneys, intricately carved mythological motifs on house fronts, usage of lots of stone, of dark brown wood, and hardly any high rises. Occasionally, there are stone statues on porches, flower beds between houses and gargoyles atop them. There are fountains and water bowls sprinkled across the city, all of them spouting drinking water. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Each house in the city seems individually crafted, with a distinctiveness of its own, with no locality designed en masse. Yet the design is understated and anything but loud. <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Zurich</st1:place></st1:city>’s architectural charm comes from it being firmly rooted in the past. It seems to tell its beholders what Messrs Carl F Bucherer announce on their ads – ‘for those who do not go with the times’.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">**</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">PS - None of the pics are my own. All are off the 'net.<br /></span></p>Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-42936817533116888802008-05-15T13:20:00.006+04:002010-02-21T10:15:01.012+04:002 - A station far away.<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">The train is silent, glass-windowed, footboardless. As it does the short trip from the airport to the railway station, I try to get used to the novelty of the train, of the experience.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">Zurich Hauptbahnhof(or Zurich Main, if you please) looks eerily like <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Mumbai</st1:city> <st1:state st="on">VT.</st1:state></st1:place> <span style=""> </span>The station is an expansive ancient-looking stone building. Like VT, you see trains gently wedge themselves into dead-end platforms, like swords into scabbards. As platforms roll outwards from dead-ends under glass roofs, outlines of the tracks dissolve into a frantic mishmash.<o:p></o:p></span></p><span style="">I walk to the front of the platform, and go past the dead end. There is a corridor and a high-roofed hallway housing railway offices and restaurants and shopping areas. These stretch some 60 meters from the dead end within the main building. I walk around the arena and look about, lugging my two big bags along. <span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">The first sunrays work their way past the pillars and outer walls of the hallway. Early morning commuters begin to trickle in – and not all on foot. A schoolgirl wades in on skates. A disheveled young man wheels a cycle in. Two electric scooters glide through. Two old men peer out of their jackets at the ticket vending machines.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">In the middle of the foyer, a massive triangular balloon gets slowly inflated. The balloon reads “100 years of Toblerone”, and bears the said brand’s insignia. Young men and women in Toblerone t-shirts form a huddle, presumably to chalk out their plans for the day. Dispersing, they use Toblerone-yellow ribbons to demarcate the central part of the arena.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">One coffee stall just beyond a platform’s dead-end has just opened; I glance at its menu and try to get the hang of Swiss Francs. I’m letting the calculations, the budgeting, the conversion into rupees distract me from taking in the vastness, the grandeur of the carefully carved stone atrium. Annoyed at self for said distraction, I take a deep breath and just look.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">The parfumerie, the patisserie and the kebab stall on the outer margins of the foyer are still closed. The ticket counters and helpdesks are open, but there are only officials therein. A prim middle aged man unlocks the doors of a newspaper-and-book shop. A young, incredibly pretty woman dusts the exhibits of a flower shop. The brasserie looks appealing - it has chairs and tables placed outwards, right in the main lobby of the railway station. With some three rows of chairs-tables all facing the expanse of the hallway, it gives the impression of seats at a theatre or show. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">There’s still a tang of cold in the air, as if to remind me of the winter that’s just past. It is, however, spring now - mild, golden sunlight weaves through passers-by and pours itself upon the largely empty foyer.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">I order a breakfast of raspberry jam, uber-bitter coffee and soft, crumbling croissants. I occupy front row seats to look at still-fairly-sparse crowds of travelers walk across the atrium towards waiting trains and large schedule-boards. </span></p>Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-23778393222360160922008-05-13T11:08:00.004+04:002010-02-21T10:14:55.927+04:001 - Learning to fly.<p class="MsoNormal">I have some four hours to spend at the <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bangalore</st1:place></st1:city> airport. The chairs in the lounge arch backwards, but stop short of reclining. There is the uncertain discomfort of whether you should attempt to sit or lie down. I quit reading and do an easy saunter around the lounge.