Category: Celebrating India

Reality may sound mundane and boring, One fine day Nisha Aggarwal decided to trespass her self -defined “routine” boundaries and escape into a different space, Ramoji Film City. She not only felt the joy of evading her “sincere” “disciplined” side but also explored the whimsical fantasy world.Here is her journey of courage and living a “different” reality through the reel.

Sitting silently doing something can bring a sense of satisfaction to a workaholic. But making loud noises and disturbing others brings what? Punctuality of time and work leads to an apt path. Regularity and consistency enhances the skills you try for. But can a little ‘bunk’ add more energy to routine work? I never thought of. Today being a teacher I see the most intelligent and determined children ‘bunking’ the classes sometimes, I observe them and analyze their personality. Then I juxtapose my student days to theirs. I strongly feel that I missed something back in my childhood. How the impish acts and pranks could add interest to life. But it needs a lot of courage to conquer the boundaries of ‘sincerity’ and ‘seriousness’, especially to someone who has not felt the need of such small pleasures; because a sense of sincerity brings a sense of fear too.

Carrying all this in mind and demanding a small change in routine I thought of to go somewhere, I could forget the ‘realistic’ world around me. But when you don’t have any leave at credit and many written rules in hand, you may find it ‘inaccessible’ to visit a place in desired time, a side effect of employment. But then you wish to run away from your own discerning capacities, just to hear a sprouting sound in some corner of your heart. The worries of the result of your act also become passive. I decided to shed all the ‘work worries’ and ‘bunk’ for a day long ‘dream world’ visit. A dream world exists in realistic world of complexities, I had heard from people around me. It is situated near Hayathnagar in Hyderabad, Andhra Pradesh, India and is known as ‘Ramoji Film City’.

Ramoji Film City is the land of a million dreams, where comprehensive and world-class film making facilities await dream merchants for a celluloid journey. The sprawling 1666 acre Ramoji Film City is the largest integrated film city in the world, and is certified by the Guinness World Records. Indian film producer Ramoji Rao, head of Ramoji Group, owner of Eenadu TV and its 12 channels, opened the studio in 1996. It was an outcome of the Ramoji Group’s association with Indian Cinema through Usha Kiran Movies. According to Rao, his offerings are far cheaper and more productive than any in Mumbai, therefore has much scope of growth.

Over 80 films in several languages such as Telugu (in bulk), Hindi, Tamil, Malayalam, Kannada, Marathi, Bengali, Oriya, and Gujarati have produced here.  It has had a couple of international productions also, but it is said that there was some hesitation after 9/11 because of the reputation for terrorism in Hyderabad. TV commercials and serials are also produced here every year. This massive dreamscape is vibrant with flamboyant locales, picturesque avenues, make-believe sets and outstanding film-making infrastructure. It provides all the production services at one place including production paraphernalia, audio and video post-production lab, film-lab, high-end technology, state of the art cameras, set designs, costumes, props and above all, locations. It has enough infrastructures to host 200 productions a year and an unlimited number of TV programs.

It makes the studio a paradise for filmmakers, which later on opened for tourism also. So, today it’s a fore point attraction spot for tourists, which offers holiday packages, health clubs, spas, multi-cuisine restaurants, playing and amusement initials for children, honeymoon couples, theme parties, provision for special and corporate events, weddings with ‘innovative mandaps’ and so on. There’s a three-star hotel ‘Tara’ and a five-star hotel ‘Sitara’ located at the entrance of the Film City, where one can stay and experience the life of a film star for a day or two.

The Film City provides a day long bus-tour to all the sets and major attractions, guided by a trip-guide. The sets catch the eye from both sides of the ways as the bus drive down the immaculate roads. Atop a hill is Hawa Mahal for romantic shots and fantasy Street for honeymoon scenes and the terraced Mughal Gardens with fountains forms a regal ambience. A replica of Tajmahal of Agra with its capacity of changing colors, the golden temple of Amritsar and Red fort of Delhi is also in Hyderabad. An airport with a replica of an aircraft, a railway station with a train where crowds can be drummed up, a bazaar, a village backdrop, atmospheric Kerala homes, a hospital, a central jail, a post office, Greek and Roman statuary, and Konarak-style grandiose statues of buxom Indian women.

There is a temple (‘godless temple’, said the guide, as directors can bring in their own gods’), the mosque, the palace and a South Indian market. A replica of London’s Princess Street For ‘foreign shots’ (‘front side London, back side India’), Landscaped gardens against elegant Rajasthani-style architecture (for marriages of the wealthy) and animals carved out of bushes, a Japanese garden (for aesthetics and meditation), and an Arizona garden full of sand for sad scenes. And then there is the tree-lined ‘national highway’ where one can shoot (especially at night) some of the basic stuff of Indian cinema for instance car accidents, kidnappings, hijackings, chases, bomb blasts and terrorist attacks. All these are ready-to-shoot options, but a filmmaker needs to pre-book the location for desired additions.

