A broad road fringed with tall trees, the pavement littered with branches that the BMC has chopped off prior to the monsoon. Some of the trees have creepers with big pink flowers growing on them, these give out a characteristic strong fragrance that defines this stretch of road during the flowering season. At a certain time every morning, the fragrance is obscured by the stink from the garbage collecting truck, it has an open top and dirty green maws from which streams of garbage hang and sway like so much spittle as it comes trundling down the road.
On most days, the garbage collecting men perch inside the truck’s cabin or on top of the body, in faded uniforms, shoulders slumped, faces downcast, hating their work and their fate. But today is different.
One of the garbage collectors is a young man, tall, dark and hefty, round-faced, with curly hair. His attire hints at his attitude - he wears a dark brown shirt with a mustard print, the first few buttons open – ishtyle hai bhai ! Around his neck he has a locket on a black string, from his hip pocket hangs a dark blue scarf.
This young man chooses to ride the garbage truck with attitude, like he’s at a rodeo, or shooting stunts for a film. He jumps on to the side of the truck as it starts off, and hangs there whistling a happy tune, chest thrown out, head flung back casually, scarf fluttering gaily in the wind, as if he has not a care in the world.
The tale we read in school was true – Aadmi khushi khoj lega ! (A man will find happiness)
Saturday, August 06, 2011
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Sounds familiar ?
One of my objectives while planning a vacation in Dehradun was to visit Mussourie, be at the Cambridge bookshop on Saturday evening when Mr. Ruskin Bond is reported to visit, and get one of my books autographed by him. Unfortunately, we ended up being in Mussourie on Friday, and even though we optimistically trotted off to the Cambridge bookshop, Mr. Bond wasn’t there. Shaken, but not stirred, we bought a Ruskin Bond book each at the shop, I picked up one titled ‘Rain in the Mountains’.
A passage from this is reproduced below, it reminded me of one of my bird-watching friends, she must be related to Sir E in some way.
Someone asked Sir E if he could shoot a bird on his land at Ramgarh. The man wanted the bird for dissection in a biology lab. Sir E refused.
“It’s in the interests of science,” protested the man. “Do you think a bird is better than a human ?”
“Infinitely,” said Sir E. “Infinitely better.”
Does the sentiment sound familiar to you too ? :-)
By,
Zenobia Driver
A passage from this is reproduced below, it reminded me of one of my bird-watching friends, she must be related to Sir E in some way.
Someone asked Sir E if he could shoot a bird on his land at Ramgarh. The man wanted the bird for dissection in a biology lab. Sir E refused.
“It’s in the interests of science,” protested the man. “Do you think a bird is better than a human ?”
“Infinitely,” said Sir E. “Infinitely better.”
Does the sentiment sound familiar to you too ? :-)
By,
Zenobia Driver
Thursday, July 28, 2011
About the Mountains
An extract from ‘Snow Leopard’ by Peter Matthiessen :
The secret of the mountains is that the mountains simply exist, as I do myself : the mountains exist simply, which I do not. The mountains have no “meaning”, they are “meaning”; the mountains are. The sun is round. I ring with life, and when I can hear it, there is a ringing that we share. I understand all this, not in my mind but in my heart, knowing how meaningless it is to try to capture what cannot be expressed, knowing that mere words will remain when I read it all again, another day.
The secret of the mountains is that the mountains simply exist, as I do myself : the mountains exist simply, which I do not. The mountains have no “meaning”, they are “meaning”; the mountains are. The sun is round. I ring with life, and when I can hear it, there is a ringing that we share. I understand all this, not in my mind but in my heart, knowing how meaningless it is to try to capture what cannot be expressed, knowing that mere words will remain when I read it all again, another day.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
The best part of armchair discussions
A holiday at ‘Ivy Cottage’ on the outskirts of Dehradun; a quaint cottage with a beautiful garden full of flowering plants and trees, surrounded by hills, clouds scudding above.