<br /><br />A posse of Kingfisher air hostesses arrives with their flaming-red baggage. They wait for their luggage to get stowed away - their duty hours are yet to begin. They confer in hushed whispers, sometimes letting occasional smiles and jokes break through their trained mannerisms. The occasional anxiety and frown peeps out from behind the pink make-up and powder. One of them twiddles the blue ribbon of an Indigo check in queue that reads - 'no red tape'. The counter at the end of the ribbons is closed.<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br /><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal">**<br /><br />The coffee day bar has deep red for backdrop, with an occasional glow of mild lighting. The three tables inside arent enough for the crowd, so people step outside under a yellow stained-glass like glass ceiling. People in the queue try and balance their baggage as they dig into their pockets. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>A woman with sunglasses balanced above her forehead extracts the change she needs. She spots two suit-boot clad men and greets them with a shout - "Hello! You're going to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> too? Which flight? We should have come from office together!". It's yet another Friday evening.<br /><!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br /><!--[endif]-->**</p> <p class="MsoNormal">You realize airports do not afford you as much space or variety of views as railway stations. All I had was a fairly big hall some 100 metres across. Most stations give me the choice of the length of a multitude of platforms, as well as space outside the station. Security threats and all that ensured that I couldnt exit this hall. If only for a change of scene, I check in my baggage and move inwards into another lounge.<br /><br />The inner pre-boarding lounge has commerce aplenty too. Amid the self improvement books and fiction and HBR compendia, I cant help notice one book that claims to help overcome the influence of cults, written by 'America's best known intervention specialist'. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Coffee, sandwiches, biscuits abound - but no meals, nothing that can fill a stomach. No restaurants or tables - so you've to eat amid the rows of chairs sprawled across the lounge. There are shirts and ties and designer jewelry - you sometimes wonder who precisely is it that buys these. Prices leap up as you go from the outer to the inner lounge. Airports seem to be a trifle more demanding, perhaps because they deem these boarding areas their sanctum sanctorum.<br /><!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br /><!--[endif]-->**<br />There's the vague feeling of boredom in the air. People know there's a late night commute-after-flight that stands between them and the weekend. Sleep is still a couple of hours distant. People chomp on sandwiches and biscuits and stare into nothingness. My flight is still one hour away. This isn’t quite a comfort zone.</p>Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-19454941352635307782008-01-19T14:52:00.002+04:002011-02-23T06:54:21.555+04:00Train of thought 4.75 - One hour in the last town<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Note: </b>This is one of a series of posts about this journey. Other episodes of this trip are here: numbers <a href="http://reverse-swing.blogspot.com/2007/10/train-of-thought-0-man-plan-map.html">0</a>, <a href="http://reverse-swing.blogspot.com/2007/11/train-of-thought-1-due-north-again.html">1</a>, <a href="http://reverse-swing.blogspot.com/2007/11/train-of-thought-2-morning-calm.html">2</a>, <a href="http://reverse-swing.blogspot.com/2007/11/train-of-thought-25-dilli-door-asth.html">2.5</a>, <a href="http://reverse-swing.blogspot.com/2007/12/train-of-thought-3-entering-cow-belt.html">3</a>, <a href="http://reverse-swing.blogspot.com/2007/12/train-of-thought-35-water-everywhere.html">3.5</a>, <a href="http://reverse-swing.blogspot.com/2008/01/train-of-thought-4-further-east.html">4</a>, <a href="http://reverse-swing.blogspot.com/2008/01/train-of-thought-45-last-station-on.html">4.5</a>, <a href="http://reverse-swing.blogspot.com/2008/01/train-of-thought-475-one-hour-in-last.html">4.75</a> .</p><p class="MsoNormal">**</p><p class="MsoNormal">Dibrugarh station is about as big as some of the double-track town-stations through which express trains whizz by without a second glance. The overbridge stands out, emphasised perhaps by the paucity of people on the platforms. The sun is up-and-shining by now, the 5:40am here is like the 9am of elsewhere. Still, the weather is beautiful and clear – no fog or rain, tis bright and cloudless.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Going past the mud-and-puddle filled front yard, I move out of the station, and walk towards the row of cycle rickshaws. I don’t quite know where to tell them to go. I think I should perhaps just walk around town. I’ve an hour here, and no idea how big the town is, so a rickshaw would be in order after all.