Sat Chit Ananda

Lovelove :)

2009-06-26T13:33:00.004+05:30

Normal head to San Francisco day. Sunny summer bliss. I get onto the BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) at Fremont station. Watch the shadows and the people who get on and off. Normal head to San Francisco day. At Embarcadero station, the first in San Fran city, a couple of guys in women's lingerie (luckily the more modest kind) get on. Wait. This isn't normal, even for this flamboyant city. Then some women in lingerie (now you're talkin' ;) ) and finally a flood of colour and costumes and lace, all sexes, all orientations, all beliefs, all kinds of kinky squeezed into the train and pouring out onto the Civic Centre Station and finally out on Market Street.

There has to be something brewing. Overheard mentions of the phrase, 'love festival'. This sounds interesting. I follow the crowd. They're heading towards the San Francisco Civic Centre Park that lawns the City Hall and Supreme Court buildings. The flood becomes a tsunami that merges into an ocean of people at the square. Booming bass is reverberating beneath my feet. Like a homing pulse leading me down in the river to pray.

All along the streets circumventing the path, over two dozen huge party vehicles had been set up, DJs spinning, themes ranging from Military to psychedelic Hippie bus. All kinds of electronic music vibrate in a Monet-painting-like blur making sense to those who can step back. Way back. Jump from sound bubble to sound bubble, beat to beat, dancing girls to draw the crowds to..well you get the picture. The only thing that's common in every little party bubble? The dancing off course. Thousands and thousands of capering and flouncing, bounding and gyrating people in various stages and eras of dress and undress. Dirty old men in proverbial trench coats leering, nay drooling at lesbian lovers. Drag queens draped in colours aplently waltzing down the alley way. Pills a-popping, blots a-dropping, doobies a-blazing. While policemen stand with bemused expressions on the sidelines. One shrugs at the other, "hey, they're just having a good time."

It wasn't just a good time. There was a vibe that encompassed the whole shebang. It was love. Genuine expressive universal love. There were no frowns or exclusions. This wasn't just one big party. It was one big shout. Of "I love you" to the world. And it felt pretty damn great.

And rest in peace, Michael.

Exhibition of my Music Photos

2009-06-11T18:52:00.002+05:30

Do come and tell your friends too :)

Sandstone Swirls

2009-06-08T19:31:00.004+05:30

We were somewhere around Page (Arizona), on the edge of the desert, in search for the elusive Antelope Canyon, when the radiating heat began to take hold (thank you Hunter). A quick pit stop at a petrol pump revealed that it was around the corner. Raaightt. This close to civilisation. Damn brouchures. U-turn, on the road, 4 miles to go. A little sign, dusty from its residence shows the way, to the parking lot. We pay $20. Squint and walk to the shack. More money. $25 each this time. And then wait. A dust storm is swirling towards us. No, two. A glint in the searing sun lets us know that they're jeeps. Smiling people get off. Smiling people get on. The Navajo Native American folks running the establishment had things planned pretty close. One hour per group. Includes the 10 mins taken off road, to go to and from the caves/canyons.

Antelope Canyon is a result of Navajo Sandstone getting sculpted by ravaging floods. The result is some of the most surrealistic caves I've ever seen. Everything is motion here. Even the tourist groups that are hurried along by expert guides. Expert at shepherding and pointing out which formation looks like a bear. I lagged behind, far more interested in the abstract forms that were dancing in my subconscious, screaming to be let out in pictures. No tripod or flash of course. As always.

"Katmandu, I’ll soon be seeing you"

2009-06-02T19:15:00.002+05:30

There were two Katmandus.

The first was a dusty, dirty, smog-ridden city with erratic vehicular traffic. The roads made a Peenya or a Pahar Ganj or a Lower Parel seem like a walk by the riverside. The milling haphazard crowds gave the ones in India a run for their congestion. The high rises didn't really kiss the sky and all in all it was a dreary sight. There were some residential localities on the outskirts and palace areas that embraced some amount of green with the hills and mountains in the distance mocking the city dwellers.

The airport was another comedy of errors. In this day and age of extreme paranoia, there were no x-ray machines and bags were scarcely checked, if ever. Security check guards made friendly demands for chai paani tokens. Hell, you could've smuggled in a ton of contraband and only spent 10 Nepali rupees to appease the guards enough not to want to check you. There weren't any conveyor belts either, luggage being handed out individually to passengers. Merry times, merry times. Then on to a cabbie who will con you. It doesn't matter what you know or what research you've done. Somehow you will end up paying enough to elicit sniggers from your local friends. Luckily its one of the only places in the world where the Indian rupee is worth more than the local currency. I was so happy I ended up spending way too much.

On to Thamel, that den of vice, that cradle of firangi backpackers, that shoppers bliss, that hotbed of dance bars. A casual walk down from my hotel (thankfully on a quiet street away from the madness) to grab a quick bite meant turning down at least 20 propositions from various seedy looking men and garishly made-up women to join the festivities. Laser lights spill out onto the streets, along with loud tasteless pumping music and any attempt to photograph is met with a stern gaze from a nearby bouncer. But hey, its all part of the deal. Even the Nepal Tourism Board offers this advice, "Don't forget to have a drink at one of the local dance bars, where beautiful Nepali belles will dance circles around your pals."

The other Katmandu is a 20 minute walk away from this, quite incredibly. The sardined neon shops, night clubs, hotels and cafes in the narrow streets of Thamel relent to older building complexes and rabbit warrens, with wooden shops that have been around for centuries. The true face of Katmandu emerges as you near Basantapur Durbar. Once there, you're transported to another time. The huge pagoda styled buildings and temples line up around neat paved streets. I would ignore the cars and bikes, the coochi cooing couples and roadside romeos and gently blur my vision till it felt like I was walking through a Katmandu of the 18th century. I like that feeling of phasing out the modern fracas. A simpler life indeed. I wandered through Basantapur and Patan, the other big Durbar for hours on many occasions and not always to take pictures. Sometimes it just felt like I was in a different place far away from the city in a mystical Katmandu only I could see. Talk about delusions of grandeur. :)

The only commonality between the two Katmandus were the beautiful Nepali girls. Even New York in the summer can't hold a candle to the sheer numbers. You don't even feel lecherous or at least I didn't. I was in awe mostly. Made a young man want to brave the city and settle down here. The laws of probability would take care of the rest. I left like a good tourist but in the words of Cat Stevens (when he was indeed Cat Stevens), Katmandu, I'll soon be seeing you.

Wild Blue Yonder

2009-06-02T18:26:00.004+05:30

You make the most of summer in Chicago. Even our most extreme climates here in India don't compare to the winter minimums of -20°C and the wind chill factor of -50°C with the blizzards of course. So Lake Michigan and the parks take on a festive air as the citizens of the windy city and surrounding 'burbs get out to have a good time.

An ideal time for an air show. I land up, camera and aunt ( Rangamani Periamma, mum's oldest sister) in tow and am gobsmacked by the 10s of thousands of people who've gotten there before us. Parents, couples, kids, picnic baskets, tents, fold-able chairs, barbecues, umbrellas, cameras, corporate promotions, protesters, army recruiters, teens, toys, world war vets - they're all there in complete sun worshipping attire.

Planes from four generations roar around, do formation runs, tricks defying the laws of physics. The Blue Angels, USA's premier air force formation squad flies inches away from each other earning collective gasps for fearless feats of daredevilry.

In the midst of all this recruiters from all wings of the armed forces rally around and rabble rouse the already impressed crowds, urging them to sign up for Uncle Sam. One even walks towards me with purpose and thinks the better of it when he sees my long hair and camera. Not ideal army material apparently.

Freedom of speech is alive and kicking here and a group of hippy protesters get the placards out to protest the war in Iraq and the air force's show boating , braving taunts of 'traitors' and even the occasional spitting on from irate republican patriots.

What a blast. Apologies to my aunt for keeping her out in the sun for long. :)

O Kabir

2009-06-01T00:59:00.006+05:30

काल करे सो आज कर, आज करे सो उब
पल में प्रलय होएगी, बहुरि करोगे कुब

Kaal Kare So Aaj Kar, Aaj Kare So Ub
Pal Mein Pralaya Hoyegi, Bahuri Karoge Kub

(Tomorrows work do today, today's work now
if the moment is lost, the work be done how)

जब में था तब हरी नहीं‚ जब हरी है में नहीं नहीं
सब अँधियारा मिट गया जब दीपक देख्या महीन

Jab Mein Tha Tab Hari Nahin‚ Jab Hari Hai Mein Nahin
Sab Andhiyara Mit Gaya‚ Jab Deepak Dekhya Mahin

(When "I" was, then Hari was not, Now Hari "is" and "I" am not
All the darkness (illusions) mitigated, When I saw the light (illumination) within.....
couldn't resist..hehe)

धीरे धीरे रे मन, धीरे सुब कुत्च होए
माली सींचे सो घर, ऋतू आए फल होए

Dheere Dheere Re Mana, Dheere Sub Kutch Hoye
Mali Seenche So Ghara, Ritu Aaye Phal Hoye

(Slowly slowly O mind, everything in its own pace happens
The Gardener may water a hundred buckets, the fruit arrives only in its season)

Artists - Prahlad Tipanya, Muktiyar Ali

Jollyjellyfish

2009-05-27T21:01:00.005+05:30

Shot at the Monterey Bay Aquarium, California

Cow's it going?