After the bus-trip to film sets Ramoji Movie Magic gives an ‘audio-visual illusion of reel world’ and you can be a part of special effects. An auditorium is also there where dance and music performances can be enjoyed.  The Ramoji Film City includes 500 set locations ranging from the American West to the Indian East, and 50 studio floors. It all goes to support the suggestion that the Ramoji Film City in Hyderabad can even outdo Universal Studios in America when it comes to sheer size and scope. I can say that taking a Ramoji Film City tour is one of the more quirky things to do which provides fun and comprehensive experience for the day-tripping traveler.

Although a complete visit to the studio is not possible in a day, it require weeks of dedication. A day-tripping allows you a glimpse into various parts of the filmmaking process. Vintage coaches carry you around the various sets and studios, with a tour guide offering a convivial narrative as you go.

I can say that I have been to a dream world within this realistic world, a world of ‘Reel’ within a world of ‘Real’.

Villages, irrespective of continents and cultures, exude a certain innate deliberate peacefulness. Reminiscing about one such place located at the tip of Thailand, Sushma Sabnis, revisits a twilight zone of tranquillity and peace she once experienced in a quiet fishing village.

What sets a village distinctly apart from a city is the ‘air’. No, I will not get into environmental jargon, I am referring to the absolute un-hurriedness of any village anywhere in the world. When you are born and brought up in a city known for its ‘fast pace’ and a ‘city that never sleeps’ kind of phrases, it seeps into your system, biologically and otherwise. Hurry to be somewhere, go get something, to live, just hurry!

The twists and turns in my life have taken me to many such obscure nameless villages, perhaps its life’s lesson to slow down a little, like a village in the Na Saton tambon, Hua Sai district of Nakorn Sri Thammarat province, in Thailand, located at the extreme southern tip of the country, where I went for a training program many years ago. I refrain from revealing its name for I believe that I would be immensely disappointed if I went back there some day and found a ‘Thai tourism’ board welcoming me. Three hours drive from the HatYai airport, was this quaint little village with no English speaking people. Everything had to be explained in sign language and the ridiculous Thai-English translation booklet, every villager guffawed at.

When I would walk down the market area, overflowing with fruits, vegetables and all kinds of sea food and meats, I would wonder if it is a village at all. Then some cute Thai kid would run across with a kite in her hand giggling yelling ‘Oy yoo, tooolist’ – and then it would dawn on me, yes, this was a village and ‘I’ am the tourist spectacle for today, from the shape of my nose, to the colour of my hair and skin, and the texture and design of my clothes, my pronunciations would be dissected by every household that I passed by on the way. For a minute I might have mocked myself, ‘Yes you, silly foreigner, in a foreign land!’. Village folk however, are smart, and every spectacle eventually becomes boring.

This was a fishing village situated on the beach. Medium sized boats lined the empty white sand beaches. The fisher folk built their log cabins on the beach. These ‘baans’ made it easier to access the coconut trees, rear some poultry and provide an easy access to the ocean when they need to set out for fishing at odd hours in the day and night. The primary income was through fisheries, and the village folk were hardworking. Thai people are gentle people. They go about their lives in quiet reverence for nature and work towards preserving rather than exploiting it.

This village reminded me of Indian villages which I have visited. How simple and similar lives are actually across continents and cultures. Food, clothing, shelter and living a life in complete harmony with nature. After having led tiresome hard days, the women and children would gather around the beach in the late evening, singing folk songs and maybe if their city bred cousin was around, one would hear a guitar strum along. The waves, the guitar and the soulful melody of a sweet voiced Thai girl who dreams looking at the stars above, what can only be described as, John Denver’s ‘sleepy blue ocean’.

I learnt to catch crabs on one such dark night. Crabs come out in the nights on the beach to forage for food. Mediteranean neon blue coloured Neptune crabs, with their thick white chelae are a rare delicacy. One would find dark shadows after nine in the night running around with buckets in hand, grabbing these pretty runners. On a moon lit night, the salt water boiled crabs seemed more than just a bounty of the sea, it seemed like a feast prepared by the sea-god Neptune himself.

This is not a village one could spot on the Thailand tourism website or even on google maps. There is nothing in the name of monuments or tourist attraction. Thankfully, so far it remains unseen, hidden, perhaps that is the secret of its quiet beauty. In a country offering levels of package deals for enjoyment and ‘life-time’ experiences, this little village embodies silence and peace, just Peace.

Not only did its mud houses, art and music in its soul and the star lit skies of Hodka village cushioned him from the city’s jostle but also the barren stretch of Rann of Kutch made the writer shed his inhibitions. Johny ML shares with us his experience of this unforgettable place.

Let me wake up the Bacon in me: Some places are to be visited once, some twice, some never. They are to be cherished in memories. There are several places like that we never want to visit because the beauty of it lies in never visiting them. The magic ends when you get there. It is like personal relationships. There are very people on this earth who remain a mystery even after knowing them closely. There are places we learn in our history and geography text books which we don’t even dream of visiting. But one day, after decades you happen to be there, for some reason, professional or poetical or call it the poetic justice of destiny. Black letters printed on white papers become live and colorful reality, which perhaps you refuse to accept in wonderment. You walk into them as if in a dream. Kutch was one such place which I never thought of visiting. But one day a professional assignment took me there, exactly to Hodka Village and its wonderful Shaam-E-Sharhad Village resort.