Picture a group of five people with broad grins basking in pleasant sunshine - we are sitting around a breakfast table laden with empty plates and used cutlery, replete after a mammoth breakfast of eggs, sausages, toast, butter, jam, juice, fruit, gobi parathas and french fries. If you have sharp eyes or a strong imagination, you can see a shimmer of lazy contentment hovering around us and slowly expanding.
What do we select as an apt topic for conversation, sprawled out in our chairs, rendered nearly immobile by the amount of food we have gobbled – we discuss true stories of incredible hardship and adventure. ‘Into Thin Air’ by Jon Krakauer’ and ‘The Climb’ by Anatoly Boukreev – both accounts of an expedition to Mount Everest that ended in disaster; ‘Touching the void’ by Joe Simpson – another soul-stirring story of an expedition to the peak Siula Grande in the Peruvian Andes, and how Simpson survived in spite of numerous injuries; ‘Endurance : Shackleton’s Incredible Voyage’ by Alfred Lansing – about a trans-Antartic expedition by sea in which the ship sank, but the entire crew survived in hostile conditions for almost two years before finally journeying to safety.
At some point in our discussion, a few expressions turned sheepish and some of us lost a degree of animation as the contrast between our current condition and the stories we were discussing sank in. But then, as M pointed out, to admire something one doesn’t have to be experiencing it, neither to have experienced it oneself in the past. In fact, one’s admiration of those facing adverse circumstances is enhanced with the distance from the same.
Think of eating samosas at a nice cosy place, say Samovar (Jehangir Art Gallery, Mumbai), while reading one of these books; biting into the crispy part at the end and hearing it crackle just as you read about the crackle of ice on the Khumbu icefall (after Base Camp, Everest); imagining the cold at Everest’s feet while safely savouring the heat and crackle of a crisp samosa – the best of both worlds, wot ?
(Links to info about the books here :
Into Thin Air
The Climb
Touching the Void
Endurance : Shackleton’s Incredible Voyage )
By,
Zenobia Driver
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Yoga, but not Yogi
I started yoga almost two years ago. A teacher would come home twice a week for an hour-long lesson. And that was the beginning of my journey. I started with hatha yoga – which is basically using one’s body and doing simple exercises or asanas. My teacher though, was catering to the modern power yoga students that Mumbai is brimming with, rather than focusing on traditional asanas. “Power yoga helps lose weight you know”. I was not in particularly good physical shape, exercise for me had been an evening walk couple of times a week, so she had me tired. She had a predilection for repetitions and insisted on counting – so I was programmed to do 8 counts of this, 16 counts of that, and I would be huffing and puffing away. Simply put, I was a lazy lump of lard.
Yes, having the teacher forced me to do my classes as she would show up at home at the preset times. But, my teacher was an illustrious Gujarati businesswoman as well, running businesses from India and abroad and this kept her away at points of time from taking my classes. I too, had some travelling to do or at times running late at work (yes one class day was an evening class on a weekday!) and this kept us away at times from each other and our biweekly classes.
Working within these constraints, the guru-shisya team did make some progress and I proudly reported to those who cared to listen that I had succeeded to do the Utthita Padmasana. A posture that involves sitting in Padmasana, and then elevating yourself off the floor with the support of your two palms. It made me feel surreal, as though I had transcended into another world, I had crossed some standard of yogic practice.
My teacher – I told you she was into power, pop stuff- asked me to moon walk one morning. Moon walk – why, I asked myself, that’s what MJ made famous and me no aspiring MJ. I soon realized it was a simple knee and ankle bending exercise, nothing as glamorous as it sounded. And so the classes carried on and I crossed some new milestones like learning the Surya Namaskar in the midst of other frantic ‘post modern yoga’ (term patented by me) practice.