2009-05-26T22:28:00.005+05:30

Their tanned smiling faces are still etched in my memory. On my way to the Sufi Durbar in the Nagaur Fort in Rajasthan, there was a large cloud of dust, meaning only two thing in the still desert. A dust storm or an exodus. It turned out to be an exodus all right but joining the humans and their monster trucks were cud chewing cows, Arabian looking horses, scared goats and loads of haughty camels. Inspection and business were the order of the day along with some good old cattle wrangling. Buyer and sellers had arrived from all over Rajasthan, Punjab, Haryana and even Gujarat to bargain their way into a new herd or at least a few heads.

Mini-temporary encampments had mushroomed up everywhere and by the seventh invite to partake a meal, I realised there was a spirit of camaraderie as well. This was a expo, picnic and excursion all rolled into one nice thick, spicy aloo ki paronti. As you might have assumed, I didn't wait for the eighth invitation to tuck into the aromatic delicacies tempting my olfactory nerves.

After plenty of handshakes and sometimes forced, sometimes voluntary petting of what seems like 500 animals, I felt like I was part of this wandering group of livestock farmers. Accepted into the fold, if I may. But two days later as I passed that way again, straining to see that cloud of dust, I was disappointed to see the well behaved desert once more. Vast, arid, shrubby but completely devoid of all life. My temporary family and other animals had disappeared like a mirage.

Downtown, where all the lights are bright....

2009-05-22T18:46:00.006+05:30

I don't think I ever looked down on my first two visits to Manhattan. The glowering shimmering giants on all sides drew my gaze like reflecting magnets. Even the gleeful abundance of lovely ladies in their summer best couldn't coax my eyes down to earth. At times they were almost people and I walked about naming them, sometimes I even waved. And at others the shapes and angles, windows and blocks all merged into abstract visions. Let's go downtown....

A railway runs through it

2009-05-15T12:46:00.004+05:30

It was a bit surrealistic really. Vishakapatnam is a city I wouldn't visit again in my wildest nightmares. It didn't help that the only 'beach front' motel that we could afford was a moth eaten glorified brothel. I kid you not. I've been around and this is pretty much the shadiest place I've ever had to stay. Lingering odours of cheap choking perfume in the hallways. A so-called office room facing the sea, apparently of limits turned out to be a garishly decorated bedroom straight out of some b-grade skin flick (don't ask how I know that). Then the mosquitos. Not in the tens but apparently in the thousands, buzzing about our room gorging on our four sapped blood lines. And the sticky stifling heat, making me long for an AC in a way I didn't think possible. With this kind of introduction to the Andhra coast, which btw is hardly awe inspiring, we were left with hardly any hope as we made our way to the hills.

But then we got off at TYDA, a tiny glorified hamlet with one, thankfully mosquito and cheap perfume free, affordable and all round nice hotel run by the Andhra tourism department with rooms with names like Golden Oriole and Raquet Tailed Drongo (bird watchers of the world, UNITE). There we were in the hills, in the midst of a large patch of forest and glory be, it rained. After two days of stiffling soaring Andhra temperatures, it was more than a miracle. It was heaven on earth. And wonder of wonders. This little place in the hills had a railway station. Ya, the ones in and around Darjeeling and Shimla are charming but this was the real thing. A broad gauge railway line higher than anywhere else in our impressive Indian railways. And in the middle of a veritable jungle. Instant love.

Even more than a couple of hamlets and some tribals the largest concentration of humans here is the railway community, from Andhra and across the border from Orissa. They live in their humble but charming quarters adjoining the stations and lead a fascinating, even enviable life. The youngsters here don't think so, yearning for the multiplex-mall lifestyle so glorified in most movies. No hot girls waltzing by in minis, no superbikes whizzing around the corner, not even a movie theatre in a 50 km radius. Who can blame them? Meanwhile we city slickers yearn for the quiet simplicity of the hills, away from the noise, pollution and constant bombardment of information. Ironic huh?

Anyway, I've figured out that flickr slideshows can be imported here, so that means a lot less scrolling for you lazy fingered folks.

Obamania

2009-05-14T10:47:00.010+05:30

Travelling in the states in the height of election fever had its advantages. I thought a photo essay on his supporters would suffice but through a series of fortunate incidents I found myself in Times Square, New York City, on the day the results were being announced. People turned out in droves and I got to capture some truly joyous reactions.

Gold, Maroon and Red

2008-08-08T01:46:00.004+05:30

Nepal's Goa

2008-08-08T00:00:00.006+05:30

I'm aware that Nepal is landlocked and does not posses a beach. In fact many people I met on my travels have never seen the sea, ever. But Pokhra (not to be confused with Pokhran in India, the site for our nuclear tests), which is a 40 minute flight or a 5-8 hour bus ride from Kathmandu evokes the same ethos that Goa does in India. It's the getaway, the sun and lake water, the firangs and trippers. It's most importantly the easiest gateway into the mighty Himalayas, in this case the Annapurna range. Again, due to my brilliant timing I could see no mountains but on most Oct/Nov and Feb/Mar days you can see the whole Annapurna Range distantly towering over the town of Pokhra. Like Goa, you can rent bikes and bicycles and like Goa, you can chose from a range of accommodation that can either dent or caress your wallet. There's also the never ending line of shops, bars and live music to keep you occupied.
If you like me is more of a romantic, deserted South Goa type, you should head to Begnas lake, 23 kms away (scroll down for photos). Or trek up one of the many hills surrounding Pokhra to get unparalleled green views.

Lord Shiva Cave temple a couple of Kms away. You can cross the lake, walk up to the Buddhist Stupa on the other side catching fabulous views on the way. In the photo below you would see a snow mountain range where you see clouds. From the stupa you could go around to see the Shiva Temple and then get back to the lake the long way around. Around 10 Kms totally.

Gods on Wheels

2008-08-03T05:59:00.004+05:30

Jodhpur, Rajasthan

Hard Rain

2008-07-31T21:23:00.006+05:30

It was supposed to be a four day trek through paradise. Green giving way to white and the broad, steep trail taking me higher as I reached Ghorepani, where the view kisses the snow mountains of the Annapurna Range.

But I am the rain man and the clouds follow me as I move. Don't get me wrong. I love the rain as much as the next umbrella but when you're trudging up a 75 degree slope as water gushes down in torrents you tend to question your beliefs. Even more, when there's no one in a 2 km radius to sit down and have a good complain. Its just you and the rain and the constant prayer that your shoe souls won't decide to do yet another slip and slide. All that is a boogie on the dance floor compared to the little worm like creatures that take an instant liking to you.

Actually, they're leeches and unlike the imaginary Nosferatu, they are indeed "here to suck yourrr bllluddd." From all the most unlikely places. They could be nice leeches and drink their fill from your feet or even your arms but no. Instead you will be happily squishing your way through some jungle and catch the first human face you've seen in hours scrunch up in horror as they reach out for your neck and pull out a swollen slimy creature dripping with your blood sucked two inches from your jugular. What fun. What a laugh. Shall we sing? Shall we dance?

Are you crazy? Splash and dash brother. That's the only way to escape these little blood lusters. This being a brilliantly planned circuit around the Annapurna range has places to crash and stuff one's face every two to three hours so you can take your pick for accomodation at the very basic and mostly clean lodges that have rooms for a hundred nepali rupees a night with a hundred more for a hot shower. Now food comes at a premium here especially in the off season, when pony trains and porters are less frequent. You could be spending upwards of 700-800 bucks a day to replenish your lost energy. The higher you go the more expensive everything gets. But you like I can save a good amount by not hiring a guide or porter. Doing it alone might not have been the best idea in hindsight but I have no regrets.

Except not seeing the mountains. Did I mention that the wonderful clouds that are my friends successfully obliterated every possible view I could have all along the way. At Ghorepani and Poon Hill, loved and praised for their wall to wall mountains I got to see what it feels like to live in a cloud. Permanently. The fog never lifted although my spirits didn't suffer too much. I splashed my way down realising for the hundredth time that going downhill is so much more difficult since you have to focus constantly on every single step especially since the continuous rain has resulted in a waterfall, through which I gingerly descend.

The rain Gods might have been smirking but I guess somebody else up there seems to like me since I managed to get back in one soaking piece. I shudder to think what might have happened if I had a bad fall up there on my own. But its all good and another experience chalked up from the game of life.

If you don't want similar experiences do the circuit in Oct/Nov or Feb/March. The views are fabulous I'm told. :)

Shanti Stupas

2008-07-31T20:51:00.004+05:30

Oikyataan Re

2008-07-29T00:51:00.005+05:30

Live @ Fireflies, Bangalore

WE WANT GORKHALAND!!!

2008-07-27T03:14:00.006+05:30

"It was a terrible time," says my dear Darjeeling buddy, Ujwal, the memory of the Gorkhaland riots of the late 1980s etched in his mind as clearly as the air in the hills. And it was. The official death toll was put at 1200 and many times that number was injured. It's hard to imagine such a time, as I gaze out at a zen-like tea garden, in a Darjeeling, I've swiftly and surely begun to love.

