Always Shielding the Flame

Marek Edelman, the last surviving leader of the heroic but doomed Warsaw Ghetto Uprising against the Nazis, passed away on October 2nd this year. The irony of the birth anniversary of Mahatma Gandhi, an apostle of peace and non-violence, coinciding with the death anniversary of one who chose the path of violence against an oppressor made me read through an entire article on Mr. Edelman’s life. Having done that, I could not but search for more information on this exceptional person who lived through such a tumultuous period in history.

Have culled out details of his life and his beliefs from various obituaries and am reproducing these below (sources stated at the end of this post), primarily because I find the story of his life inspirational in many ways, also because I believe that ‘those who forget history are condemned to repeat it’.

The Warsaw ghetto had been established in October 1940 to cut off the city’s Jews, with a high wall and wire, from the general population. By April 1942 half a million people lived in this space of four square kilometres, with around 1,500 dying each week from hunger and disease. In those conditions, Mr Edelman said, the most important thing was just to be alive: not to be one of the naked corpses wheeled past on carts, heads bobbing up and down or knocking on the pavement. A “terrible apathy” took hold, in which people no longer saw or believed the random horrors round them. He tried to rouse his people, first by staying up night after night to print mimeograph newspapers, and then by fighting.

In 1942, Hitler put in place his plans for the ‘final solution’ to the Jewish question. From July 1942, the Nazis began deporting 6000 Jews at a time on to trains that took them to the Death Camps at Treblinka etc. By the time the Nazis paused the ghetto clearance, in September 1942, only 60,000 Jews remained inside the ghetto.

The Nazi onslaught to finally liquidate the ghetto began on April 19th 1943. Marek Edelman was deputy commander of 220 untrained “boys” with pistols and home-made explosives. Against them were around 2,000 Nazi soldiers, the pick of the Wehrmacht, with plenty more behind them. Over the next three weeks, the fighting was intense. The Jewish fighters killed dozens of Nazi soldiers but inevitably sustained far greater losses. "After three weeks," Edelman recalled, "most of us were dead.” The Germans proceeded to flush out the few remaining fighters by burning down the Ghetto; Edelman always insisted, "We were beaten by the flames, not the Germans."

He managed to flee to the Aryan side of the city. Once he was there, he immediately joined the ranks of the Polish underground resistance. In 1944, he participated in the Warsaw Uprising, another failed attempt at liberating Poland's capital from German occupation.

Only 280,000 of Poland’s 3.5 million Jews survived the Holocaust and returned at the end of the war. By 1970 that number was down to 20,000 or 30,000, as many fled the communist regime. Edelman’s wife and children left Poland during the Cold War anti-Semitism of the late 1960s, but he stayed. “Warsaw is my city. … Someone has to stay here with all those who died,” said he.

Contrary to others who survived the holocaust, his dream was not of some Zionist homeland, but a socialist Poland in which Jews would have cultural autonomy. He continued to hope for that all his life. He said in 2001, “Warsaw is my city. It is here that I learned Polish,Yiddish and German. It is here that at school, I learned one must always take care of others. It is also here that I was slapped in the face just because I was a Jew.”

Edelman's experiences had left him with a somewhat grim view of society. "Man is evil, by nature man is a beast," he said. "People have to be educated from childhood... that there should be no hatred.”

To me, the nobility of Edelman’s character lies not just in his heroic deeds, but also in the empathy towards those who chose passivity over resistance, a choice totally contrary to his own. After the end of World War II, the 20 days of fighting in the Ghetto were sometimes described as a rare example of active Jewish resistance to the horrors inflicted by the Germans. Though by some accounts, Edelman remained furious with the traditional Jewish leadership for allowing the Ghetto to passively accept their fate, he always refused to make any distinction of character between those in the ghetto who fought and those who boarded the trains to the camps. Both groups, he said, were simply dealing with an inevitable death in the best way they could.

"We knew perfectly well that we had no chance of winning," he recalled. "We fought simply not to allow the Germans alone to pick the time and place of our deaths. We knew we were going to die. Just like all the others who were sent to Treblinka." Indeed, Edelman added, far from going passively, those who went steadfastly to Treblinka had shown the ultimate courage. "Their death was far more heroic. We didn't know when we would take a bullet. They had to deal with certain death, stripped naked in a gas chamber or standing at the edge of a mass grave waiting for a bullet in the back of the head. It is an awesome thing, when one is going so quietly to one's death. It was easier to die fighting than in a gas chamber."

Marek Edelman's political engagement earned him widespread respect in contemporary Poland. In the 1970s, while still pursuing a career in cardiology, he became engaged in the dissident Workers' Defense Committee, which gave birth to the first major pro-democratic movement behind the Iron Curtain - the Solidarity Trade Union.

On 17 April 1998 Edelman was awarded Poland's highest decoration, the Order of the White Eagle. He also received the French Legion of Honour.