Memories flood in. I was talking to Sushma, a news reader in All India Radio on 26^th January 2001. From the other end of the phone she asked me whether I felt any tremor. I looked up and saw the ceiling fan oscillating frantically. Suddenly I felt the tremor. The whole of North India felt it. By the time the tremor subsided, there at the north west of India in Gujarat, Bhuj had crumbled down like a castle of cards. As a journalist I was asked to visit the place and report; I was tired of journalism so I refused to budge from Delhi. But destiny took me there in 2009, another winter season but with the earth behaving properly. We drove from Baroda to Ahmedabad and from there to the Hodka village.

Narendra Modi was in his second term as the Chief Minister of Gujarat. He had brought in material development there and the signs of it were too visible. The first one was the broad highways and the industrial towns flanking them. Development has its ills too. The roads have divided the villages into two parts. To reach from one end of the village to the other split part, one has to travel kilometers. So you have vehicles plying in wrong directions braving death. Driving is a death defying stunt here. As you enter Bhuj, the rebuilt and rehabilitated villages come into your view. There are no signs of the devastating earthquake seen except for some broken structures waiting to be resurrected by property developers.

From Bhuj you drive towards north west and you reach the Hodka village. As you drive on, you think of eternity and as exclamation marks to your thoughts on endlessness, you see sophisticated windmills all along. Gujarat is an electricity surplus state and I am told that major companies and persons have invested in these windmills and they make good profits. Military trucks zoom past you and an occasional bike rider appear from nowhere and disappear into nowhere. Hodka Village lies at the end of world, you feel. The bhungas (conical huts made of mud and grass) tell you the presence of people. You enter into a pastoral land where people live in semi-nomadic ways. Today they are familiar with presences of visitors and tourists. They have learnt about the worth of their lives, their crafts and art as new patrons come in the form of tourists and visitors.

Hodka village has Halepotra and Meghwals as the major inhabitants. The Halepotras are said to have come from Iran via Afghanistan. And the Meghwals originate from Rajasthan. These communities dare the adverse weather and live in the most hostile terrains of Gujarat. Male folk often go out to graze the cattle and the women folk engage in household works and making craft objects. Women weave, embroider, do mirror works and appliqué. They also paint the walls of their huts. The men folk by the time they come back from grazing the animals, engage in music and dance. They use drums and string instruments as accompaniments and the high pitch songs celebrate gods, earthly lives, and more importantly hail the trials and tribulations of their daily lives. There is a lot of soul in their music.

Hunnar Shala, a consortium of architects working on endogenous architecture and urban development in Bhuj, post-earthquake days adopted Hodka Village to set up a eco-friendly tourist destination using the village resources, tribal knowledge and indigenous architectural methods. Named Shaam-E-Sharhad (where the sun sets), this village tourist resort is now the centre of Hodka village. Hunnar Shala has developed three Bhungas and seven tents with state of the art facilities (including western commode and hot water shower). Shaam E Sharhad, the completely village run and village managed resort provides the guests with Kathiawari vegetarian food and soul music. Under the vast expanse of the sky studded with millions of stars, staying a couple of nights there in the mud houses is an unforgettable experience.

Shaam E Sharhad is operational during the months between October and March. The peak season is between November and February. During monsoon, the tents are taken down, the interiors are preserved and the mud structures that form the architectural part of it are washed away. The villagers re-make it in the next season that begins by October. The summer months are too severe when the men folk take their cattle to greener pastures. Nights are fantastic and during the day time you could either do some village hopping, crafts shopping or after getting permission from the local military authorities visit the white Rann of Kutch, a vast expanse of whiteness, from where you could imagine Pakistan lying at the other side of the horizon. When I was at the white expanse where earth and sun make no difference, an ethereal feeling of space, what I did was just shedding my clothes. I stood like Adam in his private heaven before Eve came for a long time till I was made conscious of the possibility of my feet eaten away by the saline content of the earth, by friends.

Hodka Village and Shaam E Sharhad village resort are famous amongst the foreign visitors. Indian visitors hardly think of spending nights there. One may visit their website and do advance bookings. This village beckons me; even if I don’t go there again, the memories stay fresh in me.

Santiniketan is a place which pulls Bengaluru based Art writer and historian,H.A. Anil Kumar back again and again..He shares his experience of Santiniketan,A place where spirits of esteemed Art preachers still hovers around

The place I wish to visit and have revisited, time and again, is Santiniketan. The first time I confronted it was in 1989, as an undergraduate student from Bengaluru. My second visit stretched between 1990 and 92 as a postgraduate art history student at Kala Bhavana. And the last time was in April 2010, as an external examiner to the final display of art students’ works. It was also the last time I met young art historian teacher Parvez Kabir who passed away recently, who seemed to be then contemplating of quitting the place, professionally. It was 45 degree hot in the deserted afternoon of the general summer holidays, which, I believe, was the reason for such of his formulating decision and I humorously told him so. Both of us agreed to disagree ‘dialectically’ and had a good laugh at it.