With the brilliant coverage that our nation's fine press gives the North-East, I'm sure everyone knows everything that goes on there. Oh, wait. That's in some parallel universe. Here, no one gives a shit. Until the protests reached this fevered pitch resounding down to the valley.

Twenty years ago, under the leadership of Subash Ghishing, the Gorkha National Liberation Front (GNLF) terrorised the hills in a demand for a separate state for the Gorkhas, until the wonderful art of negotiation the GNLF, innocuously renamed the Darjeeling Gorkha Hill Council to have a free run, in exchange for dropping the Gorkhaland ideal.

But corruption and atrocities will only be ignored for so long. In 2007, Ghishing was run out of the hills and a new party, the Gorkha Janmukti Morcha (GJM) was formed under the leadership of the Bimal Gurung. They resurrected the ghost of Gorkhaland and are now demanding a state comprising Darjeeling, Kalimpong, Kurseong, a few other regions in the hills and Siliguri. Of these the last has proved to be a thorn in the side for the West Bengal government. As a gateway (albeit a city of squalor) to the whole of the North East of India, Siliguri has the enviable job of collecting a tax and toll from every truck, train or aircraft bearing cargo to and from the region. There's the catch. Even if the West Bengal government was prepared to relinquish control of the hills, mainly prided for tea and tourism, giving up Siliguri would be too big a bitter pill to swallow.

That hasn't stopped the GJM and as I lay languishing in the sweet pre-monsoon of Darjeeling, the chants rent the air, already thick with fog. The looping almost musical Nepali and English cries of thousands of Gorkhas demanding their identity. I'm looked on with curiosity as every other tourist has flown from the intermittent strikes and constant peaceful protests. Whether they are adequately equipped to handle their own affairs is left to a time when they will be given the key. Until then, like my many friends in Darjeeling keep saying, we can only wait and watch.

Obama for Prez

2008-07-27T02:29:00.003+05:30

"Someday, I'll be President"

Whether its the unabashedly hilarious satire of Jon Stewart and mate Steven Colbert on their shows or a host of ineptitude on FOX and other 'news' networks, the pages of every major magazine from Good Housekeeping to Rolling Stone, the buzzword is Barack. Obama is on the tips of everyone's tongue, here in the US and its easy to see why. He's run his campaign with alacrity and candour. He refuses to be browbeaten and his policies and ideas are sound and well researched. He has a team, that works tirelessly without any brouhaha, in the lowest possible profile and he has always come across as grounded and simple, all in complete opposition to the current occupant of the seat he's steadily working toward. And he's nursing something that comes at such a huge premium in our current existence. Hope.

I just bought the new Rolling Stone and was delighted at the incisive and sensitive interview that Ed-in-Chief, Jann Wenner conducted with the democratic presidential candidate, who might be the man to change many policies affecting the world in the years to come.

As a happily eternal optimist, I'm hoping too.

Here's a sample QnA
Is there a marker you would lay down at the end of your first term where you say, "If this has happened or not happened, I would consider it a negative mark on my governance"?
If I haven't gotten combat troops out of Iraq, passed universal health care and created a new energy policy that speaks to our dependence on foreign oil and deals seriously with global warming, then we've missed the boat. Those are three big jobs, so it's going to require a lot of attention and imagination, and it's going to require the American people feeling inspired enough that they're prepared to take on these big challenges.

READ THE FULL ROLLING STONE INTERVIEW WITH BARACK OBAMA HERE

Down The Rabbit Hole

2008-07-25T18:37:00.005+05:30

"In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.

The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well."

The Nagaur Fort, the sprawling setting for the Sufi Durbar later that December day, begged exploration, not unlike the rabbit hole. And although I wasn't adorned in a blue bowed skirt (Thank God), I took a plunge myself and dived in, through door ways and arches, narrow staircases and panoramic terraces. You never knew where your next step was going to lead you in this many-storeyed labyrinth. That was the best part. :)

Spirit On The Water

2008-07-25T00:40:00.003+05:30

Begnas Lake 23Kms from Pokhra, Nepal

Street Walking - Nagaur, Rajasthan

2008-07-25T00:25:00.002+05:30

Moving Mountains

2008-07-25T00:20:00.003+05:30

Mount Everest (bang center)

Machupuchchare (Annapurna Himalayas, Nepal)

Annapurna 2 and Annapurna 4 (Annapurna Himalayas, Nepal)

Mt. Kanchenjunga

Off The Wall

2008-07-24T23:24:00.004+05:30

Taken at the Lachung Monastery and Rumtek Monestery (Sikkim)

How Desolate Is My Valley?

2008-07-24T22:06:00.005+05:30

The phrase Valley Of Flowers conjures up some endless grassy knoll, with a million rainbow blooms swaying in a gentle breeze, bringing with it their heady perfume. Unfortunately, we were a month too late. Other than a few mocking traces, the flora was all gone and all that was left was a bitterly cold desolation with spitting rain and an icy Teesta River.

Yumthang Valley - North Sikkim (Go in March or April)

Truth Prevails Again

2008-07-13T11:24:00.002+05:30

Remember the Hunger Strike I was telling you all about. They've reached a breakthrough. I received this mail from Dawa Lepcha, who spearheaded the initiative.

Dear all,

with your kind, generous and great hearted support we have been able to achieve certain amount of victory. We have been able to save the fragile ecology in the Kanchenjunga National Park and Biosphere Reserve in Dzongu. In other words we have been able to stop the implementation of four mega hydel projects which would have been terribly disastrous for the environment in the area. Thanks to you all, a small piece of the Earth has been preserved for posterity.

Now we have to go on with the other mega projects which are going to destroy the Lepcha tribes, their culture, customs, religion, language etc and of course which will also be affecting the national park as they are within kilometer of the park.Two more to go.

Kindly follow our blog www.weepingsikkim.blogspot.com for updates of our activities.

with sincere thoughts and warm regards,

Dawa Lepcha,

General Secretary,

Affected Citizens of Teesta.

It just goes to show that if you truly believe in what's right and have the courage to stand up for it, the truth shall prevail.

I'm really really happy for them. :)

The Highest I've Ever Been

2008-05-31T14:01:00.004+05:30

"Second time first, second time first," screamed Sonam, our friend, guide and driver. For a slightly sardonic guy not given to excesses of emotions this was a rare deviation in behaviour And indeed we were the first to arrive at the great Gurudongmar Lake on that day, located in North Sikkim at a gasp worthy altitude of 17,800 feet (around 5500 meters), where even our usually friendly oxygen calls it a day and takes off for the tropics.

For a phenomenal five minutes we lost our vocal chords as we took in the immensity of the lake and its guardian mountains, between laboured inhalations. Then the other cars started to arrive, some tourists dashing straight into the Buddhist temple to offer their prayers and others tending to their children already feeling the strain of oxygen poor air. It was still 7:45 in the AM and having left at around 4 from Lachen, I was unsure if I was experiencing the effects of altitude sickness or plain sleepiness. Either way the surroundings didn't let me dwell on such ridiculous matters of life and health.

This was after all a very spiritual place and an ancient energy made the air even more thick but not in a choking way. More like a security blanket. Guru Gobind Singhji had made this pilgrimage once on foot and consented to touch the water so that the lake wouldn't freeze over completely in the winter cutting off the only water source for miles. It's also a very holy place for Buddhists and the prayer flags struggling against the winds added a palatte of colour to match with the azure blue of the skies and water and the blinding white snow in the distance. You could drink this scene in. I'm sure it would've been cold and refreshing and hit the spot.

But as the fluttering increased in intensity Sonam told us it was time for us to leave. More than 45 minutes at such a high altitude without the proper acclemitisation could mean trouble. And besides the moment the time neared 10 AM the wind decided to blow so strong that large rocks would get tossed around like dust.

(the world's highest loo) :D

And so we left, straining our necks around to get that last glimse of the mighty Gurudongmar, with a silent word of thanks to the universe for sparing us the mountain sickness and letting us glimpse a wedge of heaven.

Great Plains

2008-05-31T13:33:00.005+05:30

En route to Gurudongmar Lake, four hours from Lachen and an hour away from the nearest army camp and humanity, the great plains stretch endlessly, broken only by bald hills and snow mountains. I didn't get to go to Ladakh this time around but I was told that it was only 80kms away and only accessible on foot. I didn't bite. We were barely allowed out of the car due to the high altitude, so walking was pretty much a laughable suggestion. This place had all that desolation that Ladakh has to offer and took mind, body and soul beyond the mundane. It all worked out. And the lake was around the corner.

Puncher Shop

2008-05-31T13:22:00.004+05:30

Flats are a part of life and I've had my fair share of tyres to change but I've never faced a beast like a Tata Sumo with a woefully deflated front leg. Sonam (our friend and driver in Sikkim) and I, wrestled the spare down from the luggage rack and fought valiantly with a hydraulic jack that seemed hell bent on not working. Finally, after some pulling and pushing that would have easily booked us a berth on some third string gymnastics outfit, it was done. Well, not quite. The replacement seemed as ragged as the original and they both needed some urgent work if we were going to make it to the more glorious environs of North Sikkim. So we stopped at the next 'puncher' shop, where some cute grubby kids and a few weather beaten rubber repairers were more than willing models (except for the guy who was asleep, captured for the great amusement of his friends).