Then, at some point a few months ago, I discovered the Yoga Studio whilst browsing the Sunday Midday. Set in chimbai village in bandra, I went to take the one odd class there, hoping to discover something more. The studio is hip – wooden floors, healthy salads served in kansha bowls and the ambience nice to lounge around. The teachers are ‘very bandra’ – wearing harem pants and with well-chiseled model like bodies. What I learned in these one off classes – was how to add grace to the yoga asana. “Like dance, enjoy the pose, move your arm with grace almost like you are performing, though for yourself…and listen to what your body says. If it feels like doing something today, do it, if not perhaps it will oblige you another day.” Grace and enjoying the beauty of the pose – was the aha I got from this yoga class.
To my delight, pretty soon I figured I was actually beyond basic in yoga – so apart from being ‘bandra- priced’, these classes weren’t stretching me enough either. It could also do with the fact, that now I was doing yoga a little more seriously than before.
A month later, inspired, I gate crashed into the Iyengar Yoga institute, the mecca of yoga. I had been trying to get admission here for more than two years. Every time I went I was made greeted by an elderly semi-toothless man who asked me to record my contact details in a book, (much like those we used in school) that ran into pages – with names of wait listed students. Finally, mind made up that I had to join; I arrived during the evening class hours, with yoga clothes packed into my jhola and requested to speak to the teacher.
She was considerate and flattered too I think, that I had been visiting the place for 2 years now, and allowed me to join the class from that very evening.
I was looking for advanced, boy, I got advanced. Or super advanced. Iyengar yoga as a philosophy is hatha yoga but with the aid of props, teaching one how to hold a pose to perfection. ’Hold’ and ‘perfection’ being the key operative words. So the teacher screams instructions like – “expand your shoulders, open up your thoracic area, put your arms by the rib cage, turn your buttocks in and your pelvic region outward to face the ceiling” … and as you try following one instruction, the earlier one inevitably slips and you try to balance it all furiously recalling your bio classes from school, only to hear her thundering “ and why are YOU,YOU,holding your breath, continue to breathe normally…” Give me a break I want to say, but I am so immersed in holding in my buttock and out my pelvic region, that speaking is totally out of question.
And when I think the worst is over, and it is time for Savasana – ah, the relaxation posture where you lie on your back and relax all your muscles; she bellows “ all of you, now hold the two ropes and walk up the wall and then invert yourselves into sheerasana…” and at this point I am sitting with my mouth open (it is my third class so I am excused from this attempt), as 30 adults hold the ropes and really start walking up the wall only to invert themselves and stay like that for close to ten minutes. Wow!
It will take me this lifetime to inch toward becoming a yogini, but as you can see, it has been an interesting journey thus far, from moon walking not quite MJ style, sprinkled with the grace of dancing, to walking up the walls super hero style…
As for you, next time you’re headed to PVR, ditch the superhero flick, hop over to the Iyengar class instead and watch the real superheroes in action; and who knows, you may start the journey of a superhero yogi yourself!
By,
Soma Ghosh
Yes, having the teacher forced me to do my classes as she would show up at home at the preset times. But, my teacher was an illustrious Gujarati businesswoman as well, running businesses from India and abroad and this kept her away at points of time from taking my classes. I too, had some travelling to do or at times running late at work (yes one class day was an evening class on a weekday!) and this kept us away at times from each other and our biweekly classes.
Working within these constraints, the guru-shisya team did make some progress and I proudly reported to those who cared to listen that I had succeeded to do the Utthita Padmasana. A posture that involves sitting in Padmasana, and then elevating yourself off the floor with the support of your two palms. It made me feel surreal, as though I had transcended into another world, I had crossed some standard of yogic practice.
My teacher – I told you she was into power, pop stuff- asked me to moon walk one morning. Moon walk – why, I asked myself, that’s what MJ made famous and me no aspiring MJ. I soon realized it was a simple knee and ankle bending exercise, nothing as glamorous as it sounded. And so the classes carried on and I crossed some new milestones like learning the Surya Namaskar in the midst of other frantic ‘post modern yoga’ (term patented by me) practice.
