Time flies… specially if you are a procrastinator like I sometimes am. It has been almost a year since I set off on my maiden trek in Ladakh. The date was 22nd August 2017, to be precise. And my aim was to mark my 40th birthday by trekking in the splendid beauty of Ladakh’s barren landscapes that I’d only seen in photographs of others before. So, six months before the intended date, I booked myself a moderately strenuous (I’m a sucker for anything that’s not labelled ‘easy’!!) camping-style trek from the Kharnak Valley a few hours away from Leh to the pristine Tsomoriri. And I prepped for the trek by diligently following a walking routine so my body would not rebel when the D-day arrived.
After the super-awesome trek, I returned home with the resolve to write down a day-by-day account of my experience here, on my blog, asap. That was a year ago, and as you can see, my asap didn’t arrive until today! All I did manage to write back then, was the heading/title for the post for each day of my trek.
If you’re wondering about the curious last line, you’ll have to wait until I reach the day of my trek that gave me this profound insight 🙂
Getting back to the here and now, I have finally decided to procrastinate no more! So, over the next ten days, I’ll try and relive the wonderful experience through my blog. Discipline is not my strongest quality – despite being a mother and professor -but I hope to change that at least for this short duration. Comments from you readers would definitely be an inspiration and propellant and I do hope my posts will be engaging enough to warrant your precious comments. So, I’ll sign off for the moment, and come back tomorrow with Julley! 🙂
War, in its several manifestations, surrounds our life today. And although the systems in place prevent an actual war from taking place, there is always that tension . . .we’re always on the brink of all hell breaking loose. Here is my interpretation of War, written for ‘the same’, a blog that encourages women writing for women.
Today is World Poetry Day. Writing poetry, for me (as I’m sure it is for many others), is cathartic. At times, however, it has just the opposite effect. I want to express an idea, but the idea refuses to get expressed! I break into a sweat, I palpitate, I gasp for breath as though I were being drowned in my own words . . . . . I hope you get the drift. This is precisely what Ink is all about.
What image does that six letter word conjure in your mind?
A conspiracy . . . Secret Society?
Rumour mongering? Gossiping?
I remember the nursery rhyme that went ‘Seven for a Secret never to be told’. It does have a sinister, hush-hush aura about it, doesn’t it? On the other hand, it’s also funny how much stress a single word can thrust upon you, sending you into an emotional whirlwind if you are the melodramatic kind. If you’ve not been made privy to a secret, you feel betrayed, your very faithfulness is under the scanner. If someone has indeed deemed you worthy of sharing a secret, you feel elated, proud and trusted although that’s no guarantee that you’ll not, in turn, share the secret with someone else, making the whole thing redundant.
Which begs the question -How many people need to be involved in this verbal transaction for it to qualify as a secret? A quote by Benjamin Franklin goes:
‘Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead.’
Does that mean a secret is a one-person thing? Is it possible for a person to successfully hide it from the world without choking? And do secrets really die with a person or do they assume a life of their own even after the person bearing it is dead? Well, I truly don’t know. But I do know what you can do to try and wriggle out that secret from me! Here’s a poem by yours truly enunciating just that:
My stories are in the bubbles that rush past. Fleeting, floating, rapturous, rumbustious – my stories are the ones that kiss your lips and tingle your senses before common sense prevails and strangles each story lest you gulp them down and become one with them.
Pour me a drink.
My stories are in the ice cubes that float like fish in the koi pond where you come to feast your eyes on the streaks of golden orange, your passionate gaze causing them to sink to the bottom from where only a coin diver can collect them again – if he has faith that they do indeed exist.
Pour me a drink.
My stories are in the numbness of my tongue – my otherwise wagging tongue that is now paralyzed into silence. Can you hear the stories in my silence? Can you see the stories in my eyes, where the pupils have been replaced by the moon and his darker twin?
How long does it take for a story to travel from the eyes and the ears to the tongue?
Pour me a drink and I might let you into my little secret.
Winner of the OWAQ poetry contest held by anoshoflife.com
Do you have a secret? Have you shared it with anybody? If so, what has your experience been? Do drop in a note in the comments below.