During my first two visits – the second one stretched 104 times more than my first visit which had lasted exactly a week – I could not imagine as to what does it mean to be a Ramkinker Baij in the land of Tagore. During my last visit Parvez was trying to convey more or less the same to me, while I was refuting it, on practical grounds! Santiniketan lives more on its reputation than on ground realities. It was a place which was attempting to make concrete of (i) those that emerged from there and (ii) those that made possible its history. It is not coincidentally that both are one and the same.

During that one last meet with Parvez, I had to catch a train in a while and hardly had few minutes to experience what was uniquely Santiniketan: close the eyes amidst the sweating uplifted face, inhaling the madka-chai, in the seemingly ever raising heat, seated alone on the lonely table just outside the mud hut-hotel in a seemingly deserted place in the scorching heat of the April afternoon. In this sense, Santiniketan had introduced me to the pleasantries of what is generally categorically termed unpleasant, which alleges a certain Buddha-hood to the place. It is the ‘afternoon’ scorching that I pleasantly remember whenever I think about this place, not the everyday-five-hours-load shedding in the ‘evenings’. One can sense only Tagore’s Mandir and museum (Uttarayan) from wherever they are, at this place, like one can sense Eiffel Tower wherever they move around in Paris.

My initial encounter with it was a certain dejavu. In this sense, Santiniketan is like London. You cannot visit them without already having an imaginary picture about them, due to their sheer popularity. In this sense, there is nothing called as ‘first time’ to popular places! The first time I saw it, I knew that I was already familiar with it and only its visibility—which I had no clue about how it looked — had altered, completely!

Going from a city-in-the-making like Bengaluru, I was confronting a place which was not only away by two thousand kilometers but also took me back by half a century. But for the bicycles, cycle rickshaws, campus buses and goats whose tummy frequently touched the ground, ‘petrol’led vehicles were not allowed inside it. It was delightful to watch the cow-catcher metallic pipes horizontally laid near every gate, being successful in catching the legs of those students who had refused to put on weight. Imagine this happening to students in the darkness of the load shedding and also imagine some clueless bicycle rider without a dynamo, hurrying through towards the kitchen via such a cow-catcher. Actually it did happen once in my presence, while I had heard about such occurrence several other times! The leg of reality always gets caught in the cow-catcher-like imagination at Santiniketan.

Perhaps the cows which were thus put away from attending art classes at Kala Bhavana must have been delighted. It was since then that the question as to whether the goats at Santiniketan are short or the ground over there bulges like an elastic in order to romance with the goat? — has stayed with me. What you see is what is represented over there: look in and around Santiniketan and compare it with the works of master artists from Kala Bhavana. The differences are only exceptions.

Rosh (unfermented toddy), which you seasonally get in plenty over there, is perhaps the reason for such creative questioning. There was an art school called ‘Kala Bhavana’ whose heart was a canteen and is a tradition which happens to be still a living tradition even to this day. One could literally place a huge compass and draw a circle, with canteen at the center and all the fine art departments would squarely fit into that imaginary circle! In this sense, Santiniketan is like a traditional woman whose wisdom tells her that the best way to win over a man is through his tummy. More than being a place, Santiniketan is an attitude!

It seems once upon a time, there was a pathway that meaningfully connected the sculpture of ‘Sujatha’ to that of ‘Buddha’ near the ‘Black House’, all three created and constructed by Ramkinker Baij with the aid of art students. Black House, constructed in 1930s, consisted of individual rooms allotted to postgraduate students on a lucky draw-basis. Write your names on sheets of paper, fold or roll them, pick one of them against a room in Black House; and the room would be yours for two years. Similarly the history of all those sculptures, murals, paintings and relief works as well as their creators in and around Kala Bhavana campus are thus selected and projected for a couple of decades as doyens of 20^th century Indian art by art historians. Nothing unusual about it except for the fact that other art schools failed to do so!

In a way, most of my tutors there were celebrities as artists and writers, as well. Even to this day I wonder whether Kala Bhavana is a tourist spot is turned into an art school or is it the other way round, if you can excuse to forget the factual history of the place and remember the contemporary style in which the local guides not only explain the artworks and campus but also introduce the students working inside the studio as, “an unusual artist who has come all the way from Kerala stays here”. The seemingly overgrown three windows and one door that represents all the four walls of our studios had to be shut and open choicely, according to the local guides’ timings of visiting the campus! Often a student inside his studio would feel no less than an animal inside a cage, with even cows watching them from beyond their laxman –rekha, the cow-catchers!

Now an asphalt road criss-crosses that pathway between Buddha and Sujatha, which, along with the humorous fact that next to Buddha’s sculpture lies the girls’ hostel bathroom, feeds well a critic’s interventionist appetite.