Then, at some point a few months ago, I discovered the Yoga Studio whilst browsing the Sunday Midday. Set in chimbai village in bandra, I went to take the one odd class there, hoping to discover something more. The studio is hip – wooden floors, healthy salads served in kansha bowls and the ambience nice to lounge around. The teachers are ‘very bandra’ – wearing harem pants and with well-chiseled model like bodies. What I learned in these one off classes – was how to add grace to the yoga asana. “Like dance, enjoy the pose, move your arm with grace almost like you are performing, though for yourself…and listen to what your body says. If it feels like doing something today, do it, if not perhaps it will oblige you another day.” Grace and enjoying the beauty of the pose – was the aha I got from this yoga class.
To my delight, pretty soon I figured I was actually beyond basic in yoga – so apart from being ‘bandra- priced’, these classes weren’t stretching me enough either. It could also do with the fact, that now I was doing yoga a little more seriously than before.
A month later, inspired, I gate crashed into the Iyengar Yoga institute, the mecca of yoga. I had been trying to get admission here for more than two years. Every time I went I was made greeted by an elderly semi-toothless man who asked me to record my contact details in a book, (much like those we used in school) that ran into pages – with names of wait listed students. Finally, mind made up that I had to join; I arrived during the evening class hours, with yoga clothes packed into my jhola and requested to speak to the teacher.
She was considerate and flattered too I think, that I had been visiting the place for 2 years now, and allowed me to join the class from that very evening.
I was looking for advanced, boy, I got advanced. Or super advanced. Iyengar yoga as a philosophy is hatha yoga but with the aid of props, teaching one how to hold a pose to perfection. ’Hold’ and ‘perfection’ being the key operative words. So the teacher screams instructions like – “expand your shoulders, open up your thoracic area, put your arms by the rib cage, turn your buttocks in and your pelvic region outward to face the ceiling” … and as you try following one instruction, the earlier one inevitably slips and you try to balance it all furiously recalling your bio classes from school, only to hear her thundering “ and why are YOU,YOU,holding your breath, continue to breathe normally…” Give me a break I want to say, but I am so immersed in holding in my buttock and out my pelvic region, that speaking is totally out of question.
And when I think the worst is over, and it is time for Savasana – ah, the relaxation posture where you lie on your back and relax all your muscles; she bellows “ all of you, now hold the two ropes and walk up the wall and then invert yourselves into sheerasana…” and at this point I am sitting with my mouth open (it is my third class so I am excused from this attempt), as 30 adults hold the ropes and really start walking up the wall only to invert themselves and stay like that for close to ten minutes. Wow!
It will take me this lifetime to inch toward becoming a yogini, but as you can see, it has been an interesting journey thus far, from moon walking not quite MJ style, sprinkled with the grace of dancing, to walking up the walls super hero style…
As for you, next time you’re headed to PVR, ditch the superhero flick, hop over to the Iyengar class instead and watch the real superheroes in action; and who knows, you may start the journey of a superhero yogi yourself!
By,
Soma Ghosh
Thursday, July 07, 2011
Book Review - Palace of Illusions
Author Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni.
Same old Mahabharata, refreshing new perspective.
Story told from the enigmatic Draupadi’s perspective. Gripping, read it from cover to cover and then some parts again, especially the last chapter. Have read this author before and didn’t like her all that much, therefore was pleasantly surprised.
Will share some facets of her character that are not commonly known
• The author deals with the relationships that defined her – that with her father, brother and Dhai ma in her childhood, mother in law, five husbands and with Karna in her adult life, the latter for whom she harbored a secret attraction from when she saw him first.
• Draupadi was perhaps never a little girl even when she was one– always strong willed, longing to see the world, sitting in on her brother’s lessons on war to understand what life out there was about.
