TRAIN-III

It's a hard-won 40 winks for this seller of "cutlery" (vendors' parlance for hair accessories and bindis) on the train. On a fairly empty local, she catches up on sleep -- with a babe cradled in her saree (not in pic, though).

SHORT SHRIFT

Just what IS it with astro services and the language? This guy -- spotted again on the train -- promises a solution to "homely" problems and even says he'll "short" them out for you. What you'll get at the end is anyone's guess.

TAKTSANG

That speck in the distance -- would I make it?

Sonam -- the man who made it possible. At the first stop

Almost there -- the second stopover

A few minutes away -- cool water to keep us company

... And we're there!

I was hanging on to hard luck as I saw Taktsang cling to its sheer rock face in the distance.

Our guide Sonam hadn't sugar-coated it for us, either, the day before we were to undertake the climb: "It's steep, and there are people who've had to rush back with altitude sickness." Gosh, I hadn't thought of THAT. I was too busy checking if my knees would unlock after the previous two days' walks through monasteries and hillocks in Bhutan. At a sheer drop of 3,000 feet above the Paro Valley and an altitude of 10,000 feet, there was this to consider, of course.

So this was it, girl: Either you do it or you chicken out. But whatever you decide, don't look down. Or up. Dizzy up there, and dark in the depths of the forest that line the trekking path.

In 747 A.D., Guru Rinpoche or Padmasambhava flew down to Taktsang from Tibet in the form of Dorji Drolo on a flaming tigress. He meditated here for three months in a cave and converted the Paro Valley to Buddhism. Taktsang is the Bhutanese word for 'Tiger’s Nest' -- at 2,950 m, the most famous and sacred hanging cliff monastery in Bhutan.

Tashi Delek (good luck), I told myself. Guru Rinpoche rode a tiger, you've gotta walk -- or limp -- the whole way up.

The first stop, after an hour of trekking, was the best feeling I've had in years. However, the tough part had just begun. The air was getting rarer, the climb steeper. But just when you think you're plodding alone, life sends you support. I crossed paths with people on their way down, and they all had just one thing to say: "It's worth the effort."

The second stop, after another hour's trek, was bliss. The monastery was withon striking distance now. But I'd exulted too soon. There were steep steps leading up to the goal -- nearly a thousand of them, and they weren't in a straight climb either. We weren't even sure if we'd be allowed in -- we didn't have government permits to enter the monastery.

But we weren't meant to make peace with half-measures. We were simply destined to go the distance, to test our limits. Sonam met another guide, who by sheer stroke of luck, had permits for his group. And we latched on.

Legs felt like logs of wood, and at many points, refused to carry us further. We were hungry and dizzy from the climb, our hearts pounding away furiously. When we reached the top, all we could really do was muffle the gasp that tried to escape us -- the Himalayas lined up majestically in front of us, snow melting in thin streams on the peaks, and prayer bells chimed gently behind us. Not a single barrier between us and the mountains. For the hour we spent at the monastery, bowing before Guru Rinpoche's statue or taking in the beauty of the wall murals, we stayed with the silence.

There was beauty in here. And collective determination. We saw people of all hue make their way up -- senior citizens, seasoned trekkers, and even an obese woman. Not all of them coursed through; there were many who returned from the second stop.

But for all of us, it was as much a test of physical strength as spiritual. If we conquered fear and overcame mental blocks on our way to serenity, the many gurus and lamas who meditated at Taktsang perhaps went through the same troughs and peaks in their pilgrimage to inner peace.

TAKING THAT LEAP

DON'T THINK THERE'S A SINGLE MOMENT OF LIVING THAT'S NOT COVERED HERE... If there's so much at stake, what makes us risk?

RISK-TAKING IS FREE
* To laugh is to risk appearing the fool,
* To weep is to risk appearing sentimental,
* To reach out for another is to risk involvement,
* To expose feelings is to risk exposing true self,
* To place your ideas, your dreams before the crowd is to risk their loss,
* To love is to risk not being loved in return,
* To live is to risk dying,
* To hope is to risk despair,
* To try is to risk failure,

But risk must be taken, because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing.
The person who risks nothing, does nothing, has nothing, and is nothing.
He may avoid suffering and sorrow, but he simply cannot learn, feel, change, grow, love, live
Chained by his certitudes, he is a slave, he has forfeited freedom.
Only a person who risks - is free.