Throughout his life, he stated his strong opinions bluntly and did not mince words - certainly not when confronting injustice and hypocrisy. In 1999 he publicly supported NATO strikes in the Balkans, arguing that a policy of pacifist non-intervention only played into the hands of dictators. In August 2002, he spoke up for the Palestinians as he felt that the Jewish self-defense for which he had fought was in danger of crossing the line into oppression. He wrote an open letter to the Palestinian resistance leaders. Though the letter criticized the suicide bombers, its tone infuriated the Israeli government and press.

In April 2009, Edelman joined leading Polish filmmakers and writers in a protest to the government after a former neo-Nazi took over the running of the country’s public television network. “People who publicly support racism and anti-Semitism shouldn’t be allowed to play a role in public life,” he wrote in an open letter to Prime Minister. “Don’t forget that evil can grow bigger.”

Hanna Krall, a chronicler of the Polish Jews' past, recorded Marek Edelman's life story in her world-acclaimed book, 'Shielding the Flame'. The opus' reflects Edelman's afterthought on the nature of his medical profession. "God wants to dim the candle's light, and I have to shield it quick, before he notices," he described his craft as a doctor (he was a noted cardiologist in Poland after the war).

As Jaroslaw Adamowski says in this article, whether struggling against the Nazis in the ruins of the Warsaw Ghetto or curing his patients' illnesses, Marek Edelman would not let the light dim, shielding the flame by all means. It is how he should be remembered.

By,
Zen

Sources of information :
News articles -
1) http://www.economist.com/obituary/displaystory.cfm?story_id=14585545#
2) http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/opinion/chi-perspec1018tyneroct18,0,3396676.story (this article also describes how Marek Edelman and other surviving fighters escaped from the ghetto and out into Poland when the Nazis burnt down the ghetto)
3) http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/obituaries/politics-obituaries/6259900/Marek-Edelman.html# (has some details of when and how preparations for the Warsaw uprising began)
4) http://www.jpost.com/servlet/Satellite?cid=1254827721470&pagename=JPost%2FJPArticle%2FShowFull
5) http://jta.org/news/article/2009/10/07/1008378/remembering-marek-edelman
6) http://www.bloomberg.com/apps/news?pid=20601100&sid=a4h2M9HvJ4Kg

websites and blogs -
1) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marek_Edelman
2) http://leninology.blogspot.com/2009/10/marek-edelman.html (this post has a brief history of the Warsaw Ghetto from 1939 to 1943; also interesting as it ends with a brief reference to Tarantino’s latest ‘Inglourious Basterds’)
3) http://www.socialistworker.co.uk/art.php?id=19233
4) http://www.organizedrage.com/2009/10/obituary-marek-edelman-cardiologist.html#
5) http://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/Holocaust/warsaw-uprising.html - some details on the history of the Jews in Poland after 1939

King of the Road

I wrote this post some time ago, but was wary of exposing my unpseud yearnings - until I read this article by Shobha Narayan in the Mint Lounge yesterday. Now that she’s come out of the closet, I feel less embarrassed about admitting to my unusual automobile ambitions.

I have always felt that the sturdy ol’ Ambassador was the perfect car for me. I want to be able to drive without worrying about whether I am too close to the next car, the pavement, or the road divider; hence my car has perforce to be one that can take the force of impact and minimize injury to me. Another advantage of an Amby is that every once in a while, I could indulge my evil side by gently nudging aside a shiny new Merc or BMW without caring a whit about what happens to my car. While their owners would worry about the damage to the majestic visage of their car, I could whistle nonchalantly as I drove away - amongst a hundred scratches on an Amby, who minds adding one more ?

But then I read these articles a few months ago about the luxury buses being converted into election raths for political leaders and my humble Amby level aspirations were instantly upgraded. Now I want a converted luxury bus from the JCBL factory in Punjab. Their ability to all but drive over other cars puts even an Ambassador’s sturdiness in the shade. As the green goblin says in this poem by Harold Monro,”Give them me.” How much fun I could have with one of these !

At the wheel of one of the JCBL luxury buses, I would literally be the ‘King of the Road’. No more gently honking at people who don’t give way, now I could pick up the microphone, switch on the election –strength loudspeaker and holler in chaste Bambaiiya, ”abbe oye, tuzhaaa aaiichaaa……” ! I might even have an advance rider on a motorcycle with a siren so that lesser cars could whimper in fear and scurry down side-streets for safety leaving a nice empty road for me to drive down.

During rush hour, I might still get stuck in traffic which would be a tad frustrating, but not for more than a few minutes as I switched on music, picked up a book and lounged on the sofa with a chilled Thums Up from the fridge. Maybe I would even watch a movie on the TV or catch up on the soaps. Occasionally I’d be nice and use the sound system for playing music to the poor plebs outside. On days when I was in a more extroverted mood, I could crank up the hydraulic stage and address the captive audience stuck in assorted cars and cabs through the loudspeaker system – it would beat even a blog for ease of inflicting one’s views on an innocent and unsuspecting public. I’d probably keep a long cattle prod with me too, in case anyone said anything remotely uncomplimentary or honked rudely – bzzzzzt – and they’d be fried.