• We know the incidents that led to the great war – from her bastra haran in Duryodhan’s court where none of her husbands protected her to the twelve year banbash and the supposed fight for the Pandavas rights. What the author dwells upon is her mental anguish at the war Kurukshetra especially since she felt it was her pride, arrogance and desire for revenge that caused war, widowing many and leaving many helpless.
• We also know that the blind Dhritarashtra could see vicariously through his charioteer what was happening at war. But we don’t know that Draupadi had been granted the same vision too and she saw all the misdeeds committed on the battlefield by her husbands including the killing of Karna .
• Nor did we know that she was a not great mother, choosing a life of adventure with her husbands in banbash over being at home with the womenfolk to bring up her children.
• And it depicts her relationship with Krishna, the constant strength in her life. Her playmate as a child, her confidante when she needed one and her protector when she was being humiliated.. Her consort in her darkest of hours standing by her in her when everyone else failed her. Spouting wisdom when she needed it like – “a situation was only as bad as you thought it to be”.. Yet he teased her, never revealed his divinity to her and gave her convoluted answers when she asked probing questions about her predicament.
Why this book is worth a read –the writing is racy, a page-turner. It unravels Draupadi as a real woman – attractive, ambitious, independent minded, strong willed and real limitations like stubbornness and an ego that supposedly led to her downfall. As a woman she fought hard to play the game by her rules, to do what the men in her life did, yet she never quite got equal status.
I was left startled how ancient yet modern the story of Draupadi is. You feel like you know her.
By,
Soma
Same old Mahabharata, refreshing new perspective.
Story told from the enigmatic Draupadi’s perspective. Gripping, read it from cover to cover and then some parts again, especially the last chapter. Have read this author before and didn’t like her all that much, therefore was pleasantly surprised.
Will share some facets of her character that are not commonly known
• The author deals with the relationships that defined her – that with her father, brother and Dhai ma in her childhood, mother in law, five husbands and with Karna in her adult life, the latter for whom she harbored a secret attraction from when she saw him first.
• Draupadi was perhaps never a little girl even when she was one– always strong willed, longing to see the world, sitting in on her brother’s lessons on war to understand what life out there was about.
• We know the incidents that led to the great war – from her bastra haran in Duryodhan’s court where none of her husbands protected her to the twelve year banbash and the supposed fight for the Pandavas rights. What the author dwells upon is her mental anguish at the war Kurukshetra especially since she felt it was her pride, arrogance and desire for revenge that caused war, widowing many and leaving many helpless.
• We also know that the blind Dhritarashtra could see vicariously through his charioteer what was happening at war. But we don’t know that Draupadi had been granted the same vision too and she saw all the misdeeds committed on the battlefield by her husbands including the killing of Karna .
• Nor did we know that she was a not great mother, choosing a life of adventure with her husbands in banbash over being at home with the womenfolk to bring up her children.
• And it depicts her relationship with Krishna, the constant strength in her life. Her playmate as a child, her confidante when she needed one and her protector when she was being humiliated.. Her consort in her darkest of hours standing by her in her when everyone else failed her. Spouting wisdom when she needed it like – “a situation was only as bad as you thought it to be”.. Yet he teased her, never revealed his divinity to her and gave her convoluted answers when she asked probing questions about her predicament.
Why this book is worth a read –the writing is racy, a page-turner. It unravels Draupadi as a real woman – attractive, ambitious, independent minded, strong willed and real limitations like stubbornness and an ego that supposedly led to her downfall. As a woman she fought hard to play the game by her rules, to do what the men in her life did, yet she never quite got equal status.
I was left startled how ancient yet modern the story of Draupadi is. You feel like you know her.
By,
Soma
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
First Rains
I was sitting at marine drive before sunset one evening in early June and starting listening in to a dad- daughter conversation amongst the all the other banter of hawkers, lovers and Gujju families.