One Night In Gangtok

2008-05-31T12:56:00.005+05:30

Actually, it was more like 2-3. Didn't really warm to Gangtok. It doesn't have the charm of a hill station or the amenities of a big city. It's been relegated to that murky in between area. It does have its spots and we did see a rainbow and ride in a cable car but for me the feeling wasn't quite there. Maybe Darjeeling spoiled me a little. Or maybe the rest of Sikkim is so incredible that this just seems like the gateway and not the other side. Anyway, here's a little Gangtok.

Hunger Strike

2008-05-30T17:29:00.005+05:30

Remember the last time you carefully carved out that first chunk of juicy steak, your taste buds quivering in anticipation? Perhaps it was some brilliantly marinated fish, gooey hot chocolate fudge or even that perfectly made roti, hot from the tava, dripping with ghee, dipped in some thick dal makhni.

Think of that first morsel, shoved almost too quickly into your mouth, never mind the heat, about that moment of bliss, foretelling the knowledge of many more mouthfuls to come.It's something we all take for granted. Except for the few very rare occasions when we've been forced to hunger, it's a given. Feel hungry.Eat.

Not if you're Dawa, Ongchuk or Tenzing Lepcha, of the Northern Sikkimese tribes. Then you sit, in your makeshift shelter - a wooden platform on the footpath, with two plastic sheets to keep the biting breeze at bay and some bedding and blankets as cavalry. The footpath is on the upwardly mobile Tibet Street. Tibet Street is in Gangtok.

Did I mention, they haven't eaten for almost 3 months, a year if you don't count the short breaks in between when their lives were being saved. Most people walk past them, ignoring the huge signs announcing their cause, politely informing the world that they hadn't eaten for quite a while. Some are more curious and are met with warm smiles and impeccable articulation as they explain why they've skipped the base of Maslow's pyramid.

As a portrait of the Mahatma, looks down like a beaming father at Dawa Lepcha, the oldest of the three and the General Secretary of Affected Citizens of Teesta, you notice that he doesn't have that hollow eyed look that you would expect seeing his gaunt frame and the feeding tube emerging from his left nostril, fastened to his cheek with scotch tape.

Instead his eyes are a core of fire and resolve, the compassion bourne of sacrifice, a calm gaze on the goal. Not yearning, just existing. Once he was an aspiring film maker, putting together a documentary on the Lepcha tribe, from which he hails. The Institute of Tibetology in Gangtok had commissioned it and the days were bright with options. Until this.

Until the government decided to dump a HUGE hydroelectric project, hardly worth the damage it is causing to everything from indigenous people to the environment into the Teesta river as it flows through North Sikkim. The tiny population of the Northern reaches hardly justifies a project of this size and many smaller power generating options were put before the government. But we all know what this all equals? Money money money money money. Money. Big man stamp out little man. QED.

And that's just my two bit understanding from the conversation I had with them.

Please go and read weepingsikkim.blogspot.com and get the details from the people who have resorted to this hunger strike after being hopelessly mired in a foggy bog of red tape, petty politics and even the occasional intelligence agent.

Remember the last time you felt really really hungry and get that upto 80 days and counting. If that doesn't make you check this out and sign the petition, nothing will.

(in order of appearance the people are Onchung, Tenzing and Dawa Lepcha. The other photos were taken at one of the hydroelectric mega projects in Chumthang, North Sikkim)

The Hills Are Still Alive - Darj Continued

2008-05-15T07:55:00.009+05:30

Trek up to Tiger Hill
Took some unbeaten paths and so managed to escape the tourists and the crowded viewpoint. Just found my own.

Lotus Temple

On The Street

Mall Sunset

Darjeeling Unlimited

2008-05-11T20:58:00.006+05:30

Smile Please OK

The latitude and longitude don't matter. Hill folk are hill folk everywhere. Smiles transcend language barriers and in a place with a hundred tongues it's a useful greeting. Without further ado, the people of Darjeeling.

A busker by any other name...

Water is scarce and an emerging business trend in Darjeeling is transporting H2O. Unfortunately we humans use a LOT of water and there are some killing slopes in Darj. That guy was almost kissing the road in an attempt to get that damn cart moving. Inertia can be a bitch.

A very reliable source (soon to be introduced via his very own blog post) tells me that Bhola (on the right) makes the best Dum Aloo in the world, or atleast here in Darj. In a land where the potato only second to sunning onself (I'm only kidding of course), the man that maketh the Aloo Dum is King.

SKIER
that's me :)

MR.T
Ah pity the man who drinks mah tea.
A stroll through Happy Tea Garden, a couple of Ks from town.

GOD'S KNOW MAN

The weather here has more frailty than Shakespeare's women. The main town square, the ever effervescent mall bears a deserted face as the clouds descend.

TOY TRAIN
hey, I'm entitled to one touristy thing na?

GONE DADDY GONE

2008-05-08T12:06:00.002+05:30

Well, it's finally happened. Having bid adieu to Bangalore now roasting on the slow summer grill, I can instead gambol in the milk mist of Darjeeling. It has begun. 6 months of mountains, trails, cities, towns, villages, roads, deserts, rivers, lakes, canyons, waterfalls, buses, trains, planes, cars and people await my soul as it wanders and my camera as it roves.

Sikkim, Bhutan, Kashmir, Leh, Ladakh, Nepal, the US, Rajasthan and India's West coast are all the menu and all I have to do is place an order. To myself. :)

Which, off these places I'll be able to knock off my list remains to be discovered but for now I can sleep content on that perfectly soft pillow of freedom.

So, wish me luck and send me those good good vibes because ladies and gents, Hari has left the building.

P.S. Keep checking this space for infrequent updates. I have succumbed and given Reliance telecom some of my money and so am connected. :S

Turn On, Tune In, Drop Out - RIP Albert

2008-04-30T15:07:00.001+05:30

And thanks...

Vyethye Beach

2008-04-24T09:20:00.004+05:30

Located 5kms from my village Adivare, Vyethye is a true virgin beach. Not a soul steps on these sinewy, sinking sands, other than a multitude of tiny crabs scrambling for cover and the occasional white belied sea eagle. With the Arabian Sea emerging from the little water inlets in front of you and a forest of swaying giants holding fort behind you, you'd be right to feel like a monarch.

STAND WITH TIBET NOW!

2008-03-30T13:21:00.006+05:30

The protests continue all over the world. This time it was a Tibetian Women's Organisation in Bangalore. Ladies break down as the protests get more vociferous. China has cut off all communication lines and many don't know if their families are safe. Can you imagine being in such a situation? Is it fair to stand by and watch while others do? Well, stop being so cynical and sign the petition. Every vote counts... Call me naive but that's what I believe. Lets send these people all the good vibes we can.

1,336,350 have signed already. Please go an sign the petition at Avaaz.

Wondering what the Dalai Lama thinks about all this? Check out his recent interview with the BBC>>>>

And if you want to know more about the History of the Tibet situation check out this Documentary. It's almost an hour long but it's more than a worthwhile watch.

Adivare - home and village

2008-03-29T23:58:00.006+05:30

Photos from my brief (way too brief) trip to my village, Adivare. Yes, that's where my surname comes from. Adivarekar = Of Adivare. Now that we're done with the QED stuff, here are some photos. I shall return to the land of my roots at leisure one day and do real justice to its remote environs with more words and pictures.

My ancesteral home, rebuilt by my grandad after a typhoon raised it to the ground in the 50s

Inside the house

Inside the house

My dad in a contemplative moment

The caretaker, Ramu kaka

Watch out for Part DVO - Vyethye Beach. Heaven.... :)

YouTube Video Awards 2007

2008-03-25T16:23:00.003+05:30

The winners have been announced!

YouTube users voted for nominees of 12 categories - music, sports, comedy, instructional, short film, inspirational, commentary, creative, politics, series, eyewitness and adorable.

So go check them out - YouTube Video Awards 2007

Street Walking - Masinagudi

2008-03-25T13:04:00.004+05:30

रूहानियत २००८

2008-03-19T21:42:00.006+05:30

Not as brilliant as last year but still an evening well spent. :)

Check out the rest of the Ruhaniyat photos

VT aka CST

2008-03-11T15:16:00.003+05:30

It's a poster for the chaos theory. That many people in quick-step, doing a strange a-mathamatical waltz, tiny ants weaving their way to their movable mound. It's a wonder how this post-colonial left over can stand so opulently, gazing down at Mumbai's millions, while smilingly ushering them into her cavernous interiors. Till now, I was one of those little ants, zooming to my destination, auto-pilot deployed. At least until, I stopped and looked and clicked.

Surveyor's Span

2008-03-03T17:19:00.003+05:30

Sigh...

arty farty and all, men...

2008-03-01T20:05:00.003+05:30

Due to constant encouragement (read: friendly threats) from chamki and shilo, I sometimes succumb and draw something.