When I re-re-re-visited Santiniketan in 2010 after almost two decades, I had already made notes about writing an art-based travelogue about the place, even before I reached there. In between my three major visits to Santiniketan between the years 1989-2010, news about its people, their theatricalities ranging from a sublime serenity to unbelievable eccentricities would reach me more frequently than a monthly report. And the news about the death of most of our friends would be later rectified as false information, directly from the horse’s mouth. Just like I had already visualized this place before visiting it for the first time, my few subsequent visits to this place had equipped me to upgrade my inner-eye vision regarding its colourful occurrence. Between my last two visits to this place, a resident of this place had gained a Nobel Prize and the other resident was not alive to see his Nobel Prize disappear from under the nose of its guardians!

Even before I entered the campus after three years (earlier visit was in 2007), I had made notes in the flight about U.G.C paying only train fair for external evaluators, apart from noting one more fact that the asphalted road that criss-crossed the road between Buddha and Sujatha was very meaningful in a contemporary manner. This was enough to sharpen up the critic’s nails that grew at the edge of my fingers!

Within a couple of years after my first visit, I was enrolled as a student of Art History department (1990-92). Slippers replaced shoes, shaving was stretched from alternative-day affair to a weekly affair, video-films were costlier than the balcony tickets at Chitro and Bichitro theatres (Rs.2.90/-) between Santiniketan and Bolpur railway station; Shamshul da himself was a negative-camera to document any and everyone’s artworks, at the drop of a hat. The fact that he did this for almost two decades is an understatement, in the age of digital reproduction. All these happened apart from a thousand other facts which looked like wonders, since it was like walking through a live table-top model of a township rather than a real one a la Jim Carry’s film ‘True Man Show’. It was a Disneyland/Disneyworld of an artistic and anarchist variety.

Food cooked with mustard seed was consumable only with a thorough coating and dressing of home-made ghee all around it, speaking (even broken) Bengali was ‘the’ visa card to receive warmth among its largely Bengali inmates, in the winter colds. At least I thought so, though Bengali food and Bengalis might readily agree to disagree with it.

Like it happens with all travels, the first visit to Santiniketan was a thriller, literally out of my primary school text book. The second travel to the same place was to ‘travel’ within the Santiniketan campus for two years, whenever I found time between ‘being’ a student of art history in M.F.A course. I was sure to come out of flying colours as a first rank holder, for I was the only student of art history in my class!

Santiniketan is Kala Bhavana, to me. The rest of the places – like Pranthik and Bolpur railway station, Kopai river, Sriniketan around it were places of holiday attractions. The Chaatal premise (near the canteen) was the place where all of us assembled, time and again, throughout the day (and nights). Most discourses occurred outside the classrooms, at Chaatal; and hence the name ‘open-air-school’ to it. To provide another example of how it is a place of dejavu, consider the fact that K.G.Subramanyan was creating the black and white mural on the design department in 1989, during my first visit. Again when I visited it in 2010 he was repainting it! I remember one of his articles about the feel of the Kala Bhavana campus; it carried much nostalgia even to him, thus making the nostalgia of others of my age doubly-nostalgic. We used to play this game of finding the original Gandhi by Nandalal Bose, in a reverse relief, seen on all the Gandhi Bhavan’s throughout the country which was believed to be in Kala Bhavana. Finally we managed to find it behind the old art history department. My tutor R.Sivakumar’s assignment made me visit almost all the murals at Santiniketan, to measure draw them, with a bicycle, a torch, an umbrella, a tape and a notebook, with ever altering friends on every occasion, for the sake of making his book about Santiniketan murals. It was here that I saw for the first time cobwebs on trees both in 1989 and 2010. I am sure they were not the same cobwebs!

What I miss but would not now consume at Kala Bhavana is the guguni for breakfast. If we would, for instance, buy four cup of tea, the canteen owner, one Mr. Maama, would enlist a debt into the accounts of all the four of us. And whenever old-Santiniketanites would meet, the nostalgic dialogue would not conclude without pleasantly remembering him. I had once asked him as to how people over there eat jaamoon sweets, sandwiched between loaves of bread for breakfast, incessantly, everyday; and enquired whether they would not become diabetic. He had that divine smile when he said, “they eat sweets till they get diabetic, because they are worried that they cannot eat sweets once they get diabetes”!

Surendranath Kar’s architectural design of Santiniketan and the old books (as old as 1920s) sold at the Viswabharathi university share a common aspect: they are closely knit with their surrounding and are far away from anywhere. Once I bought a bunch of books, each priced at not more than 25 paise or a rupee. However, when I was about to pay, I was informed that I had to go all the way to the University office, a few kilometers away, pay, get the bill and submit the bill herein and get the books. Santiniketan is so close to one’s heart but too far away to an outsider’s perception.