Due to popular demand (from my mother) I am resurrecting my well-intentioned but slightly dormant ‘Random Book of The Week’ weekly post. In these posts I will be rooting around my shelves for books read long ago which maybe do not fit into easy themes or which I just want to share with you because they are bit peculiar for some reason or another. Here are a few earlier examples of aforementioned peculiarity.
First up, a children’s book written by Sylvia Plath. ‘WHAT?’ I hear you cry, as you spit out your tea or feel a little twinge as the shock of such a statement prompts a little mini-wee. Yes, this does exist, and I don’t doubt that you are surprised. Most of us are aware of the bleaker side of The Plath Legend – in fact, as a book-obsessed but slightly morbid 15 year old I read the excellent
Last year, in July, I was on a trip to Spain with friends. One of the five cities we visited was Seville, a beautiful city in the Andalusian province of Spain. We had a plethora of activities planned for the city – visiting the Real Alcazar, the Cathedral of St. Mary, the Plaza de Espana, watching a Flamenco performance, attending a local fair and music festival . . . and each of these was an experience to cherish. But what left a lasting impression on me was the visit to the Bullfight Arena of Seville or the Plaza de Toros de la Maestranza as they call it in Spanish. The arena itself is the oldest of its kind in the world and is a marvelous piece of architecture, but this post is not as much about the place as the sport it is famous for.
My first rub with bullfights was in a book – Ernest Hemingway’s ‘Death in the Afternoon’ to be precise. It is a book that both appalled and enamored me. The exacting details of a real bullfight on a sunny afternoon that the author provides in the book are at once interesting, poignant and ire-inducing. Why would anyone want to kill a bull that has done him no harm? And this same feeling washed over me when I followed our charming guide as she showed us around the arena in Seville.
“There are four main entrances to the ring,” she said pointing to the wide openings along the circumference of the ring. “The first one is from where the Cuadrilla* enters the arena, the second one is for the bull to make his entrance and the third is from where the Matador is carried out of the arena on the shoulders of colleagues when he successfully slays the bull as per the rules,” she continued, even as she cooled herself with the wave of an exquisite Spanish fan.
“And the fourth?” asked a fellow tourist with a look on his face that betrayed the fact that he already knew the answer.
“Oh, that one is used to drag the slayed bull out of the arena. We have a carriage drawn by four strong mules to do the job. Once out of the arena, the bull is taken directly to the butcher’s and you will find many a shop in the market serving its meat the next day.” At that last statement, Hemingway’s detailed descriptions of the Banderilleros, Picadors, the Matador – complete with their resplendent attires and the motions they go through while approaching, teasing and finally killing the bull- came back to me and made me shudder.It was too stark a contrast of beauty and gore for me to digest.
* A Cuadrilla comprises of 2 Picadors (lance bearers mounted on horses), 3 Banderilleros (flagmen), 1 Matador (the main bullfighter – either a pro or novice) and 1 Mozo de Espeda (sword servant)
The guide then talked a bit about the beautiful layer of sand -in multiple shades of yellow and brown- that covered the arena, eliciting praise from one and all, including me. But at the back of my mind, I was trying to understand how a layer of colorful sand – that without doubt would be bathed in the blood of another bull sometime soon – could evoke more awe than the unfair death of a mute animal.
Unfair, because you have anywhere between 3-6 armed people on the arena, fighting one bull. Although they say it is the Matador who slays the bull after showing off his purportedly elegant skills with the cape, it is seldom clean and simple. At most times (unless he is a pro and sometimes despite it), the Matador misses the nape of the bull through which he’s supposed to drive his sword. And then there are multiple attempts made to hit the mark amidst raging cheer (and sometimes despite the boos) from the audience. When all else fails, the other toreros rush in to impale the bull with multiple stabs of their lances until the poor animal has no breath left in him. How cruel is that? I know of this, because some of my friends witnessed not one or two but three such fights in Madrid, which was the next stop on our itinerary. Despite this, bullfighting is a reality in Spain and there are many who defend the sport as being a important part of their heritage.
In ‘Death in the Afternoon’, Hemingway writes about this and much more with such a clinical approach that I remember squirming even as I read the book in the comfort of my home. However, the author also contemplates the meaning of courage and fear, and the dynamics of life and death in its more basic form that found resonance with some of my own thoughts.