So Shobha, if you gift me an Ambassador or a JCBL luxury bus this Diwali, I promise to gift you a blue autorickshaw in return. Happy Diwali !

By,
Zenobia D. Driver

Unimportant Musings

If you were me and I was you
And we met on a summer's hue
I wouldn't know what to say
Probably Parlez vous anglais
And you'd laugh and walk away

I have small errands to run
Only I cant seem to get them done
A car to fix, a bulb to replace
Whom to ask - not a shop to trace

I wake up one morning
Take a train to nowhere
Nowhere comes and goes
Cities in droves
One just like another
All equally unfamiliar

Futile I walk home to the sunset
With not even the light for company
Dinner- Alone but I cook and dress
Some chapatis and a curry
A taste of home and smells from far away
Tomorrow will be another day

I take the train to Nowhere
I get down Somewhere
I could be elsewhere or back at home
It doesn't matter- i am just as alone

There's something to be said for going back home
Back to people and familiarity
Where if I met you and you met me
Our eyes would dance
And I would not miss that chance
To ask for dinner and some fun
And we'd walk a lonely road in the evening sun
Lesser people around
But enough to make a crowd
And you'd see me and I'd see you
And we'd be happy just the two

By,
Anonymous
(Note : Check earlier by poem submitted by anonymous last year - http://entropymuse.blogspot.com/2008/09/me-and-you.html)

You-think-you-know-them-but-you-don’t

Travel is a great way to get to know better the people-you-think-you-know.

I always knew that Poppy was a determined, go – getter type, but he just zoomed in my estimation – and Soppy’s – the evening we got on the train to Kathgodam. His quick thinking enabled us to escape from a huge traffic jam on the way to the station and we made it to the train with literally seconds to spare. Once on the train, he readily walked up and down multiple times, checking out both the sleeper coach where we had confirmed berths and the AC coach where we had RAC tickets. Once we had decided to travel by 3rd AC, Soppy and I – old and lazy fatalists - plonked ourselves on the one RAC berth we had and tried to settle ourselves as comfortably as we could on one-third of a berth. Poppy, on the other hand, refused to give up this soon. He attached himself to the TT like the little lamb to Mary and trotted obediently behind him for 30 minutes bleating his request for berths every minute until he actually secured three of them ! “It’s the never-say-die, get-it-done-somehow-large-FMCG-sales spirit,” I sagely informed the newly converted Poppy-bhakt Soppy. (Never lose the chance to point out something good about FMCG to a guy from the air-conditioned corridors of finance.)

The same never-say-die, well-stoked-in-large-aggressive-FMCG competitive spirit manifested itself in other ways too. If I broke out into a merry melody during a walk in the hills, Poppy would be sure to correct me and insist that I sing exactly the words the lyricist wrote; he would not accept ‘happiness’ and ‘holiday’ as excuses for sloppy word placement. Let’s not even start on the comments about the quality of my voice, the pitch, the tone etc. What was most galling was that the source of all this nit-picking and feedback was someone who sang sincerely and correctly through his nose and sounded like Himesh Reshammiya !

Then there were the books Poppy carried with him on holiday. These were the kind that most people keep on bookshelves for others to admire and never actually read – think Kafka, Homer, Aristotle, Socrates, macroeconomics, yaaaawn. Not the holiday kind of books for most of us. Definitely not what I would have thought Poppy would like. I mean, this is a guy who drives a car too fast, slurps his coffee and thinks Chiranjeevi is cool !

Poppy would not just read these books, he would emerge shiny eyed after a few hours of reading and try to engage us plebs in intellectual discussions. That stage got over in a day or two and then he started giving us progress reports on how many pages he had read in the last few hours. Our reactions must have lacked a certain something (admiration ? adulation ?) for he then moved on to the next level. He started checking on what we had been doing and announcing a comparative activity progress report to us at regular intervals, “In the last two hours, I have read 150 pages while Soppy has read only 70 pages and Zen has taken 30 blurred snaps.” Score : Poppy – 10, Soppy - 5, Zen - 0. Insanity – 100.
(Do not work more than 3 years in a large aggressive FMCG, gentle reader. You get too used to competing, driving results and filing status reports.)

By,
Zen.

Chasing the Verditer Flycatcher

(At the outset, a suggestion for readers inclined towards increasing their general knowledge – check out one of these links for background information on and good photographs of the Verditer Flycatcher, this post will not be satisfactory on either count.)