The young lady it seemed, worked in Mumbai, and now that her dad had come to visit, she was proudly showing off Mumbai; drawing a contrast to Kolkata (her hometown), whenever she could. Her dad glancing nervously at the dark sky kept proclaiming that it was time to leave. Young lady kept negotiating with dad saying few minutes longer would do no harm.
It was the evening Mumbai would get its first rains.
Amidst the chatter, I sat dangling my feet, allowing the blackening sky and cool breeze from the darkening water to envelop me. Ah a pleasant change from the concrete skyline coming to consume you. Dad finally called the shots, “it’s getting dark my dear, we must go now”..with that our young lady reluctantly gives in. With them, I get up too… thankful for my short tryst with nature marine drive ishtyle. Minutes later, the rains come swooping down.
Mumbai is a ruthless city, but can be tender too. In the monsoon, you can let your scattered thoughts go – the sea absorbs them unto itself, giving you a relief, albeit a temporary one.
By,
Soma
The young lady it seemed, worked in Mumbai, and now that her dad had come to visit, she was proudly showing off Mumbai; drawing a contrast to Kolkata (her hometown), whenever she could. Her dad glancing nervously at the dark sky kept proclaiming that it was time to leave. Young lady kept negotiating with dad saying few minutes longer would do no harm.
It was the evening Mumbai would get its first rains.
Amidst the chatter, I sat dangling my feet, allowing the blackening sky and cool breeze from the darkening water to envelop me. Ah a pleasant change from the concrete skyline coming to consume you. Dad finally called the shots, “it’s getting dark my dear, we must go now”..with that our young lady reluctantly gives in. With them, I get up too… thankful for my short tryst with nature marine drive ishtyle. Minutes later, the rains come swooping down.
Mumbai is a ruthless city, but can be tender too. In the monsoon, you can let your scattered thoughts go – the sea absorbs them unto itself, giving you a relief, albeit a temporary one.
By,
Soma
Friday, June 24, 2011
Movie review - Anurag Kashyap’s 'shaitan'
This movie was about the youth of today. Stuff I don’t much care about, having safely passed the age perhaps has something to do with it. It reminded me of youth reality programs that show up annoyingly on music channels.
'Shaitan' had a strong realism to it, a story woven around a gang of friends stuck in a difficult situation they get themselves into, and how they deal with it.
I liked the techniques used – attached-to-protagonist camera shots like that we have seen before in Kashyap’s DevD; high speed camera shots increasing the drama manifold; the manner in which the conversation is shot when two people meet for the first time at a party sitting on a swing; the beautiful Khoya Khoya Chand song playing in the background in the most gruesome scenes; well done.
Frightening was the reality of how childhood traumas shape who you really are and somehow never let you go, however hard you run from them. Frightening also, how immaterial human life has become today, a life where nothing matters, much except saving your skin, covering your ass. Violence, murder, stealing, rape nothing counts for anything, all is cool. The only ethic the youth in 'Shaitan' follow is to stick to a friendship code they set... at least try to.
The performances were quite competent, all known faces, from tv, theatre or earlier offbeat movies. Ok for a dekho, I asked myself did I need to go to the movies to see this? Maybe I did, to show me that the worst was not over, yet…
By,
Anonymous
'Shaitan' had a strong realism to it, a story woven around a gang of friends stuck in a difficult situation they get themselves into, and how they deal with it.
I liked the techniques used – attached-to-protagonist camera shots like that we have seen before in Kashyap’s DevD; high speed camera shots increasing the drama manifold; the manner in which the conversation is shot when two people meet for the first time at a party sitting on a swing; the beautiful Khoya Khoya Chand song playing in the background in the most gruesome scenes; well done.
Frightening was the reality of how childhood traumas shape who you really are and somehow never let you go, however hard you run from them. Frightening also, how immaterial human life has become today, a life where nothing matters, much except saving your skin, covering your ass. Violence, murder, stealing, rape nothing counts for anything, all is cool. The only ethic the youth in 'Shaitan' follow is to stick to a friendship code they set... at least try to.