Let me now bring you back home to India, where bullfighting is not something new and unknown. Not at all! In fact, Jallikattu is a reality in the state of Tamil Nadu and people who indulge in the sport offer the same excuse as their Spanish counterparts – preserving ancient heritage. And that brings me to the second book on bullfighting – Vaadivasal, by C U Chellappa, an evocative story that revolves around the practice of Jallikattu, which literally means – tying a bag of gold or silver coins to the horn of the bull. The idea of the fight is for a contender to catch the bull by his horns and hold on to it for some distance/time. If he survives, the bag of coins is his. Vaadivasal, by the way, translates into ‘arena’.
While both ‘Death in the Afternoon’ and ‘Vaadivasal’ deal with bullfighting, they couldn’t be more different in their approach to exploring the subject -with Hemingway’s approach being rather impassioned, even peppered with wry humor at places, and Chellappa’s story packing in a lot of emotion and drama and dealing with the bull itself as though it were human. This difference of course is not to the discredit of either author, since Hemingway’s book is essentially non-fiction while Chellappa’s is fiction of the almost larger-than-life variety.
I would recommend a read of both books for the sheer beauty of Hemingway’s language and the simple but evocative story of Chellappa’s.
Back in Seville, once my wandering mind returned to the present, I followed the guide to the Bullfight Museum that housed many paintings, photographs and souvenirs from Spain’s bullfighting history. But I’ll cover more of that ground some other time. For now, here are a few photographs of the beautiful arena that started me off on this book journey…
And here’s a thought I’d like to leave you with before signing off – Isn’t it strange that something so gory should take place in a place that’s so beautiful?
Even as I write this post, I read on the net of the gruesome death (and its live airing on television) of 28 year old Matador Victor Barrio during a fight in Teruel, Spain. This has again set off the critics of the sport arguing for a ban – not only because of the fatality involved in the arena, but off it too. As is the rule of the sport, the mother of the bull that kills a Matador is put to death too – to end the lineage, they say. Click here to read more on this latest news.
Traveling to work one morning, my car halted as the traffic signal turned red. My usual tete-a-tete with a book seated comfortably on the back seat (No, I wasn’t reading and driving although there isn’t any rule against it as yet!) was interrupted when from the corner of my eye, I spotted the driver of the car waiting next to mine open the door and vomit out a splattering of chewed tobacco. It goes without saying that I was smothered by a feeling of profound disgust.
I pepped myself up to step out and accost him with my thoughts -maybe even lecture him about the impropriety of his deed so that he would remember the encounter vividly the next time he decided to carry out a similar act and hopefully, be discouraged to do so. However, the traffic moved a wee bit just then, taking his car ahead of mine and allowing me a clear view of the license plate. Bold letters of the Devanagari script sat smug on a red background, announcing to the world that the car belonged to the Minister, City Congress Council.
Now, neither is the Congress part of the government in my State, nor is it in control of the city’s Municipal Corporation. So how and of what could the owner of this car be a Minister? By now, my car had inched ahead too, offering me a better look at the driver. I must admit here that although the driver had someone sitting next to him, I wasn’t too sure as to who ‘looked’ like a driver and who, the minister. Was the driver the minister himself and the person sitting next to him a colleague? Or was the driver only a driver after all and the other person, the minister? Confusing, isn’t it?
As the furrows on my forehead deepened, I decided that this was a very tricky but commonplace situation in a country like ours. Leaders and ministers seldom dress or conduct themselves any differently than the uneducated masses, making it difficult for people like me to tell them apart.
In the meantime, the signal had turned green and both our cars were swept forward amidst a cacophony of horns honking from all directions. As the red license plate continued staring at me, I pondered about the wisdom in my idea to accost the driver. For if the driver was indeed a driver, my well-meaning sermon could have made a dent in his conscience, making it a worthy effort. But what if the driver was not a driver but the ‘Minister’ his license plate claimed to be? I’m not sure what the consequences of such an encounter would have been.
If at all I have learnt something from Indian politics, it is to keep away from politicians at all costs. And in this case, their drivers too!
And before I wrap up, here’s a cool poster I found on the net, attributed to randomjargonmusings.blogspot.in – I really liked the ‘NOT OK PLEASE’ part – something everyone who’s bothered to notice the derriere of trucks in India would immediately identify with!