-- Author unknown

GOT A GOOD GARLICKIN'

"EEEEEEEEEEK (Or did I distinctly hear, 'LEEEEEEEEEEEK')," yelled my aunt, when she heard I'd started therapy that involved eating two garlic pods first thing in the morning. "Don't come to our house, please, we won't be able to stand near you!"

Ouch. That hurt. She meant, of course, "We can't stand you anymore".... "We brought you up with good Brahminical values -- no onion, no garlic in food. And now, you eat them raw, and whole!" I was ingesting fire, and they were spitting more at me.

But after three days of drawing energy from the scud, I wasn't going to give up. "It controls blood pressure. It fights cholestrol. And, I've been told it'll do wonders to my skin because it fights free radicals," and so on and so forth, I'd ramble, licking my wounds. I could see noses crinkle up with each argument, at the other end of the line.

Would they ever understand, I'd think, as I'd slam the phone down, what my poor mouth has to undergo each time I'd chew on the fiery vegetable? And if one wasn't enough with its accompanying blisters and burns, I had to chew on two, with the opprobrium coming free!

Everyone I knew and loved was going to be walking around with breath analysers. The 'Shubha B.G.' (Before Garlic) and 'Shubha A.G.' comments were going to flow in my face -- if they ever got near, that is.

Onions and tears, did they say? Sniff, sniff... Here were people who'd loved me with all my sins and flaws, podcasting me as a rank outsider. An untouchable.
A penny for my pods?

VENDORS - II

Some time back, I'd posted a picture of a flower seller on the train. Over time, I've discovered more creative pursuits that vendors on the train engage in.

THE GREAT ROBBERY

It must take superhuman courage to travel by train in India, no matter what the romantics say.
Whether in "developed" Mumbai or that miracle of existence, Bihar, journeys are pretty much the same, the trademark being half a toe hanging out of a running train.
I just consider myself very, very lucky that i don't jostle a million people for a micro-inch of space... I don't travel rush hour, you see.
So I get an inside-out view of peak-hour traffic: I stand pasted to the door when my train chugs into the station, and before it even stops, a few hundred women of all shapes, sizes and spiked paraphernalia attached to their beings rush in like there's no next nanosecond in existence. There are collective war cries, cruel, triumphant laughs on finding window seats, and blows and elbows rained in the direction of anyone who dares get in the way...
Some of them condescend to move half a centimetre to let me get out, but not before crushing my little toe under their sharp stilettoes. And if I manage to emerge, with me and my belongings in one shape, I have to dodge crazed men and women whose single-minded pursuit of the 5.03 local will put all decorated Olympians to shame. Their goal: crush all impudent creatures who come walking in -- heaven forbid -- the opposite direction. And if they can manage to brush past a girl who looks lost and helpless in all the madness, it's a day well spent.
And after all this -- don't get me wrong -- they physically force people off trains as a form of protest against "inhuman" travelling conditions.
Bihar, of course, is every existentialist philosopher's dream country. They can actually prove the 'Death of God' here.
The latest National Crime Records Bureau report says: "The Patna rail police jurisdiction alone accounts for 23% of all crimes on wheels committed throughout the country." The report says Bihar and neighbouring Uttar Pradesh account for 51% of robberies on trains. The two states top the list of train robberies, followed by Jharkhand, Madhya Pradesh, Maharashtra, Gujarat and West Bengal.
And what do the authorities there do? Blame each other, of course, silly.
Railway minister Lalu Yadav says the GRP of the Bihar government has failed in failing providing security to passengers. Bihar CM Nitish Kumar says: "The Railways is responsible for the rise in crime on trains."
Fools' paradise.