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">“Okay. Take me on a trip around town.”<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">“Uhh? Where do you want to go?”<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">“Well, I’ve an hour here, so I want to see the town.”<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">“Eh?” <o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’ve seen that ‘you’re crazy’ look before, yesssir.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">“Okay. Take me to the bus stand. How much is it?”<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">“10 bucks.”<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">En route, I tell him to chuck the bus stand and just show me what’s worth seeing in the town.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">“But there’s nothing worth seeing here.”<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">“Well, the streets. The shops. The like.”<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">“It’s not even 6. Nothing’s going to be open now.”<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Ahh. It’s warm, nearly getting hot, I forget that it’s effectively a different time zone.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">“That’s okay. Let’s just go around the big streets of your town.”<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The empty ‘big streets’ seem to have no other prominent attribute other than their width. The ‘big streets’ haven’t been claimed by commerce – they are residential just as well. They’re just uber-wide bylanes. There’s not too much of a concentration of signboards and shutters and hoardings around. Mostly homes and porches and parked cycles and bikes and coloured wooden doors opening out onto the street. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Once in a while, there’s a wide front lobby that my rickshaw-man points out as a ‘major shop’, but most places are closed, boarded up. I have to remind myself that it’s still 6am, even though it’s broad daylight. There’s one two-storied building with a glass façade that I’m told is a prominent hotel – would I like to stay here? For a fraction of a second, I’m tempted to agree.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">**<br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">“Perhaps you’d like to see the river?”<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">“There’s a river here?!”<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">“The Brahmaputra”<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Augggh. Dammit. Brahms!? Why didn’t I know that before? Of course, because I refused to look up information online, because I thought that would be like skipping to the last chapter of a mystery novel. Because I thought it’d sour any element of surprise.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">“Sure thing. Go right ahead.”</i>, say I, camouflaging my excitement with a difficult, unstable calm.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">We pass a private bus agency. To be precise, we pass the painted board above the closed office. I remember the milestone on the road just outside Dibrugarh telling me Jorhat is 145km away. Temptation wells up again, growing steadily until it threatens to overwhelm existing <span style=""> </span>plans. Plan B seems tantalizingly possible. I know there is a Jorhat Guwahati train leaving around 2pm, and I tell myself I’ll comfortably catch the Dibrugarh-Amritsar Express in Guwahati. For a couple of hundred bucks, that’s great RoI, say I.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Practicality, unfortunately, arrives. Some consideration, and plan is shelved. Some more money, some more time on my hands and I wouldn’t mind the uncertainties of that unscheduled detour. Not today, alas.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Hindsight vindicates me – I find in the evening that the Jorhat train's arrival is half an hour after the Amritsar one’s departure. Still, I cant quite help a tinge of regret at missing out. Next time, I’m coming here without reservations.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">**</p> <p class="MsoNormal">From the main road, we enter an opening between buildings that’s supposed to be a path. Stones and hardened-mud lie ahead. The rickshaw guy tells me the river’s just beyond the end of this lane. The rickshaw struggles over the stones-and-hard-mud, so I just tell him I’ll walk – no point torturing his rickshaw on this monstrous path.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">We walk between a row of huts, and then pass a board advertising a ferry service across the river. Temptation puffs up yet again. This time, it brings some regret along, perhaps knowing too well that the trip cant be done.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">When we reach the river bank, I’m puzzled. This is a small water body – some 30-40 metres across, staid, calm, almost like a canal. Surely this isn’t the grand swirling mini-sea that I saw outside Guwahati? No, no, tells my rickshaw guy – what you see is just a mid-river island across the water. There’s a massive part of the river on the other side of the island – it’s bigger than you've imagined. If only you had the time, he adds with a tinge of infectious regret.