Santiniketan, to me, is a place to visit again and again, but never to stay. People have changed and the place hasn’t. The same typical architecture, bicycle rickshaws, yellow-white uniforms, afternoon siestas, smell of the polash flowers,  a ragged old man selling ‘ek taka Tagore’ (one rupee Tagore), the wild-west-like-afternoon-heats in summer and ‘shawl’ed colderness pairing people. My batchmates have become the faculty, some have gone and others have left. The age-old mature presence of doyens of visual arts—K.G.S and Somanath Hore—smoking with an authoritarian presence at chataal, or similar assuring warmth (remember Spiderman’s quote ‘with power comes responsibility’) is emptied off Santiniketan. Does the place change people or is it the other way round? My travel experience to Santiniketan in Kannada came out as a book in 2010. The consistent anxiety that the place continue to evoke among my generation became a personified character, a classmate of mine, called Prakshubda. Despite a crystal clear explanation that Prakshu (meaning ‘anxiety’) is a mere metaphor, readers of that book even now ask me two questions: ‘Do you still go to Santiniketan?’ and “Is he (Prakshubda, anxiety) still there”!

Santiniketan not only changes people but also necessarily make them come up with a fable about the place. It is always one’s, yours or my Santiniketan and there is no ‘the’ Santiniketan anywhere as such! In this sense re-visiting this place is re-visiting myself.

Even though the mundane and over demanding life doesn’t let him visit Sivagiri often still Johny ML carries a part of Sivagiri in him. Johny ML shares how a small hill in Kerala could both be a literary learning and how lost in its pious silence he could find himself.

I did my pre-degree (today’s +2) at the Sree Narayana College, near Sivagiri, Varkala. There were four groups of discipline for the pre-degree course namely, First Group (Mathematics, Science and Languages), Second Group (Science and Languages), Third Group (History, Economics and languages) and Fourth Group (Commerce, Accountancy and Languages). There was a humble Fifth Group in which subjects like Home Science were taught. There were not too many job options in those days. Aspiring middle class parents wanted their children to be future engineers and doctors. So, the intelligent ones amongst the students vied for first and second groups in order to become engineers and doctors respectively. Brooding types went for third group and fourth group was opted by the ones who had already found their destiny as future clerks. Fifth group was preferred mainly by girls who had failed to score good marks in school final examinations and had thought that their journey as students would soon end with the impending marriages.

In fact, I wanted to leave studies altogether for I found mathematics too complicated, science too tedious, history, a complex jumble of dates and achievements, commerce (oh God, it was a blasphemous word) and home science, so pathetic. But I had to live up to the expectations of so many people around. That was one curse for being a good student in school; you had to prove that you are good forever. To summarize the story, I decided to save future bridges and buildings and took up second group, thinking that one day I would become a doctor. Ariens get bored of things quite easily. By the end of two years in college, I had already weeded out the possible doctor in me. In graduation I studied English Literature.

The year I joined the Sivagir Sree Narayana College was eventful. It was in mid 1980s. A student agitation was going in full momentum. The government had decided to detach pre-degree from colleges and was planning to bring it under a separate board. Habit was the marker then. None wanted to remain in schools after tenth class. The agitation was to protect pre-degree as pre-degree. The agitation went on for a few years and as expected pre-degree courses got detached from colleges and a new educational system of plus two and vocational higher secondary was put in place. To cut the long story short, there were virtually no classes. The daily ritual of going to college and joining the protest continued for a long time. Once the principal declared that the classes were dispersed, I joined the procession of students who walked back to the bus stand which was a few kilometers away.

But I never went back home immediately. Instead I went to Sivagiri hills where the Samadhi of Sree Narayana Guru was located. The great sage and social reformer had set up a ‘math’ there in that hillock in 1904. He preached and worked for social reformation from there. He bid farewell to this world in 1928. People from all over the world come to Sivagiri to pay homage to Sree Narayana Guru.

Sivagiri literally means the Hill of Shiva. From the capital city of Thiruvananthapuram, one has to travel approximately sixty kilometers by road or rail to reach Sivagiri. It is around eight kilometers away from the Papanasam Beach (now a world famous beach) and the famous Janardana Swami Temple. Varkala Thurappu, the first waterway of Kerala is just at the foot of Sivagiri. Cashew Nut and coconut groves give a green cover to the hills around it. At the beginning of Sivagiri one could see Sarada Math where the goddess of vidya (knowledge) is worshipped. Marriages take place here and after the marriage elaborate feasts are served in an adjacent building. Around the math, there are hermitages where the brahmacharis live who would later become the official preachers of Sree Narayana ideals. At the top of the hill one could see the Samadhi (tomb) of Sree Narayana Guru. Every year in December, grand festivals are conducted here that include literary seminars, classical music and dance recitals, religious debates and socio-political and cultural conventions.

Even when I was a child, my mother used to take me to attend these annual conventions. I loved to see those Sree Narayana devotees turning the township into a sea of yellow as the official clothe of Sree Narayana followers was yellow. My mother used to tell me stories about Guru and buy books written by and on him. Perhaps, I knew more about Sree Narayana Guru than about Gandhiji in those days. They had met in Sivagiri in 1925! A few paces away from the SN College and SN High School there was Gurukulam, established by Nataraja Guru, an eminent disciple of Sree Narayana Guru. Next to Sivagiri hill, on the top of another hill, Guru Nitya Chaitanya Yati, a disciple of Nataraja Guru, established an International University for integrated education. All in one place!