My attempts to get a good photograph of the Verditer Flycatcher (tVF) began at Binsar and continued, albeit unsuccessfully, in Sitla and Mukteswar. These attempts were hampered by two constraints – one, the bird is small and hardly stays in one place for more than a few seconds, and two, my limited photography skills. On the few occasions when I focussed the camera on the bird quickly enough, a combination of my excitement and the stress of clicking quickly lest the bird fly away would result in a shaking hand and a blurred photograph.

Like this snap, for instance - notice the small blue blob in the top left quadrant of the pic ?

And what of my friends-and-fellow-travellers that could have taken good photographs but didn’t, you wonder. One was equally enthusiastic but only marginally better than me at photography, and the second possessed photography skills but not enthusiasm for bird-watching. (In the interests of confidentiality, I was going to refer to them as Pappu and Sadu, but they have objected vociferously to the negative names and shall therefore be known only as Poppy and Soppy in the rest of this post.)

Soppy and I spotted our first VF on the very first morning in Binsar. Our guide Purna had conscientiously cajoled us into the planned bird-watching session rather than the snooze we felt like taking after waking up early to see the sun rise over the mountains. After a short walk and many disappointing non-sightings where the bird that was calling was frustratingly close by but hidden in thick foliage, we saw a flash of blue apparating on a branch nearby. With much excitement, Soppy and I focussed our cameras, but all we got was a blue blur with trees in the background.


It took Soppy a day and over 50 wasted snaps (a slightly better defined blur, as seen here) to get used to focussing the camera quickly, while I only got the hang of it after much practise at Sitla.



Day 3 saw us driving to Sitla. From the garden at Sitla Estate, the mountains covered with snow were visible in the distance. The bungalow and garden themselves were perched on top of a hill whose slopes were covered with orchards and lower reaches with forest. Wind-chimes hanging from a tree in the garden added their notes to the rustle of trees-leaves in the wind. Poppy had spent less than ten minutes here when he complained about being in such a beautiful romantic place with only friends for company, a comment that earned him a well-deserved glare from me, the tireless organiser of the trip.

After lunch, while Soppy and Poppy grabbed a siesta, I ventured out into the garden. I selected a bench under a leafy tree that would shelter me from the intermittent drizzle and settled on it with my book and binocs. That afternoon the drizzle had scrubbed the trees clean, and the recent-rain-wet-mud fresh smell was everywhere. Grey clouds hung low in the sky and the mist was rising up to greet them. It was so beautiful and idyllic that I was reminded of this Persian quote about Kashmir, ’Agar Firdaus bar ruye zamin-ast hamin-asto, hamin-asto, hamin-ast’ (If there is heaven of Earth, it is this, it is this, it is this)

Every so often, I would look up from my book and feast my eyes on the mist weaving smoky white trails on the green hills. I could hear the chirruping and chattering of birds around me and occasionally saw them soaring across the valley or quickly flitting from one tree to another. On one such occasion, a blur of blue caught my eye, and I turned to find a Verditer Flycatcher perched on a branch on a tree nearby. The rainy weather brought out the vibrant blue of its wings and I would have loved to capture it on film, but I didn’t have a camera with me. Once again, I had to be content with gazing at it.

We finally got a snap of this bird on Day6, at Mukteswar. This time, it helpfully perched on an exposed electric wire high up in the sky. Luckily, we had cameras with us. Luckily, P’s camera had both batteries and sufficient memory. Luckily, he managed to focus on it. Unluckily, the camera did not have sufficient zoom.

tVF - One more item on my to-do list for whenever I next visit Kumaon.

Another chase is more successful

Due to the aforementioned lack of photography skills, I was soon relegated to role of bird-spotter-cum-camera-carrier, with Soppy or Poppy essaying the key role of photographer. Not content to play a supporting role, I resolved to improve and spent one rainy day in Sitla taking snaps of birds on a tree near Poppy’s room. The tree had a red flower / fruit that attracted them all – common Himlayan bulbuls in droves, a pair of shy green jackdaws and many others I could not identify.




For every four blurred photos I clicked, one came out clear. I got a lot of clear pictures of the Himalayan bulbuls though. Bulbuls were so common that there was no excitement and no hurry to click, even if 2-3 had flown away, there would still be only 20-30 of them on the tree.


Though normally not very attractive birds, they looked really cute in the rain with ruffled puffed-up feathers.


Suddenly a pair of Red Billed Blue Magpie (RBBM) were there too. The cool demeanour and steady hands I thought I had cultivated over the morning just fell apart. The first few snaps I clicked in an excited hurry were blurred as usual due to my shaking hands.


The pair flew away, but returned in a few minutes. Once I realised that I had enough time, my hand steadied and I took some snaps in which you could actually identify the bird. Though some were a bit random as I clicked at any angle, just so I got a snap, no matter what.


Finally I got some good snaps – notice the RBBM’s magnificent tail in these.




These are some links for information on and snaps of this bird. Please note that ahem ahem my snaps are not too bad. Maybe I will get the Verditer Flycatcher too on my next vacation.