And, no, I won't take offense at a quiet snigger on your part. :D

Bazaar Street, Bandra

2008-02-19T20:25:00.006+05:30

Divide and Rule. Sound familiar? Let me take you down, 'cause I'm going to the days of the Raj, the British one. They made a fine art out of politicing and playing one group of those 'natives' against another, while they sat with their silly wigs in perfect order exploiting the hospitality of some simpering monarch or the other. You would think we've learned our lesson. That we would rather tar and feather ourselves than to emulate the twisted ways of our former oppressors.

I was watching a news story today, about some school kids who have sent an open letter to Raj Thakerey requesting him to put an end to divisive politics. With the media omnipresent in our little urban bubble, these kind of pleas rarely fall on deaf years. Gone are the days when Raj's uncle, the much-feared Balasaheb, could quietly go about his racial profiling, back in the 70s, unblinded by the media glare.

By 2015, Mumbai will have 30 million people. With thousands arriving everyday in this Mecca of moolah, from every conceivable corner of our country, it doesn't look like the 12-15% of the Maharashtrians will have too much of a say. But does that mean that this peace loving, extraordinarily hospitable community of people would want the thuggery of Raj's Maharashtra Navnirman Sena to be their face? And this isn't something the MNS believed in. Till recently the Shiv Sena, now headed by cousin Uddav was content to woo North Indians, putting their money on the vote bank. Considering that he was spurned as Balasaheb's successor, after putting in more than a decade of party work before Uddav even considered politics, it isn't surprising that Raj branched off to form the MNS. Even less surprising that he almost always tries to oppose the senior Sena's mandates.

Walking down Bazaar Street in Bandra, the start of Mumbai's suburbia, it was hard to see eye to eye with Sena politics. Here North Indian bhaiyyas selling fruit shoot the breeze with local merchants; the azaan from a tiny mosque rises up in perfect harmony with the evening mass, from an even tinier church; meat shops rub shoulders with the freshest of vegetables; a bunch of boys chattering in Marathi lug an unwieldly cushion with a Santa Claus mask on it, asking for Christmas contributions (on pressing for information it was revealed that they were out of rubber balls to play cricket); barbers shear through the hair of many faiths; every corner holds a new smile, more beaming than the earlier one; a motley bohemian bunch demand a group snap, though most of them have never even met each other before; languages float by my ears, like the notes of an orchestra, as a variety of food being prepared conjures up fragrances to bring the most benign appetite to life. All this on one narrow decrepit street. Bursting with life, oblivious to its secularism.

While I would be foolish to take this as a microcosm of Mumbai, I'm going to do that anyway. More as a hope than a conclusion. Mumbai's future is in inclusion, not division.

If they can do it, Raj saheb, why can't you?

Manipuri Martial Arts

2008-02-17T18:33:00.004+05:30

Full on AKKSHUNN!!!

राजस्थान....

2008-02-14T23:08:00.004+05:30

Coming soon to a blog near you :)

More Macro Madness

2008-02-12T20:10:00.001+05:30

Needless to say, they were all extremely tiny.

Sunrise, sunset

2008-02-04T22:15:00.001+05:30

Masinagudi

Mumbai

Masinagudi

Mumbai

Hampi

Masinagudi

.....and who knows which is which...

Cityscape

2008-01-31T18:09:00.001+05:30

Street Walking - Kolkata

2008-01-21T19:02:00.001+05:30

(Sleeping On The Slaughter Slab)

6 years....

2008-01-18T20:16:00.001+05:30

And counting. For 6 years people have been wrongly imprisoned at the Guatanamo Bay Detention 'Camp'. For 6 years, they have lived in cages. For 6 years, they have been blindfolded and chained. For 6 years, they have been tortured and denied basic human rights. For 6 years, they have not had any court hearing. For 6 years, they have suffered in a silence born of their muzzles and not their hearts or minds. For 6 years, the Bush administration has imprisoned these so-called terrorists and POWs, most of which were peasants and civilians picked up off the street in Afghanistan and Iraq.

Don't take my word for it. Go and read. Go and watch The Road To Guantanamo. Please be bothered that humanity hasn't found its soul even in this day and age with so much bloodshed behind us.

(photos taken at a protest in Bangalore)

All That Jazz

2008-01-17T19:38:00.001+05:30

Cafe Du Sport

Mathew Littlewood Trio

Gerard Machado Syndicate

Radha Thomas

Bob Bonastra

Cafe Du Sport

MORE PHOTOS FROM THE JAZZ FESTIVAL

Today

2008-01-13T22:46:00.000+05:30

---Diya Pinto, petite and pretty in white, with a wisdom far beyond her years taught me a new method of meditation. It was one of the most profound experiences of my life. Thanks a ton Diya. :)

---Shahrukh 'Kabir' Khan and his 16 hockey stick wielding maidens showed me that American sports flicks are a whole lot of crapolla compared to our very own Chak De India. I haven't enjoyed a film so much in ages. SRK was at his understated best, happily giving up the limelight to the girls, who were all brilliant and completely natural. I even felt guilty for loving cricket so much. And I'm a damn fool for missing it on the big screen. (secret: I actually like Hindi films, even the cheesy ones) Oh, well.

Remembering Victoria

2008-01-09T18:05:00.001+05:30

"Her Majesty's a pretty nice girl
But she doesn't have a lot to say
Her Majesty's a pretty nice girl
But she changes from day to day
I want to tell her that I love her a lot
But I gotta get a belly full of wine
Her Majesty's a pretty nice girl
Someday I'm gonna make her mine
Oh yeah....
Someday I'm gonna make her mine"

Victoria Memorial, Kolkata

Happy New Year!!

2008-01-03T17:41:00.000+05:30

Best viewed large

Acrobatically, percussively and warmly - the drum beaters of Andhra Pradesh. Some serious airtime there.

Hampi Faces

2007-12-31T19:48:00.001+05:30

Toothy grin
Scared tyke

Ramu the koracal boy
Paddling through paradise

Official firestater
Virupaksha Temple Complex

Taking a break
From making hay
While the sun shines

Fisherman one-eyed Jack
Could see further
Than most

Eerie stares
From brothers
Beware

Lumbani lady
Heavy metal
Heavier load

The boys

Looking Back

2007-12-31T16:09:00.000+05:30

I've had the privilege of watching and photographing a wide variety of acts this year. Thought I'd do a little recap.

Roger Waters, Aerosmith, Iron Maiden, Beyonce, Black Eyed Peas, Zakir Hussain, Amjad Ali Khan, Shakti, John McLaughlin, Vikku Vinayakaram, Buddy Guy, Walter Trout, Alan Parsons, Parvati Baul, Deep Purple, Jon Luc Ponty, L. Subramanium, Ozomatli, Lychee Lassi, Cafe Du Sport, Vital Information with Steve Smith, The Eric Truffaz Quartet, The Mathew Littlewood Trio, The Leipzig Chamber Orchestra, Bickram Ghosh, Mademoiselle K, The Chameleon Quartet, Daara J, Lehara, The Australian Art Orchestra, The Amit Heri Group, Bob Bonastra, Shri, DJ Norman Jay, Cold Cut, Sapthakshara, The Mad Professor, The Jonas Hellborg Group, The Fakirs Of Hyderabad, 2 folk groups from Rajasthan, Zikr-e-Riyafi, The Chisti Brothers, Chanting Buddhist Monks, Sheila Chandra, Mixmaster Morris, DJ Hexstatic and DJ Jon Hopkins.

It's also been a lot of fun. Thank you, life, the universe and everything. :)

A Portrait

2007-12-28T15:50:00.001+05:30

Shomir Dos the photographer
Is not a happy man
The shadows under his droopy eyes
Sag with the sands of time
They moisten as he steps back
And tells me of highs and lows
Bemoaning the fate of Calcutta
The city of old
His own fate was chained
Without a doubt
To that of his beloved city
He ranted and raved
And cursed the Gods
Politicians and pot smoking cops
I could only offer my sympathy
With intermittent grave nods
I really felt for Mr.Dos
For his moist, droopy eyes
I wanted to take his picture
"Why, Shomir Das is dead!"
He relented to stand with his creations
Those beautiful black & whites
They peered over his shoulder
As I peered through the lens
Mr.Dos smiled as I showed him the screen
"You digital fellows, don't know how it feels"
He turned on his heel
And dusted off a photo
"A rare statue of Lord Vishnu, it'll bring you luck"
I felt my eyes clouding over
And said a hasty goodbye
I'll never forget you Mr.Shomir Das
I hope you find your smile.