Sivagiri was an influence. Its calm, cool and mellowing atmosphere attracted me. I had Shibu Natesan to tell me stories about the SN High School where he studied, Manu, another friend who was an inmate of Gurukulam and Sree Sabin, who was an inmate of Sivagiri. While walking back from the college along with a stream of students who did not indulge in vandalism or eve teasing, I used to move away from them to go and sit at the Sarada Math. I had spent several hours there, at times reading, at times just watching people and some other times losing myself into deep contemplation and yet other times, looking at the small little gifts given to me by some girls in the form of a love letter or a mala. Sitting there I could see time passing in front of me.

Whenever I get time, during my short visits to Kerala, I try to go to Sivagiri. When my son was hardly two years old, I had taken him there. We took him to the top of the hill and let him on the sugar like sand. He giggled when he clutched at sand with both of his tender fists. I thought he was picking up some sense of harmony and tranquility which he was totally unaware of and perhaps would remember if he is reminded of it as grows up. Mundane life has distracted me a lot. I wish I could go and sit there under those mango trees at Sarada math or climb the hill and sit at the steps of Guru’s Samadhi.

But these actions would not be treated with piety. Today, Sree Narayana Guru is also a contested ideal. A man who had worked throughout his life to abolish castes and to reform the society, and a man who had consecrated a mirror for an idol or challenged the priests with his ‘Ezhava Shiva’ (Shiva of lower caste) is now converted into a god by his own disciples and his ideals into another ‘religion’ within the larger fold of Hindutva. He preached, ‘One Caste, One Religion, One God for man’, ‘Be wise by Education and be strong by Unity’, ‘Whatever one does should be for the betterment of others’ and so on. But his disciples say just the opposite. May be Sivagiri is in my mind, not out there.

A Decisive visit to ever busy Delhi offered her a path and an ambition for future whereas stay in serene and scenic Andhra taught her to live in the present. Nisha Aggarwal shares how the journeys complemented each other and touched her life.

Life itself is a journey, perhaps, so many journeys put together. However some journeys are unplanned. They just happen, exactly the same way crucial decisions are taken in life. There is a difference between leisurely journeys and the decisive ones. Decisive journeys could change your life and transform you into a new, shining and elevated self. I cannot ever forget the month of May, 2004 when I travelled to Delhi from Sri Ganganagar, Rajasthan along with my parents and younger brother. On that summer afternoon, I was confronting a new world. Vacuous eyes of the fellow passengers were still watching me. The rhythm of steel created by the wheels of the Intercity Express resonated the rhythm of my heart that was anxiously beating at the expectation of the unknown.

As a child I had always imagined a life in a metro. It was a ‘long lived’ imagination because it was my third trip to Delhi. The earlier visits were, one during my summer vacation after my senior secondary examination in 2001, and afterwards during some family occasion in 2003, but both were to my uncle’s house, who has been in living in Delhi for a long time. These visits had evoked a desire in me; to live in this city for long to know a bit deeper than its glittering skin.

The holidays that I had spent at my uncle’s home began with a morning drive to the local attractions that included ‘nariyal pani’, chaat and at times a sumptuous breakfast at some restaurants. Lazy afternoons were spent in watching movies in home theatre and the engrossing evenings were earmarked for visiting India Gate, Birla Temple, Lotus Temple and some multiplexes or shopping malls. At night the city roads revealed a different scenario before us, the children. I realized that in this city I could pursue my creative life which I was not able to do in Rajasthan. I used to spend a lot of time in completing my cousin’s holiday art assignments and projects which brought prizes and appreciation. Whereas I didn’t have much to do in the name of art at school level apart from some self initiated competitions by my classmates.

Now, I come back to my third travel to Delhi after my graduation in 2004 from Rajasthan, which I call decisive because it was not merely a ‘visit’ instead it was a permanent shift along with the family. It was decisive at the same time critical. Life transforms, as I mentioned elsewhere, when confronted with critical moments. It gives you a new shell to hide or flaunt yourself. But destroying the old could cause a little panic.

Shedding the old shell for me, thanks to Delhi, was easier.  Two years I spent wandering around doing various jobs; starting with dress designing and stitching for a boutique, computer teaching and later on dialing unknown numbers in CA’s office, in a passport consultancy, in a call centre and in a bank’s loan department etc. I was experiencing a ‘new’ Delhi and looking at the lives of the middle class, their aspirations, snobbishness, meanness and desires. I floated above a sea of human beings at the workplaces and never had someone to be claimed as my ‘friend’. It was now time for me to make friends. And once the friends were made, I was seeing the glamorous side of the city too. May be that time glamour for me was merely observing the style statements of the girls passing through Delhi’s roads or learning the basics of how to walk and how to talk.

Outer changes cannot bring the necessary internal transmutation. It needs a plumbing of your soul and I found art as the best route to transmute. In 2006, against my family’s wishes, I decided to become a fine art student. My transformation was slow in the initial days but steady. The severity of the college campus became serene once frivolousness gave way to philosophical discussions. High heels were replaced by Kolhapuri chappals, trendy tops went hiding at the arrival cotton salwar-kurtas, shame burnt my cheeks when I saw my pop-music collection and it took no time to replace them with serious sounding gazals. Trendy joints became a thing of past and their absences were filled by wayside tea stalls.