The performances were quite competent, all known faces, from tv, theatre or earlier offbeat movies. Ok for a dekho, I asked myself did I need to go to the movies to see this? Maybe I did, to show me that the worst was not over, yet…
By,
Anonymous
Monday, May 30, 2011
Waiting for the Rains
(an old post by Suchi that is apt to read today)
It is 42 C. That is about 108 F. Dry heat. The kind that attacks your skin and sucks out every little bit of moisture from the depth of your bones. People go back and forth in their preference for the kind of heat – - dry or humid. Madras and Bombay, the temperature is in the late 30s, but humidity so high that breathing is difficult. Stringing one’s thoughts together, in either kind of heat, is a challenge.
Summers are a reminder: Of the frailty of the body. Of dependence on electricity and water. Of the longing for the rains. Even the word ‘monsoon’ has such a lovely feeling to it. It rolls off the tongue, with the languorous ‘soon’ at its end, a whispered promise. The bringer of life to farmers; their fortunes dependant on the vagrancies of winds and clouds. But it is also the city-dweller who eagerly checks the sky for changes, waiting day after day for the unrelenting heat to be washed out.
6.30am in a doctor’s waiting room. “It is pouring in Hyderabad.” “And Bangalore is cold – - remember what cold is?” Such is the conversation these days. Somebody remarks about photographs in the local newspaper of the rains in the Andaman and Nicobar islands. “How do you know those photos are of this year? Could be old photos. Media playing with our minds to prevent water riots” says a critical lady. Just then clouds cover the sun, and a calm is restored.
There is a deep sense of anticipation. A collective holding of breath. Close examination of the clouds. Soon, soon, the monsoons will be here. No wonder so much music and poetry was written for this Indian season.
By,
Suchitra Shenoy
(read more posts by Suchi here)
It is 42 C. That is about 108 F. Dry heat. The kind that attacks your skin and sucks out every little bit of moisture from the depth of your bones. People go back and forth in their preference for the kind of heat – - dry or humid. Madras and Bombay, the temperature is in the late 30s, but humidity so high that breathing is difficult. Stringing one’s thoughts together, in either kind of heat, is a challenge.
Summers are a reminder: Of the frailty of the body. Of dependence on electricity and water. Of the longing for the rains. Even the word ‘monsoon’ has such a lovely feeling to it. It rolls off the tongue, with the languorous ‘soon’ at its end, a whispered promise. The bringer of life to farmers; their fortunes dependant on the vagrancies of winds and clouds. But it is also the city-dweller who eagerly checks the sky for changes, waiting day after day for the unrelenting heat to be washed out.
6.30am in a doctor’s waiting room. “It is pouring in Hyderabad.” “And Bangalore is cold – - remember what cold is?” Such is the conversation these days. Somebody remarks about photographs in the local newspaper of the rains in the Andaman and Nicobar islands. “How do you know those photos are of this year? Could be old photos. Media playing with our minds to prevent water riots” says a critical lady. Just then clouds cover the sun, and a calm is restored.
There is a deep sense of anticipation. A collective holding of breath. Close examination of the clouds. Soon, soon, the monsoons will be here. No wonder so much music and poetry was written for this Indian season.
By,
Suchitra Shenoy
(read more posts by Suchi here)
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
Birder Bladder and other tidbits
Being one of those that have a few birding – fanatic friends, I am able to relate how this species is physiologically and attitudinally different from the regular couch potato homo sapiens. Note : the following changes have been observed only in fanatic birders, not in the armchair or amateur variety.
1. Birder bladder : XXL size, can continue for long intervals of time without needing to use the amenities
2. Birder vision (a) : can visit forests, deserts, mangroves, rivers etc and notice only the birds, nothing else. Not a beautiful sunrise or sunset, not a picturesque boat-ride through the backwaters, only the birds.