By,
Zen

Kumaon Trip - Basic Info

Kathgodam station is the railhead for most of Kumaon. The most convenient train to get here is the Ranikhet Express which leaves Delhi at night and arrives at Kathgodam early the next morning; during the return trip it leaves Kathgodam at about 8:30 p.m. and arrives in Delhi early the next morning. Be sure to book tickets well in advance - tickets tend to get over very soon during holiday season.

There is also a train from Nainital, but if you take this train you spend daytime sitting in a train rather than being out on the hills. Also, you end up spending time in Nainital, which is crowded and noisy and not pretty any more.

Digression over with, let me get back to Kathgodam. From Kathgodam station you travel by road to your destination. Booking a taxi in advance is preferable. Don’t miss Bhimtal which is on the route out of Kathgodam and is quite pretty. Naukuchiatal which is a bit further off is apparently very beautiful too, but it was off our route and we never had the time to visit it.

Sitla is about an hour and a half from Kathgodam Station. Vikram Maira’s Sitla Estate is the best place to stay. Vikram has converted an old English Bungalow into a hotel with all modern amenities without losing the quaint charm of the place. The Estate has a lovely garden, orchards on the slopes of the hill and woods at the base which merge into Corbett National Park. Do not miss the bench in Vikram’s orchard that is situated at the perfect spot for a panoramic view of snow-covered peaks.







The garden at Sitla


Nandadevi and her circle of courtiers - viewed from Sitla

Sitla Estate is an oasis of tranquillity; if you’re idea of a holiday is lolling in front of the TV during the day and visiting a crowded pub or disco at night, you will be sorely disappointed. On the other hand, if it’s reading and chatting with friends/family, gazing at the mountains, bird-watching, long walks, and other such activities that appeal to you, this is the perfect place to be. Frequent long walks confer the added benefit of helping you burn off the calories you gain eating the absolutely yummy food whipped up by Vikram.

Mukteswar is about 30 minutes drive from Sitla, you can also walk up along the road in the evening if the mood takes you. The town is tiny and quaint and worth walking through. Near the main post office is a small shop where you can get a cup of chai and some biscuits to give you strength for the walk back.




We drove down to Mukteswar and stayed a day at Camp Purple for a day. The camp was very different from what I had expected, quite a relief on the last day of the holiday. It’s a camp for urban-dwellers who haven’t had much interaction with the outdoors, and want to begin with controlled amounts of exposure. There’s not much roughing-it-out involved here; the tents are pitched on raised cement platforms and have proper beds inside ! There is a separate row of clean bath/loo tents with running water, these facilities are kept surprisingly clean.

The staff is friendly and take good care of you. There are a lot of adventure activities that are organised based on demand. There’s bird-watching and trekking for the wimps (like me), for the more active ones, there’s rapelling, rock-climbing and jumaring conducted by the Camp Purple folks at a place nearby called chauli-ki-jaali.

The KMVN (Kumaon Mandal Vikas Nigam) guesthouse at Binsar is right at the peak of Mt. Binsar, in the middle of Binsar sanctuary. It is the best place to stay in at Binsar as it has the best location. Have also heard good reviews of a resort called ‘Kalmatia Sangam’ from some friends of mine, though it is undoubtedly a swankier place than KMVN, it is outside the Binsar sanctuary and lower down the slope than KMVN. KMVN is fairly functional and basic - the rooms are large, comfortable and clean, food is simple, tasty and available in plenty, and the staff is nice. Cold water is available through the day and one bucket of hot water is given in the morning. At night, one bulb in the room is powered by solar power, but only till 9:30 p.m., so carrying a torch along to Binsar is advisable.


Sunrise at Binsar

Sunrise at Binsar - lighter patch on peak of mountain grows bigger

Here comes the sun

Sleeping early is advisable in Binsar as you must wake up early, sit on the terrace and watch the sun rise over the peaks of the Himalayas. Use all your willpower to stir yourself out of bed at 5:30 a.m.; braving sleep, the bitter cold and the biting wind is well worth it. The view is amazing, from the left the peaks of Trishul, then Nandadevi and Nandakot to the right and finally the five peaks of Panchuli or the ‘kitchen of the Gods’, over which the sun rises. As a reward for braving the cold, KMVN staff bring out hot tea at 6 a.m.

The Binsar sanctuary is quite beautiful, there are various tracks through the forest for hiking enthusiasts. You can hire a guide for the day, we were lucky enough to get Purna who was a veritable fount of information about the flora and fauna of the area.
If you want a long walk, you can walk from Binsar to Jageshwar and Dandeshwar temples. Alternately, you can hire a car and driver there or travel by bus from Almora. For some other temples worth visiting check this link.