Down River - Hampi

2007-12-26T12:23:00.001+05:30

Free Rice

2007-12-20T12:21:00.000+05:30

~~~FREE RICE~~~

Check this out. Its a vocab game. For every synonym you get right, this organisation donates 20 grains of rice through the UN. Great idea and even better if you're a vocab junkie like me. :)

So go and try it out. Its a damn good way to pass time and help.

Boat To The Buddha

2007-12-17T18:26:00.001+05:30

The red moon was rising, its reflection bleeding into the water. Hussain Sagar Lake makes our very own Ulsoor look like a pond. It stretches 30-35 kms around and the only waves are made by our boat, gliding through.

In the distance the Buddha was growing. And getting more impressive. Having bribed the boatman with a ciggie, we got to ride up front away from the munching families and cuddling couples. One of them came up front and thrust a tiny camera into my hands. They wanted a Titanic style photo taken. I obliged.

As we docked the size of the Buddha statue became more evident. Standing on an island in the middle of the lake it stood 17 meters tall. Carved by 40 sculptors from a monolith, and weighing in at 320 tonnes, it had to carried 60 kms by a massive chariot with 19 wheels.

I stood in front of it overawed and said a silent prayer, in surrogate for all the Buddhists I know.

With the peace, the magnificence and artistry, there was enterprise. Photographers by the score were haunting the island, asking if people wanted instant pictures with The Buddha. Intrigued, I followed one of them to the side of the island. There by the row of giant spot lights, were a row of photographers bending over their pint-sized printers. Wait. Printers?? Exhibiting rare ingenuity, they had plugged into the wiring of the spot lights and abracadabra presto, instant DTP. Bravo! So the printers whirred away, and the tourists cooed as their instant memories were handed over and everyone lived happily ever after.

The End

Hyderabad - Street Walking

2007-12-15T18:54:00.001+05:30

Batons and Violin

2007-12-11T19:10:00.001+05:30

L.Subramanium with the Leipzig Chamber Orchestra

Loud & Clear

2007-12-04T14:46:00.001+05:30

Communication has many shades. Mass, radio, TV, words, pictures, music, announcing, articulation, assertion, communion, connection, contact, conversation, converse, correspondence, corresponding, declaration, delivery, disclosing, dissemination, elucidation, expression, global village, intelligence, interchange, intercommunication, intercourse, link, making known, mention, notifying, publication, reading, reception, revelation, talk, talking, telling, transfer, translating, transmission, utterance, writing. You get the picture.

So what happens if your world is silent? What happens if you talk with your hands? Does the communication breakdown? No way.

I was at the Sheila Kothawala School For The Deaf to take some publicity shots and I ended up getting an education. The kids were putting up a play and two days to showtime , all the nerves that I'm used to seeing in any production were missing. Instead there were beaming smiles, infectious excitement and overwhelming affection.

Once they were done giggling at my hair and moustache they ran through scenes from their play for my benefit, with as much gusto as they would've for a 1000 strong audience. I've rarely seen such genuine expression, such reckless abandon.

Thanks to me they had missed their van home and it fell upon the organisers and I to get them home. So two little ones gripped each palm tight and we were off. They were very enchanted by the music system and indicated that they could hear it at very high volumes. How could I be a cad and say no to those earnest faces? So, we whizzed down the ring road, Sigor Ros blaring like never before or after as a conversation of signs and lip reading ensued at a frenetic pace. As I dropped them to their humble homes, they squeezed my hand in thanks and were off.

If you'd like to help out at the institute, they always need volunteers, funds and general help.

Contact:
Jese Samuel (the principal, so mind your 'p's and 'q's)
Sheila Kothavala Institute For The Deaf
Bangalore
080-25262274

Aazaan

2007-12-02T16:15:00.000+05:30

Tears rolling down. sigh.

A Little Light Painting

2007-12-01T16:46:00.001+05:30

Hey Bulldog

2007-12-01T14:35:00.000+05:30

We all live in the yellow submarine

Moon Unit

2007-11-29T20:03:00.000+05:30

Click for better view

Ninasam

2007-11-29T14:56:00.001+05:30

Went for a Kannada play recently by arguably the best company in Karnataka (Ninasam). Very interesting and very dark comedy. Incidentally my first attempt at photographing theatre theatre.

THE REST OF THE NINASAM PHOTOS

Not So Mammuli

2007-11-27T14:30:00.001+05:30

I was in Mammulpet recently, where the wholesalers of the world (or atleast Bangalore) unite. Here you can get anything for the lowest price, pencil to pant, saree to statuette. Only for most of these things you need to be prepared to take back a whole bunch. These guys laugh out loud when you say you want 2-3. 100 stickers of Jesus and Mother Mary? Step right in sir.

But where there's money to be made, you'll find people aren't real sticklers for the rules. In some shops the wholesale ideal was sacrificed for a more plain and practical sale. We edged our way through the milling crowds that had everyone from low income mothers dragging their kids behind them to Page 3 types, trying hoity toitily to keep their high heels out of the muck. A real juxtaposition.

It didn't help that was with three girls united in a single minded need to shop for cheap clothes and that I was the only one who knew enough Kannada to keep asking for directions. And we went main road to street, street to lane, lane to bylane, bylane to gully, gully to building, up a dingy staircase and finally into a shop filled to the brim with clothes, people and salesmen all mingling together in a musty humid mess. Ventilation was something these people were talking about with fondness, like those old buildings that get replaced overnight by some concrete monstrosity.

But I'm a survivor and lived to tell this grubby sweaty tale. (note to self - NEVER AGAIN).

Marry Me Beyonce :)

2007-11-21T13:13:00.001+05:30

50 seconds. That's what we were given. We balked. We fretted, fumed and kicked some non-existent pebbles. We groaned and moaned, begged and pleaded. Through all this we were shown the hand. The proverbial faces weren't listening. Beyonce's management said 50 seconds and 50 seconds are all we'll get. Ad nauseam.

So like a line of grumbling sheep we were marched into the photo pit. Where we waited. And waited. And waited. And waited....and waited. Finally, after all the instruments, stage settings, lights, sound, curtains, cameras, bouncers were in place, a PR person rushed through the line of lens, whispering in their ears, until she was rasping into mine (it wasn't much like a whisper after all).

"They've given you two songs," she hissed, making a thumbs up sign and flashing me that winning smile. I could hear the tension wearing down. The taut tight noose was now a comfortable lasso. Two songs to photograph Beyonce. That's like an eternity compared to 50 seconds. So we all stood and waited.

Until someone else came a-whispering. Only this time, to our dismay we had to move OUT of the photo pit. "To where??" many puzzled faces enquired. To the sound booth, in the back of the first section of the audience, with a good 20 rows of people between us and the stage. Ah. Nice. Thank you so much.

All this is well and good when you, like the Reuters guys have a monstrous telephoto that looks like some weapon Arnie would be packing. Otherwise you stand shoulder to shoulder with our nation's fine press and wonder how the hell you're going to get a clear shot of Beyonce.

So I broke free. Ran into the audience, squeezing, excusing myself and tramping on few toes (sorry :S) until I was 4-5 rows away from the stage. That's when the Beyonce burst happened with Crazy In Love. I was lost, oblivious to anything other than my camera. A little shift to the left and one to the right. Two songs went by in a burst of skin, colour, notes and lights.

I don't really listen to Beyonce's music but I have to admit that the show was SPOT ON. Her singing was powerful, seductive and soulful all at once. The production was huge, astronomical. And there were all those beautiful people - the dancers and the all-woman band of incredible musicians. I didn't stay for long but what I saw blew my socks off.

And there was Beyonce. Mere words won't suffice to describe a Goddess. Phew. Sigh. Gasp. Gurgle. Swoon. There was a guy in the front row, who had on a cheesy, hastily painted sweatshirt that said, "Beyonce Marry Me." I scoffed then, erroneously. Sigh.

CLICK HERE FOR MORE BEYONCE

Bogie Man

2007-11-18T09:18:00.002+05:30

Shot from the train en route from Bangalore to Goa.

Happy Children's Day

2007-11-14T14:37:00.001+05:30

Waking up to wild yelps from the school opposite my place, I'm instantly reminded that its Children's Day. Everywhere in India, kids will be pampered and entertained, fed and cuddled and if they're really lucky, even have a holiday.

Well, not everywhere. On the outskirts of Bangalore, in a campus misleadingly titled, "The Indira Gandhi International School". If they're lucky, maybe someone would've dropped in with some sweets.

Otherwise, it'll be a day like any other. All the kids here are orphans or abandoned, mostly comprising of Sri Lankan refugees rendered homeless by the tsunami or constant fighting between the LTTE and the Sri Lankan army. "The government refuses to acknowledge that these refugees could become Indian citizens and thus be able to earn a living. And there are people who have come here over 2 decades ago and still struggle with the meagre government handouts," says Renu Mukunda, who heads the administration of the IGIA, hardly an easy job. She also works with many other NGOs.

The buildings are decrepit, you have to struggle to find any paint left. The classrooms, bubbling with youthful exuberance are dingy at best. The children, age 4 upwards all contribute to the upkeep, wash their own clothes and help the younger ones through their baths and grooming. This when they aren't playing football or cricket, barefoot, with reckless abandon. In fact, the large brown playing field is the only place when they look like any other children, lost in their games. The dormitories are stuffed to the brim and yet more children keep arriving from the refugee camps. The only thing that separates the splinters of their bunk beds from skin are thin mats, mattresses are an expense they can ill afford. To make things worse a big corporate has donated a bulk of wood to the school and insist that they utilise it within 6 months. So a small battalion of carpenters work incessantly carving out tables, chairs, bunk beds and shelves all of which will lie out in the open as there are no buildings to house them. No one thought of donating money or manpower to build more dorms.