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I fold my arms and brace myself, for there’re gusts of cold air, even as the sunlight beams down. <span style=""> </span>There’re some 20-25 men and women in sweaters and scarves waiting on a bench for the morning’s ferry, whose services are advertised by another board. The ferry, my rickshaw guy says, is the only way to go across – there’s no land route.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Sigh. The <span style=""> </span>few times you manage to resist temptation end up being the few times your best experiences loom ahead.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The chill in the air is suffused with the warmth of the sun that’s sprouted and fully come out. There’s a wall-less shack that exhibits glass-jars full of biscuits and rusks. We walk in, sit down on the raised-planks of wood. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">“Two cups of tea.”<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">“Biscuits? Nashta?”</i> asks our 10 year old waiter.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">“Nahi. Phir kabhi lenge.”</i> I so want to mean what I said. It’s 6:15am, and I so do want to come back here. Perhaps spend a couple of days, drive around town, go across river, explore roads and places in the vicinity of the place. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The tea is a sugarless, strong concoction with very little milk. I let the intense, almost-bitter-ness of the taste linger on my tongue. The heat of the glass-tumbler-with-vertical-rims passes through to my chilled hands.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">**</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I have to hurry the poor rickshaw-man on our way back to the station – he halts at the station gate with some 3 minutes left for the train’s departure. For a moment, I mull about how much to pay the guy. Quickly making my mind up, I thrust a 100-buck-note into his hands and go in.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The guard tells me there's five minutes left, so I manage pick up a couple of omlettes with some scrawny, thin bread. As I walk alongside the train, it jerks itself alive and into motion. I clutch the left railing, and balancing the food in my right hand and bag on my back, hoist myself into the now-inching-ahead bogie.<br /></p>Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15839043.post-64820024705111766282008-01-16T20:51:00.002+04:002011-02-23T06:55:16.141+04:00Train of thought 4.5 - The Easternmost point on the Indian Railways<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Note: </b>This is one of a series of posts about this journey. Other episodes of this trip are here: numbers <a href="http://reverse-swing.blogspot.com/2007/10/train-of-thought-0-man-plan-map.html">0</a>, <a href="http://reverse-swing.blogspot.com/2007/11/train-of-thought-1-due-north-again.html">1</a>, <a href="http://reverse-swing.blogspot.com/2007/11/train-of-thought-2-morning-calm.html">2</a>, <a href="http://reverse-swing.blogspot.com/2007/11/train-of-thought-25-dilli-door-asth.html">2.5</a>, <a href="http://reverse-swing.blogspot.com/2007/12/train-of-thought-3-entering-cow-belt.html">3</a>, <a href="http://reverse-swing.blogspot.com/2007/12/train-of-thought-35-water-everywhere.html">3.5</a>, <a href="http://reverse-swing.blogspot.com/2008/01/train-of-thought-4-further-east.html">4</a>, <a href="http://reverse-swing.blogspot.com/2008/01/train-of-thought-45-last-station-on.html">4.5</a>, <a href="http://reverse-swing.blogspot.com/2008/01/train-of-thought-475-one-hour-in-last.html">4.75</a> (in order).</p><p class="MsoNormal">**</p><p class="MsoNormal">My bones feel squeaky, and produce occasional snapping noises like cracking knuckles. Muscles feel like they’ve decayed to a pulp, and seem to be in a squashed, rubbery, gooey state. When the only energy expenditure you’ve done in four days is walking-to-door-and-standing-there-and-return-to-seat, you understand why the body feels uncomfortably stifled, trapped within itself. Having eaten frugally over these days hasn’t helped ease the bodily rustiness.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The hour-long stop at Guwahati, then, is just what the doc ordered. One walk all the way up and down the platform, and the muscles and bones feel slightly better. That, even though there is this persistently uneasy feeling that the paunch is slowly expanding, growing – some tummy patting gives little consolation.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’m now right in front of the engine, having walked across the tracks and come back. I think it’d be neat to be photographed on the track between the engine-with-torchlight-headlamp that’s on one side and the signal-post-with-red-light that glares out on the other. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">And before I know it, the engine leaps out from where it parks, having decided that it is time to depart, for it was already running late. It is, you’ll realize, extremely unfunny when you’re some 20 metres away from a million tonne railway engine hauling a billion tonne train, and when the said engine-and-train abruptly decide they’re going make a lunge towards you. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Yes, so 20 metres are perhaps 20 metres too many. But there still is the small matter of registering the engine’s pounce, activating instinct-of-self-preservation, leaping off the track, panting, recovering, immediately recognizing the fact that you still have to get into the train, reactivating instincts-and-reflexes, commanding whiny legs to run back like crazy, braking at just the right moment, turn around in an instant, start running in the other direction and simultaneously leaping into the speeding train. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">All ended well, as you’ll have guessed by now – the episode culminated in a new world record for the aforementioned series of actions. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">**</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I pry my eyes open, and push the white bedsheets away. There’s mild, slight light outside the window. The watch shows a quarter to 5. I mutter a ‘huh?’ <span style=""> </span>to myself. The train’s stopped. I slowly, sleepily totter to the door. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Tis New Tinsukia, under an hour from destination. There’s a gentle, soft sunlight that’s spread on the clean platform that’s hardly peopled. The station clock confirms that it indeed is a quarter to 5. It takes a while to realize that I’m now so far east that the day begins and ends much sooner – it really should be in a different time zone.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The compartment, fully occupied from Delhi till yesterday night, is only one-third or so full now. Everyone around has gotten off at various points of time in the night. No matter how often you’ve travelled, how often you’ve seen the here-today-gone-the-next-station nature of train travellers, you can never really help feeling vacant, weird when you wake up to see empty berths and seats, vacant luggage-less aisles. This, even though the infinitesimal familiarity you have with your-fellow travellers is further diluted by your parking at the door most of the journey.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">**</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Dibrugarh arrives at5:35 am. Getting to the Easternmost point on the Indian Railways has an Everest-ish thrill while map-gazing, while fantasizing. Reaching Dibrugarh for real doesn’t have the adrenalin-and-excitement of the fantasies – there’s a calm, an understated peace about it that makes you feel content about all that’s come on the way. I look out from the door as the train squeals slowly through the suburbs of the town. I realize I don’t quite know what to expect from Dibrugarh Town. I mean, hey, so it’s the Easternmost point on the Indian Railway. But what’s an Easternmost-point-on-a-railway *supposed* to look like? And what is one supposed to do, having gotten to the Easternmost-point-on-a-railway?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Still, the anticipation, the expectation that has been building up all these days has been quite an experience. The build up is somewhat like the trip to Chamarajnagar station that I did when I was<span style=""> </span>8 or so. Chamarajnagar was(and is) the dead end before the Nilgiris thwart any attempts at railway line building. I remember the days before that trip, almost jumping in expectation of seeing a place where the tracks would just stop. They just wouldn’t go further, and I couldn’t imagine *how* that would be possible. I mean, hey, tracks are supposed to go on and on and on, right? How could they just *not* continue?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Very often, when you do give yourself a build-up, such an eager sense of expectation, it turns out that your destination is much more familiar-seeming, much more un-exotic than you thought. You go far away from where you are, and yet you find the land, the people, the crowds aren’t new, aren’t novel. Somehow, not seeing something radically new doesn’t disappoint you – it’s a reassurance, a comfort, a feeling of belonging. Perhaps that just means you’ve made your peace with the place.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">**</p> <p class="MsoNormal">So, what plans have I for Dibrugarh town? Scheduled arrival is 5am, and I’ve planned a fleeting, running view of the town before moving out by the Dibrugarh-Amritsar express that leaves 6:45am. That just so I can see the 567km Dibrugarh-to-Guwahati stretch in the daytime(the stretch that passed in the night while arriving). The 5:35am arrival leaves just around an hour to check out the town.<o:p></o:p></p>Shamanthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06377942897861370128noreply@blogger.com2