Kausani and Munsiyari are other great places to visit – I heard about these from fellow travellers during my Kumaon trip. Have added these to my must-visit list, partly because they are small settlements snuggled right next to the mountains, partly because these are what I call ‘new towns’ and used to be villages not long ago. Apparently Munsiyari was a village till about 1982, there was no electricity there and no roads either – people trekked up to it from the nearest bus-stop. Then the UP tourism deptt realised that tourism could be the major source of revenue in the hills and looked for sites to set up KMVN. One was this village. It was only during the 80s that Munsiyari was connected by road and the electric power lines were extended to it. Though some might say that this is not an altogether good thing for the erstwhile village !

By,
Zen

p.s. Contact details of some of the places mentioned in the post above:
Sitla Estate, Vikram Maira – Ph: 05942-286330 or 286030, email i.d. : maira_40@yahoo.co.uk
Camp Purple, Mukteswar – 011-29531036,29531037 (Delhi Office number)
KMVN Binsar – 05962 – 210176, +919412996535; bookings need to be made through Nainital (05942 – 231436,236356, 236209) or Delhi office (011 - 23712246, 23746433, 23746431)
Puran Singh, In Toto Birdwatcher, Binsar - +919411518056, +919410765414.

Addendum

Groucho Marx once said (or wrote),"I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member."

Zen's addendum : I don't care to worship any religious or spiritual leader who wants to have followers.

Addendum 2 : Especially during their lifetime
(I mean the leader's lifetime, not the followers)

Air Travel

I’m sitting in my seat as the aircraft is teetering at the edge of the runway. The engine is at high power and its entire body shudders with pent-up energy. It’s straining at its leash like a deliriously slobbering but tied up puppy confronted with his lovely lickable master. And then suddenly, with a roar, it is off bounding up the runway and leaping eagerly into the big blue sky.

It’s not just me, but everyone around has temporarily stopped whatever they were doing and all attention is riveted on experiencing this wonderful growl, the surge and thrust of the engines… on these defining moments of the trip, this transition from earth to sky. you stop, you hear and you FEEL! Thrilll…and we’re off!

Once up in the air the momentum seems to ebb. The five year old in the seat behind remarks “it was going so fast, why has it become so slow now”. The pilot banks and I strain to make out my building in that fuzz of trees and street, I think I may have it but it has gone past too quick. We’re now over the sea and it glitters menacingly, beautifully. I think about the sharks in the water and how deep the part we are over must be.

Sunny day, fluffy clouds….a lovely aroma of warm bread floats through the cabin and now all I can think of is the big hole in my stomach. It’s way past my breakfast time. This is torture. Why does it always take so long for the cart to reach my seat.

Meal gobbled. o look a pat of butter. This is more butter than I should eat in a week. Oh well I guess a little with a bit of bread won’t hurt. Umm ummm umm. Now I’ve eaten the whole thing, it’s gone. There isn’t a crumb left on my tray. Can’t believe how much I can eat these days, I don’t even seem to be able to exercise any quality control any more, i.e., gorge only on things that are totally worth it. I will stuff myself with anything that’s in front of my face. Can’t believe this is the same person who would turn her nose up at most food and take 3 hours to finish lunch.

Now I have to visit the restroom, so I strain around awkwardly, but a trolley blocks the aisle. At least I don’t have to squeeze past fat men with spready thighs to get out. I think fondly of my travel agent for tele-checking me into an aisle seat. I love the aisle seat – easy access to bathroom, easier to control panic bouts of claustrophobia and no strategic battles for at least 1 arm rest.

Ping! The seat belt sign pops on. Ah! We are in for a spot of turbulence. Nothing like a bit of turbulence, it’s like a ride at the amusement park, good bang for your airline ticket price. Especially when the air craft falls through an air pocket and my stomach detaches itself and lurches about inside of me. Of course, theres a thin line between ‘what fun’… and the point when the stomach reaches the base of my throat. This is the point when I wonder if I should worry about this possibly becoming the last few minutes of my life. Am I ok to go yet? What’s done is done, what’s not…well I won’t be around to worry about it. But now I think about my family, will catty be sad...or devastated? What about my parents? O terrible. To see your child go before you. My eyes prickle with tears at the sadness they will feel. And I haven’t made a will. Would Catty know whom to give what. I picture him and my mum picking morosely through my silver jewelery. I run a visual list of my silver earrings through my mind and think about who to leave them to. Zen may like the fish, but so would Namrata. Maybe I should leave the hanging long types for Zen and the traditional ones for Namrata. But Zen likes coloured stones, I can’t remember if I have any. This is very tedious. I realize that the aircraft is coasting peacefully now. A troubling dilemma shelved until further turbulence.

I fall into a deep deep restful sleep. This often happens during the aircraft descent, I think it’s because of pressure or something…or maybe because I’ve been waking up every half hour from 2 a.m. worried that I may oversleep and miss my flight.