Other than a few in-house teachers and a matron, who came here as a refugee 15 years earlier, Renu tries desperately to source teachers. When I visited there were two gentlemen, working at huge corporations, who spent time on weekends and holidays to teach the older kids physics and maths. Apparently there are others like them who would rather nurse a budding intellect than a hangover. There are also doctors and medical students who come in and do free check ups and consultations, constantly striving to counteract the scabies epidemic that rears its ugly head every time a new batch arrives from the even more dismal conditions at the refugee camps.

The most endearing of these volunteers would have to be bearded Babu and his band of barbers. On the terrace of one of the buildings they had set up shop, scissors shimmering as they went clip, clip, clip through a variety of mops, long and short, curly and straight. All this for free. Babu explains, "I'm a barber by profession but I like to think of myself as a social worker." And so, he spends his holidays going from institute to NGO, armed with scissors and smiles. He wants to give "of himself" he says.

If you've ever felt the same way you can contribute to the IGIA, as a volunteer teacher, doctor, counsellor, administrator, advisor or anything else you can think of. I'm sure they desperately need financial assistance as well, so if you or your company would like to help out, don't think twice.

Here are their contact details:

IGIA
Jakkur Santhe Beedhi
Jakkur village,
Yelahanka,
Bangalore - 5600064
Ph: 080-28563430

The Tavern

2007-11-13T16:24:00.000+05:30

Photo by Duende

Good times at the local watering hole. Hic!

Daft Phunk

2007-11-10T21:00:00.001+05:30

Firstly, thank God for Fergie. The show would've been unbearable if we didn't have her to gawk at.

I honestly don't understand how a band/group/posse/whatever can sell millions of records, make five fabulously produced albums in the studio, perform countless times and yet sound like long nails itching a blackboard, when they played live in Bangalore. The sound was an amplified swamp. Everything was mashed together like the regurgitated mess birds spew up for their hatchlings on Discovery.

Wait, it gets better. The backing band. They'd be tight, I thought. They'd have to be with the grooves they play on the BEP songs. No one told them though. They strutted their terrible tones, their slipping grooves and trumpet and sax solos that made us fantasize about the mute button on the gigantic sound console.

Then the vocals. Ah, the mixed up, out of time, off key vocals. Fergie hit a few notes but mostly she panted through her songs (no, the heavy breathing was definitely not a turn on). Will.i.am had flashes of brilliance in his supa fast raps but once you've seen Freestylin' from the likes of Mos Def, Tupac or Supernatural, all this practiced stuff seems a tad flat. As for Apl and Taboo, I have no clue what they're doing in the BEP. They barely sing or rap and mostly make the kind of guttural noises that a rude chimpanzee might have been trained to do.

Now there might have been a problem with the sound that precipitated that series of unfortunate musical notes but I don't buy that a multi-million dollar performing circus doesn't ensure perfect sound before hitting the first chords for a paying audience (luckily I didn't have to). I mean they performed (the non-musical bits) like pros and I'm sure most of the crowd lapped it up, ears firmly turned deaf. Bravo Black Eyed Peas. Clap, clap.

Did I remember to thank God for Fergie? Oh, yeah I did.
Good night.

MORE BEP HERE

"Be very afraid"

2007-11-07T14:24:00.000+05:30

It was in July 2002 when I looked at my project topic through bleary eyes. "The Godhra Riots" it said. I had a week and I was planning another one of those splash dash attempts at meeting a deadline. Leaning on my crutch, google, I quickly dug up a ton of info on the riots and even chanced upon studies on the mechanism of riots, with socio-political and psychological inputs. As I read, I became hungry, for more, and more until I had read every detail, significant or otherwise. Born of a fertile imagination and healthy sense of revolutionary zeal (in peace of course), a conspiracy theory took seed in my addled brain.

Could the riots have been engineered? Could they have been a result of careful orchestration rather than a raging fire set in motion by a random spark? Could Narinder Modi be nothing but Hitler in saffron? The questions floated around me like phantoms, teasing.

I put together the project with a lot more effort than I first envisaged and got a good grade. Then like so many other 19 year olds, I smiled smugly and promptly forgot all about the riots. Until now.

"Be Very Afraid" read the headline of Tarun Tejpal's editor's note in a landmark issue for journalism. The issue that deconstructed the "rioters and conspirators" and gave them faces and names. He sets the tone for the bleakness, horror and stark raving communalism that follows in its pages.

But before we raise chief investigative reporter, Ashish Khetan on a pandaal and dub him India's answer to Woodward and Bernstein, let us first reflect on what he has done.

W&B, broke down the Nixon brigade and exposed him to a country of complacents.They used an inside source (the famous Deep Throat) and printed a string of stories that never dared reveal his name.

Khetan, with immense personal risk, infiltrated the squalid inner circle of the Hindutva clan. He pretended to be a student doing a report on the RSS, sometimes he was an RSS man travelling across Gujarat to report on its workings to the head office in Delhi. Considering that he was actually a sting journalist knocking at the echelon of violent extremism, his very life hung in a balance. Like he says so often in his note, if at anytime he was searched by any of the goons he was speaking to, they would've found 2 spycams and a mic, three tiny things more powerful than the swiftest death sentence.

The people to whom he was speaking were convinced that he was a Hindutva himself. Can you imagine the acting performance that would take? Here were people telling him, almost salivating with glee that they had cut open a pregnant ladies' stomach and killed the foetus, that they had chopped a Muslim politician limb from limb, that they had raped with impunity ("If the fruit is there, who will not taste"), that they had killed with cold discrimination, that they were bribed, that they were tortured (the muslim tea vendors), that they covered up the truth, that they had doctored evidence and events. These were the men he was talking to - goondas, lawyers, politicos, fundamentalist citizens, chief investigating officers, witnesses, the whole shebang.

I think Watergate is a report on a child's birthday party compared to this.

How do mere mortals find the heart of darkness within them? How do they embrace it with the light of fanaticism in their eyes? How do we ensure that the names Babu Bajrangi, Rajendra Vyas, Mangilal Jain, Ramesh Dave, Prakash Rathod, Suresh Richard among so many others remain etched in our collective memory?

By reading this issue of Tehelka. Yes, you could always go and read most of it on their website (www.tehelka.com) but that doesn't quite do it. You need the visceral addition of paper, you need a magazine to wrestle with, to flip, fold and almost tear in frustration. Read it and find out the depths and lengths that were employed to cover up a mini-holocaust. Read it and peer into one of India's darkest hours. Read it and weep.

I did. I wept because I was a Hindu and knew this wasn't what Hinduism is all about, just like Terrorism isn't Islam or Christianity isn't the KKK. I wept as a thinking Indian. I wept as a human being. Tears of rage, injustice and sorrow. Then I stopped and decided to channel my rage and write. But I still haven't done justice to all I felt as I read this issue from cover to cover.

The only way I can effectively communicate all that I'm feeling is to urge you all to read this yourself, and soon, very very soon, immediately. Lets not forget that every action has an equal and opposite reaction and in the absence of any justice, it gives me nightmares to imagine the kind of retaliation is brewing.

We might all not feel the same things but hopefully they'll all be in the same direction. The direction of demanding that something be done. That this gross violation of human rights doesn't get swept under the carpet of convenience.

If you happen to be a thinking Indian PLEASE READ IT NOW!!!!!!!!

Ta Thai Thai Tat (aka post #150)

2007-10-31T15:00:00.001+05:30

Taken at a performance by Birju Maharaj's troupe at the ISKON temple in Bangalore.

Life Is a beach

2007-10-28T21:10:00.001+05:30

And how! :)

How Happy

2007-10-18T13:23:00.001+05:30

How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought
And simple truth his utmost skill;

Whose passions not his masters are;
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Not tied unto the world with care
Of public fame, or private breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise,
Nor rules of state, but rules of good;

Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make accusers great;

Who God doth late and early pray
More of His grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a well-chosen book or friend;

This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.

---- Sir Henry Wotton

We were taught this poem in school and I remember reading it and wondering if I would ever be that way. It was much more abstract back then, someone else's ideology. As I read it today, I realise, I am happy. I am content. I'm like this man Wotton speaks about. Or at least on my way.

My penchant for photography means that I get to peak into many different souls, only for a fleeting second but long enough to feel something. Its incredible how the people who have the least to smile about always have the most genuine smiles, the kind that makes you want to reach out and hug them. Sometimes, they can't mask the sadness in their eyes but almost always a twinkle appears, blinding you to the dirt, poverty and hopelessness. Whenever I'm feeling a bit too sorry for myself I only have to flash one of those smiles in my noggin and suddenly things don't seem bad at all. Its all relative.

By a different yardstick I see people around me all the time who only seem to wallow in their own misery, curse their lot with wailing and gnashing. Everything is hopeless, joy is ephemeral, blackness is me. Strangely, some of them even think its cool. The sad part is most of these people will never even realise what they have to be thankful for, they're so busy being self-obsessed that they don't even think of looking beyond.