MIZORAM ON MY MIND

Mizoram's been in the news, off and on, and on my mind for over a year.
Read a news report last week that said two years after the Bru National Liberation Front surrendered to the Mizoram government ending a decade of tribal insurgency, most of the former rebels are finding it hard to make ends meet.
This is also the year the state expects the dreaded 'Mautam'. Every 48 years, a species of bamboo in the state flowers, and is followed by an invasion by rats on granaries and paddy fields. Famine invariably ravages the state. Agricultural scientists say the bamboo flowers increase the fertility of rats.
The irony: Mizoram is blessed.
My first impression -- and a lasting one -- was a visual feast I tucked into last year from a small Alliance aircraft window: unending stretches of rolling hills, and silver hues of mist hanging barely a few inches above, as if wondering where to settle.
The plane was just as undecided: it made a sudden descent into one of those stretches, leading to one of the most charming landing stations I've ever seen.
Mizoram was as much about natural beauty as the mystery that's tied to it. Lengpui airport didn't look like an airport at all -- it was like a small waiting room that had sprung up in the middle of a hill station. The locals gave us cold looks (which I later discovered was reserved for 'Indians'); the winding road to Aizawl had hills, forests, waterfalls and homes hanging precariously from hill slopes, but people were not heard; much less seen.
As I took in the sights of Aizawl, still bowled over by its beauty, there was a sense of trepidation too.
The state is well and truly cut off from the rest of the country. The closest thing to home was a 'Bombay Dhaba' in an Aizawl marketplace. Prices of the most common things here are high since, as one shopkeeper told us, the goods come from either Hong Kong or Myanmar -- and yes, they do have their version of Burma Bazaar in the heart of Aizawl...
Aizawl is a pretty little city -- more like a small town -- word of the "foreigners" arriving (that was us) had spread, and a shopkeeper in the main market even asked us if we were the guys from "India". Everywhere we went, children would stop to stare at us and say, 'Indian, Indian.' And except for a few youngsters -- who, perhaps by virtue of having studied in places like Delhi and Mumbai, were more familiar with the 'strangers' -- they all gave us the looks.
Besides, we saw people looking stoned, faily regularly. One woman suddenly parked herself in front of us in a marketplace and kept looking through me, which unnerved me a bit...
Now for the brighter contradiction: they're a very warm people -- we attended a church service in Dawrpui, for the experience, and though it was in Mizo, the atmosphere was electric... There were drums, guitars, impromptu singing (and dancing) by local parishioners, and a great deal of devotion, which was very moving.
And the best part yet: the countryside is untouched by the marauding "tourists from India." In addition to the fact that there are no Pan Parags and Kurkures scattered all over the place (although the local people are addicted to paan eaten with a supari that leaves you feeling dizzy!), you can see clouds touching the hills everywhere -- in fact, you go through them quite often...
Their bamboo handicrafts and shawls are to die for, and the women are slim and lovely. Brought back a mini-version of a charkha in bamboo, and a lovely smoking pipe, among other things...
But there was something that didn't quite feel right, although three days can say very, very little about any place. Perhaps it was the "frostiness" we encountered. That very "safe" distance people kept from us.
Plus the nagging thought that there's a dark shroud on both sides of the divide. Came back home feeling that there's so much more I want to know about that state, its culture and its people, just as they probably want to know beyond the horrific stereotypes we carry about each other: The Mizos, we say, are the dog-eaters. The Indians, they say, don't care for us or treat us as one among them; they're rude, and besides, what has anyone done to ease that perception or bring the state into the mainstream?
Isolated, mysterious, Mizoram truly is. But I can't help going back there again and again, soaking up every bit of news I get about the state. It's now a deep, beautiful, indelible part of my memory.