I’m rudely awakened during the best part of my sleep by loud announcements to stow the table etc. My lids keep drooping. Now we are going to land, I see the outside whizzing by and the aircraft’s screaming again. Why is the pilot revving the plane, shouldn’t he be slowing it down right about now! We are coming in very fast..too fast!…too fast!…is this my last landing??! I wait for the sickening sounds my tummy’s a tight knot, goodbye Catty I love you. Bang, roar, ROAR ROAR, break, squeal … no not this time…squeal , brake. Damn the pilots of this airline, thudding out of the sky like this. I guess their performance isn’t rated on good landings.

Anyway, Phewww! Aircraft taxies to a halt. Greasy Smart Alec beside me has been yabbering on his phone number one since 5 seconds after touchdown, while his second one rings and flashes. I glare at him to no effect.

Engines off, lights on. The cabin is suddenly crowded by the participants in the off-the-aircraft Olympics. They are jammed and stooped about in uncomfortable positions between seats for about 5 minutes until the ladder hits the plane with a slight tremor. Why they don’t just sit comfortably until the doors are opened, I can never understand. I sit in my seat and feel superior to all of them.

By,
Nafisa

Withdrawal Symptoms

This year, I misjudged my endurance level and stayed away from the mountains for too long. Not only did I delay indulging in my fix of the snow-covered heights, I even minimised the short weekend treks in the Sahayadris with Odati that usually alleviate the longing. By Feb, I was itching to go back to the mountains. Stuck in traffic jams, every so often I would feel a hollow fist clench in my stomach as I thought of being surrounded by solitude and snow, soaking in the fresh air and silence instead of petrol fumes and the raucous blaring of car horns; every link to Kodak Gallery or Picassa that people sent with their holiday snaps would throw me into fits of jealousy and longing.

These symptoms vanished and were replaced by anticipation once I obtained leave from work and started planning a holiday. As D-Day approached, excitement mounted until I finally took off with friends for a vacation in the hills of Kumaon.

Though I had a great vacation that quenched the mountain withdrawal symptoms (for at least a few months, I hope) I found I had to cope with a new set of symptoms when I returned. My stomach, which since childhood had been able to deal with anything thrown into it and had performed it’s duties without a murmur of discontent under all kinds of conditions, now started acting fussy. It would rumble and grumble throughout the day, even with plain home food – almost as if it was having difficulty acclimatising to the humble low altitude.

To make things worse, I had returned with a humongous appetite – thanks to ten days of walking for hours in the cold and pigging out on yummy food secure in the knowledge that I was burning off all the calories. Now I still had the same voracious appetite, except that the temperamental stomach that ached with hunger would grumble petulantly the minute I actually ate anything! It took me ten days to get my appetite back to normal – ten days in which I ate much more fruit and soya than I wanted to in order to ensure that my supersized appetite did not result in too much weight gain.

To add to the petulant stomach, I had a non-cooperating mind. For a few days, my head felt heavy and woozy and I could not fully focus my thoughts – it felt as if I was wading through an ocean of cotton. A few hours of struggling to work in office and I was totally drained out – one would think I was attempting some major ascent instead of just clearing the mail that had piled up in the last week! I finally returned to normal after using a solution a much-travelled well-wisher shared with me – start thinking about where to go for your next vacation.

Moral of the story – Work is done best in between planning vacations

By,
Zen

All I want Is a Roof Somewhere

On popular trekking routes, groups of tents huddled together are quite a common sight at points designated as night halts. Amongst my happy memories of sleeping in a tent is one of discovering my favourite mountain orchestra at Tsokha, a small settlement at about 10000 ft on the route to Dzongri in Sikkim (you can read about this trek here, here and here) . Playing to a musical score set by the forbidding mountains, the wind swooshed and whistled aggressively down the peaks onto the meadow where we were camped; this was offset by the reassuring, gentle tinkle of bells tied around the necks of pack-ponies as they grazed.

Tents are striking from an aesthetic viewpoint - whether the peaks are covered with shades of summer brown, monsoon green or winter white, the bright orange- yellow – purple tents add a dash of colour and their compact shape makes for a neat picture. However, the low roof and compact size tend to make them a bit claustrophobic and difficult to move about in, especially for someone with a large build, i.e. yours truly.

I would much rather sleep out in the open in a sleeping bag - weather permitting, of course, with the wind on my face, gazing at the starry sky and giggling my way to sleep as my companions come up with non-zodiac descriptions of the stars. Never to be forgotten is one young gentleman’s description of two unusually bright and prominent stars of a constellation as ‘Aunty Sharma’s (pause here for effect)…………..earrings’ and the reactions it evoked, half the group cackling with glee and the other more – astronomically - inclined half wincing at the sacrilegious intrusion on their discussion.

While tents, sleeping bags and caves such as the one in Harishchandragad are all a welcome change from mundane city life and have an adventurous element to them, it is on the Himalayan treks that one really gets to experience the entire range of shelters possible.