Birders can even venture enthusiastically into grassy areas where bunches of men are going for their morning job, and unabashedly focus binocs and cameras wherever a bird flutters. I was on one such trip recently, and while I was a bit embarrassed, neither the birders not the men were; the presence of a bunch of women did not even deter a guy who was in the middle of an open field !
Birder vision (b) : Crop everything out of photos except the bird - leaves, flowers, trees, all extraneous.
3. Lifer over Life :
(Lifer : A first-ever sighting of a bird species by an observer – courtesy Wikipedia)
Only one idea at birding time – have camera, will click. Even when it goes against basic survival instincts !
While on a bird-watching walk inside a sanctuary in East India, we saw a tribe of wild elephants grazing not far from us. Our guide requested us to walk in single-file in absolute silence; the forest guards were visibly frightened, one of them tried to load his antique gun but could not, adding to our fear. So there we were, walking quietly, not even taking deep breaths; when the trigger-happy camera-club could take it no more and nonchalantly focused their weapons and…..Whirrrr clickkk clickety-click whirrrrr. And continued even as one massive elephant swiveled his head, fixed his beady eyes on us and started moving forward !!
4. Aversion to bright colours – only black, grey, brown and dull green allowed while bird-watching. Large part of my time preparing for each birding trip is spent in finding clothes of the aforementioned colours in my wardrobe; my argument that birds sit on trees with bright flowers and therefore will be attracted to bright colours falls on deaf ears.
5. Birder G.K. – whether the Grimett is better than the Salim Ali and why
6. Birder GK useful to non-birders - Hanging out with birders helps you win in games like name-place-animal-thing. Who else would think of a ‘zitting cisticola’, 'yuhina', ‘temminck's tragopan’ etc ?
By,
Zen
1. Birder bladder : XXL size, can continue for long intervals of time without needing to use the amenities
2. Birder vision (a) : can visit forests, deserts, mangroves, rivers etc and notice only the birds, nothing else. Not a beautiful sunrise or sunset, not a picturesque boat-ride through the backwaters, only the birds.
Birders can even venture enthusiastically into grassy areas where bunches of men are going for their morning job, and unabashedly focus binocs and cameras wherever a bird flutters. I was on one such trip recently, and while I was a bit embarrassed, neither the birders not the men were; the presence of a bunch of women did not even deter a guy who was in the middle of an open field !
Birder vision (b) : Crop everything out of photos except the bird - leaves, flowers, trees, all extraneous.
3. Lifer over Life :
(Lifer : A first-ever sighting of a bird species by an observer – courtesy Wikipedia)
Only one idea at birding time – have camera, will click. Even when it goes against basic survival instincts !
While on a bird-watching walk inside a sanctuary in East India, we saw a tribe of wild elephants grazing not far from us. Our guide requested us to walk in single-file in absolute silence; the forest guards were visibly frightened, one of them tried to load his antique gun but could not, adding to our fear. So there we were, walking quietly, not even taking deep breaths; when the trigger-happy camera-club could take it no more and nonchalantly focused their weapons and…..Whirrrr clickkk clickety-click whirrrrr. And continued even as one massive elephant swiveled his head, fixed his beady eyes on us and started moving forward !!
4. Aversion to bright colours – only black, grey, brown and dull green allowed while bird-watching. Large part of my time preparing for each birding trip is spent in finding clothes of the aforementioned colours in my wardrobe; my argument that birds sit on trees with bright flowers and therefore will be attracted to bright colours falls on deaf ears.
5. Birder G.K. – whether the Grimett is better than the Salim Ali and why
6. Birder GK useful to non-birders - Hanging out with birders helps you win in games like name-place-animal-thing. Who else would think of a ‘zitting cisticola’, 'yuhina', ‘temminck's tragopan’ etc ?
By,
Zen
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