MIRACLE OF LOVE

Read the most amazing story this morning about this Muslim maid who got sacked for tending to a neglected Ganesha idol in her Hindu employer's home, but continued to believe in the little fat God, and got her job back.
To me, this story is less about the string of "miracles" that followed for her, and more an incredible tale of unshakeable faith and the changes in your life it can bring about; there are those who will dismiss her little "miracles" as coincidences or fate, but to me, it's an instance of the beauty that love and attachment can bring with it.
Quite simply, if deep love for another human being can change a person and his/her life, by extension, strong belief in and love for a higher power can move the mountains most of us consider unsurmountable -- pain, heartache, suffering, depression, penury, disease... And what does that higher power demand anyway? Purity of feeling, steadfastness and some time, perhaps? Quite like what a loved one would ask for?
My own experience with the little fat God's been incredible. This year, like I've done for the past four years, I undertook the journey to see one of Mumbai's biggest Ganesha idols, the Lalbaugcha Raja, during Ganesh Chaturthi.
I'd never done this in over two decades in Mumbai, not because I lacked the faith, but simply because the "pilgrimage" involved trudging through very crowded, narrow streets and queues that stretch to nowhere. The noise and the crowd (most of whom smoke bidis, cuss and swear and give you unwanted physical attention -- incredible how these guys come to worship or are ostensibly returning home after worship) can leave you feeling nauseous.
The first year, I went out of curiosity and a sheer sense of adventure (Never really expected any devotion to flow at a site like this!). Entered through a route few used, in the dead of the night, got five minutes with the idol, bowed in respect, and left with the 'Wow, I did it' feeling. That's about it.
The second year was just as unspectacular, with the same fugitive entry. But by the third year, I was hooked. Nevertheless, I tried the shortcuts again -- used some influence, cut through the serpentine queue and got all of five privileged minutes with the idol. Prayed (synonym for begged, sought assorted favours). Sure enough, the pleas were answered too.
This year was different. Knew I had to go, if only to keep up the tradition, but kept putting it off. Maybe the heart wasn't all there (it has its own reasons), and that's usually when I procrastinate. Finally dragged myself there after a killing schedule at work. There was enough discouragement -- colleagues said, "Just look at the queue. Your turn will come tomorrow morning..." and "My brother works for a newspaper, but had to stand in the queue for four hours and return dejected..."
The testosterone display didn't make it easier. Heard my fair share of foul language along the way, and got touched in the wrong places. There was music blaring from loudspeakers, kids bawling, vendors screaming, incessant honking by vehicles stuck in a jam (and this was 1.30 am); worse, no cops or officials to rescue me and lead me in.
This year was indeed very, very different. I had had a little mental conversation with the idol before even getting there; and by the time I reached, just wanted to get it over and done with. Enough was enough, and heck, why didn't I use influence this time round? I was sick, tired, and wanted to get home and rest. Even contemplated getting back after standing in front of a huge TV screen that was broadcasting the chaos from the sanctum sanctorum.
But I remember, even as waves of fatigue were washing over me, asking Him just one question, "Don't you want to see me today?"
I won't call what followed a miracle, but it was strange enough. One of the organisers lifted a rope at that very moment, and I coolly made my way in. I was allowed free entry, although a family behind me was stopped. I kept walking, noticing that it was in the opposite direction -- worshippers were returning, in the same mode as I had seen them enter: crowding, pushing aimlessly, yelling. Again, there I was: In the midst of the chaos I so despised.
Lord, why was I doing this. And for Pete's sake, they were selling Spiderman masks, umbrellas, flashy, faux jewellery all along the route. He was all over garish posters, there were "holy men" selling all kinds of coloured threads, and a TV set was showing vulgar dances set to loud "devotional" songs in Marathi.
I was too dazed and kept walking, if only because turning back would mean walking into another hell hole. Ten minutes felt like an hour.
I walked right into the smell of incence and broken coconuts, and someone yelling: "Move on, move on, quick." And there He was. Sure as ever, towering over everything else with that little glint in His eye saying, "Just where did you think you'd run off to...?" ;)
That was it. Nothing mattered to me, and all surrounding sounds just faded out -- I couldn't hear the woman who was screaming at her kid right in front of me; or see the volunteer pushing people out, yelling all the time. I just felt lost in the surge of love -- He just made sure I got there, no hindrances whatsoever. I don't need huge miracles to change things around in my life; I'd just been blessed with personal, loving attention when everything around me semed hopeless, repulsive.
My two minutes with Him done, I walked back, still high. There was no chaos anymore -- only a lot of colour and vibrancy. And for a long, long time till I reached home, I had tears in my eyes.