While trekking with Odati from an altitude of 12000 ft to that of 14000 ft in Arunachal Pradesh (read Anusha’s description of the trek here), we stayed in log huts made by the GREF - General Reserve Engineering Force. Like the BRO (Border Roads Organisation), these corps, unnoticed and unsung, are responsible for building much of the basic infrastructure in the border areas. When they work in remote areas for a short span of time, they often build log huts to stay in. Two of these, in Nagajiji and Dhonk chi phoo, were a boon to us - it was raining and snowing intermittently at both places and the charm of such weather fades very soon if you are directly exposed to it. Having a GREF hut implies not just thick wooden logs between the elements and yourself, but also a roof high above your head that allows you to stand up straight, enough room for 6-8 people to spread out their things comfortably and the added bonus of a log fire to warm you up. Truly the answer to the wish for a room somewhere !

‘All I want is a room somewhere
Far away from the cold night air,
Lots of chocolates for me to eat
Lots of coal making lots of heat,
Warm face, warm hands, warm feet,
Aow, wouldn’t it be lovely ? ’
(with apologies to Ms. Eliza Doolittle)



(The GREF hut at Dhonk Chi Phoo)

Each GREF hut has its own unique features that you discover only when you enter. The one we stayed in at Nagajiji was big enough to have contained two Bombay-ishtyle 1BHKs in it. There was a big central fireplace near which we huddled to make the most of the warmth, even stretching our frozen feet out dangerously close to the flames. Around the fireplace were poles on which we tied strings and dried all our wet clothes, thus ending up smelling of wood-smoke for the next few days. The GREF hut in Dhonk chi phoo was as big as the one in Nagajiji but had a wall dividing it into two halves, almost like a planned conservative zenana-mardana divide. The wall even had tiny holes that enabled conversations across it !

In the same mountains but at a lower altitude of 10000 feet, we spent a night at a village called Lubrang near the Bhutan border. After a refreshing walk on a path overhung with rhododendron flowers, we arrived fully satiated and satisfied with the trip, prepared to spend the night in a corner of one of the villager’s houses. We were totally stunned when the village headman, who was our guide, invited us to stay in the village Gompa (Buddhist monastery or place of worship). I initially thought I must have misunderstood him, until one of my companions actually spread out his sleeping bag and went to sleep, right inside the sanctum ! In his defense, I must mention that he was unwell and suffering from fever and a bad cold. (As an aside, consider what a title that would make for a book – ‘I snored at the feet of the Buddha’, a bit blasphemous, but definitely attention grabbing!)




(Pictures of the entrance to the Gompa at Lubrang - don't miss our shoes outside the door and the tea kettle kept nearby, also the amazing prayer wheel to the right)

There was something awe-inspiring about us mere mortals being permitted to close our eyes, not in devotion but in slumber, in the presence of divinity. Never had I imagined I would sleep in such a beautiful place, guarded by a statue of the Buddha, surrounded by walls with beautiful paintings and shelves filled with religious items ! The generosity of the village in offering us such hospitality proved that the clichéd ‘atithi devo bhava’ is still practiced in some areas.

Another trek, another shelter – a home stay at village Tolma (altitude approximately 10,000 feet) in the Garhwal Himalayas. Here we stayed in simple rooms in the villager’s houses, the normalcy of it reassuring after an arduous walk in a snow-storm the previous day. Tolma village is defined by Dronagiri mountain in the foreground. T he immensity of the mountain dominates the horizon as it looms over the village like a majestic-but-moody guardian, and the village huddles gratefully-but-carefully by its foot. The early morning has the mountain at its gentlest as the rays of the sun warm its cold visage and a snow plume languidly wafts off its peak. It was lovely to wake up, step out of the room and see a white snow plume stretched out across the blue sky, especially when I knew I had the option of retiring to the sanctuary of the room and snuggling under thick quilts the minute I felt too cold.

The beauty of Tolma was not limited to Dronagiri’s majesty, or the quilts that protected us from Dronagiri’s largesse of icy cool wind blowing off snowy slopes, it was also in the bucket of warm water each of us got for a bath in the makeshift bathroom, and in the nice clean loo that the villagers had constructed specifically for tourists to use. After five days in the wilderness without the pleasures of even basic plumbing, it was a close run thing between Dronagiri and the amenities when it came to deciding which sight gave one more happiness ! Dronagiri eventually won, but only just; quite a typical reaction towards the end of the trek !

No matter how much I relish the experience, after some days of the harsher, more basic existence, my city-bred spoilt side comes rushing to the fore and demands attention. While I love the mountains, I am also used to many amenities of Life in a Metro and start longing for them. Then it’s only the shelter provided by the grimy building where I reside in my dirty polluted Mumbai that I want. As they say, ‘There’s no place like Home’. Amen.

By Zen
(you can read more posts about trekking at http://odatihobo.blogspot.com)