Imagine standing in front of a vast vista of a landscape, looking at a glorious red orb setting into the distant mountains, while the plains drink greedily of their last minutes of daylight. Would you rather look at the real picture in all its glory or instead stand there, hold a postcard of the same thing close to your eyes and not be able to see anything else. Its a bit like that isn't it? Its always me, me, me, why, why, why. That's the postcard. The vast vistas are life. What would you rather look at?

Luckily, I'm not stupid enough to assume to that we can be happy all the time and that life will always deal us the cards that will make us that way. In those cases feel the unhappiness completely but let it go. Otherwise its like sucking on a piece of karela. And I don't even want to think about the people who block things. I just feel compassion for them.

We are what we think (the Buddha said that). And if we're constantly thinking of all that is wrong with our life, doesn't that become our life?

I recently met Mr.Satyamurthy, who at age 81, lives on his own, takes care of himself, travels everywhere by bus from his home on the outskirts of Bangalore, is involved with over 10 outreach programmes for humans and animals and stills finds time for his profession and passion of 65 years - wildlife photography. He has no teeth and has had a cataract problem for over a year now and innocently asks me about what digital camera he should buy. "Give up" is a phrase that makes him laugh. He intends to keep at it till the grim reaper comes a-calling. Even as he says that, he breaks out into a toothless grin.

I think the poem was written about someone like him. I smile as that realisation dawns, from within. :)

So reach out, reach in, smile, laugh, giggle and cheer. Its a happy day, if only you want it to be.

Wiiiiiiiiide Angle

2007-10-16T14:03:00.001+05:30

on a lighter vein

2007-10-09T17:37:00.000+05:30

greyscale

2007-10-08T21:28:00.001+05:30

Wipe those tears, Ma
I'm not hungry anymore
The food has paused my begging bowl
For this moment I'm free

We're watching our little sister
Our mum is nearby
Over there selling peanuts
And bhel puri
See, there

These robes of silk
Are all I own
And a cup for some tea
Someone gave me a blanket
It gets cold at night, you see
Oh, I sleep down here
In the basement between the cars
My children?
I haven't seen them in years
Since they abandoned me

hair yesterday, gone today

2007-10-07T12:53:00.000+05:30

BEFORE

Photo by Chamki

AFTER

As someone recently pointed out, I seem to specialize in super grumpy faces when photos are being taken of me.

vikkuji

2007-10-03T19:52:00.001+05:30

Sweating as if I were in Chennai, I laid the receiver down gingerly. Out of reverence for the person at the other end. More out of relief, actually. I had just conducted my first interview completely in Tamil. This was the only language that my late maternal grandmum could speak and I speak it everyday with various people. With my flawed grammar and laugh out loud pronounciation I'm more than a source of amusement for these people. But I never thought my broken sentences and stuttering phrases would have to reach the ears of T.S. 'Vikku' Vinayakaram.

I've heard his fingers drum an unflinching tattoo on the ghatam too many times to count, solo, with Shakti and others. I've been held in thrall as he raced through the most unforgiving time signatures with the same noncholance that the rest of us channel surf. All those times I never dreamed I'd one day speak to him, let alone in Tamil.

He was every bit as affable as I had imagined. Carnatic musicians usually are in comparison to their Hindustani cousins, with exceptions of course. He even refrained from laughing at my more feeble attempts at translating my questions.

A few years later as I sat, almost at his feet, taking photos of his flying fingers and his characteristic ghatam toss finale, the events of that interview rushed through my brain. Luckily, this time, I didn't have to say a word.
:)

Flowa powa

2007-09-15T10:49:00.001+05:30

Taken at the annual flower show in Lalbagh.

Dance little boy dance

2007-09-12T11:33:00.001+05:30

poBefore you Tina Charles fans (both of you) start frothing at the mouth and as hard as it might be to believe it, these are little boys. Gotipuas practice the Oriya dance form of Odissi. Inducted at an age when the rest of us are still being chased by mama to shovel another mouthful in for some uncle or cousin, these kids are already training hard, wooing flexibility, perfecting co-ordination.

This particular band of boys hail from a voluntary institution situated at Raghurajpur village, in the home of Guru Maguni Das. Here his wards, attempting to leap frog the poverty line, not only receive an invaluable tutelage in the art of Odissi that becomes their livelihood but also get a normal formal education till the 10th std.

All they ask for in return are contributions from their ephemeral audiences after their spirited contortion driven performances. Actually, they don't even ask. They just stand there, trying desperately to hide their imploring eyes. The watching humanity, as expected clap loudly and melt away to spend a bomb on some trinket or madhubani painting, hardly considering that these children need to be clothed, fed, transported and educated, just like any other kid. The little boys sigh and take five until 20 minutes later, when their next performance begins. A life cycle of penury.

Anyway, if you're from Orissa or in the neighbourhood, perhaps you could change their view of humanity and help them out.

Dasabhuja Gotipua Odishi Nrutya Parishad
Raghurajpur, Chandapur, Puri - 752012
Ph: 9938497487 (Sebendra Das)
email - dasabhujagotipua@yahoo.co.in

I wasn't the only one who captured them. Check out Shutterfly's post and the Barefoot Bandit

Kodi Landscapes

2007-09-07T12:01:00.001+05:30

No talk. Just look.

Happy Birthday

2007-09-04T12:23:00.001+05:30

More photos in the near future. Keep looking. :)

bon voyage yo

2007-08-28T17:56:00.000+05:30

For those years in school
For those bans on thermal underwear
For those shoulders to lean on
For that reluctance to frown
For that every ready 'send'
And the the 10 more thereafter

For all those walks
Drives, and endless treks
The Kodi jaunts
Beachy beds
For all those shows
Some mouldy
Some pure gold
I thank you Yohan
From the bottom of my heart
And wish you with love
For your brand new start
A dream come true
You rightly said
And in that dream
Somewhere down the line
I'm sure you'll find my hand
Tapping you
And saying,
"pass it man."
:)
All the best Yo!!!

Gnarled Barkleys

2007-08-23T17:21:00.001+05:30

Nowhere are trees more alive than in Kodi. I've had long conversations with them and they've imparted a lot of woody wisdom to me over the years and they never ever shy away from a big bear hug. And they're a colourful bunch rivaling the flowers in their quest for a brighter shade of living. The trees, the trees, the trees. sigh.

microland

2007-08-19T13:31:00.001+05:30

Ever since I was little I've always microsized trying to imagine what it would be like for an ant looking up at the mammoth world, what it would be like to live inside a flower. I got a brand new 105mm macro lens and I'm having a good time finding those things out. Here are a few results from early experimenting.

kodi portraits

2007-08-11T21:45:00.002+05:30

Our cars skim the valleys
We call home
I envy them

"Can I have a jacket?"
Asked the cattle herder
"All I have is the T-Shirt on my back"
I smiled.

Not Veerappan
Not even his brother
Just eucalyptus Puttappa

Woodcutter proxy
Noserings of gold
Silvery laughter

Menu Nagaraj
Driving Ms.Dasies and Mr.Fatwhiteman
Bread 'omlete' belches

Aslam bhai
Waiting
For his mango van to come

Clutching
Her lunch
Holding on
To dear life

Wallets
Jackets
And a steely glint

How sharp
Is my sickle?

Do or Die

2007-08-09T13:20:00.000+05:30

It's exactly 65 years and one day since Gandhi said those uncharacteristic words sparking off the largest and most successful movement of peace, The Quit India Movement. At a time when WWII ravaged every corner of the globe and violence became the norm, one man dared to stand up and say "NO!!!" The Art of Peace was born and five years after it began, the August Movement was at the helm waving goodbye to centuries of occupation by our unwelcome guests.
Gandhigiri is just a term and a foolish one at that. Today we remember reality. Today we remember the Mahatma.

Parvathy And I

2007-08-07T12:37:00.001+05:30

I'm crouching in a corner of a recording booth just about big enough for two people and an ektara. "Maybe I should sing," says the gentle, childlike voice of Parvathy Baul, "you'll get better shots that way." Even before words of gratitude took shape in my brain she had begun, not miming or half-heartedly for the camera but full blown, letting loose every iota of her vocal chords, releasing every atom of her heart, bearing her soul in song.

Blinking back instantaneous tears and listening to that little voice in my head telling me to close my gaping mouth and click, I shot away as the notes reverberated in that little booth and in my spirit. It felt all at once like a cool shower on a hot day, a warm blanket on a cold one and a glimpse, a tiny pinhole of a glimpse into the infinite.

From there on the conversations we would have were etched in the folds of my Grey matter and internalised a lot deeper. Parvathy Baul has a special soul and for a while that special soul held me, like the arms of a mother, warm, comforting, wordless. For a while that glowing smile made all existence seem insignificant. For a while I knew what it was like to be touched by beatitude.

Humane Update

2007-08-07T12:32:00.000+05:30

Sweetheart that she is, Ridhi contributed two more contacts to our slowly but surely growing list.

Apne Aap Women's Collective
Dedicated to helping one of the most exploited groups - sex workers, this NGO has spent 6 years establishing strong ties with the women it seeks to empower. Abused in every sense of the word these women know they have a safe place to go to...be it to sleep, wash up, or even just talk...

The Anchorage
One of the nicest environments I've worked in that deals with differently-abled people. Probably what strikes you the most is how warm and caring all the people who work there are. It's a tight-knit group where everyone gets generous portions of hugs and advice...

Read more on Humans For Humanity
Do you work with an NGO, do you help out somewhere over the weekends. Send me the contact details with accompanying text, images, videos (or just contact details) and I'll put it up.