Poetry oozed out when friends gathered. We did not care the scornful as well as curious looks of the people when we were sketching from the sidewalks of the busy roads. We were small rebels in the making and first of its expression was avoiding family functions; a first rebellion against the system. All this felt real because we were thinking ourselves as ‘artists’ and artists were supposed to be like that. But tricky were the youthful ways that whenever it was needed we did not show any qualm to claim those abandoned customs and habits back. That was the magic of being an artist. Shining colors showed us the flickering innocence, white was satisfying our youthful passions, pitch black stood for depression caused by nothingness and the occasional glances of dull hues heralded an impending maturity. Going back to bright colors made the circle complete expressing the need for energy and courage.

Years in Delhi taught me to deal with life. Two years in campus taught me to deal with conspiracies and strategies. Metro coaches and Delhi Transport Corporation buses gave me quick lessons in dealing with strangers. Days and nights were showing the trails on which my life as an independent artist was impatient to walk.

Complimenting my shift to Delhi came my posting in Andhra Pradesh, this time as a teacher. From a student to a teacher of many students, the shift was abrupt and unexpected. But things happen for good, an optimist in me says always. I had visited South earlier. Coconut fronds gave away the feeling of a green blanket. Sky was like scattered blue in the middle of predominant green. Night silhouetted the landscape like a ghost in flight. Rain came and went unannounced. I had some stereotypical images about South India and Andhra Pradesh confirmed them. However, I never experienced the grace and peace of nature before either in Rajasthan or in Delhi, as first one had dried open sky with parched roads and the second was somber gray patched sky peeping through the craggy balconies.

Ambience of habitation influences the inner self, the way rain evokes music in you. A single blaring of a motor horn could shatter the glass wall of peace. The general pace of a city could infuse speed in your otherwise slow heels. Craving for future might make you lose your present. Ambitions can puncture the inner equilibrium. I have learned to live in peace by creating a balance between ambition and peace.

Looking back, I always ask this question; had it not been the shift to Delhi what could have come to my life? Petals of my inner soul then fold in gratitude before my parents for facilitating that crucial shift. Delhi gave me a reason to live and Andhra Pradesh, a vision. Yet, it is not the end. I would conclude this piece with a few lines from Robert Frost:

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

He is the beginning of every good deed and venture. Apart from being the fulfiller of wishes, He is a great leveler of humanity. He has turned His annual sojourn from being a private family festival to a national fervor. Uniting with bonds of hope and love, here comes Shree Ganesh Chathurthi once again, writes Sushma Sabnis

It is the rainy month of Bhadrapada of the Hindu calendar and the loud clanging of Shree Siddhivinayak temple bells resonate a festivity that drown the din of peak hour traffic at Prabhadevi, Mumbai. The aartis (worship with fire) are probably audible till the heavens, as He is reverently cajoled into coming to stay. The monsoon months see a metro like Mumbai metamorphose into a sensorially hyperactive hub in anticipation of the ten days of Ganesh Chathurthi (annual Ganesh festival). This festival is celebrated with devotion all over the country. ‘Ganapati Bappa’, with his mesmerizing presence draws crowds of devotees of every faith and nationality to witness this ten day sojourn.

The clanging continues at the Shree Siddhivinayak temple complex, at regular intervals and it is rumoured that some devotees take the pain of standing in the serpentine queues only for the delectable modaka prasad at the end of the darshan! Where true devotion exists, greed is overlooked by the good-humoured deity.

The Shree Siddhivinayak temple was built by Late.Mr Laxman Vithu Patil and Late Mrs.Deubai Patil and consecrated in 1801. Since then, the original architecture has evolved into the multi-angular, six floored, gold plated multi-dome structure as it stands today. The sanctum sanctorum is at the ground level as it has always been, while the rest of the temple was rebuilt around it in 1992-1994. The Lord Ganesh black stone idol is unique with the trunk placed on the right side. His consorts, Riddhi-Siddhi flank Him. The temple structure is six storeyed, with space allotted for pooja/ darshan (prayers/audience), preparation of naivedya (offerings), temple offices, a well equipped library with over 8000 books, and more spaces for large scale food preparations for festivals.

There are 47 gold plated domes of varying dimensions that form the spires. The temple is well guarded at all times and various entry points delegate the rush of devotees with special arrangements for senior citizens, women with infants and physically challenged. This temple is open to everyone for worship. The annual Ganesh festival is celebrated here for seven days, and every year with about 1.5 lakh devotees worshipping on those days. Be it fertility, prosperity or health, this temple is famous for its legendary ‘wish-fulfilling’ deity and is a huge crowd puller all year round.

Preparations for this festival can be seen in adjoining markets, with thousands of human heads interspersed with piles of flowers/garlands, fresh fruits and vegetable kiosks, sweetmeat stalls, festival clothes stalls, music equipment stores and festival decoration paraphernalia. One’s senses can be easily hypnotized by these intensely evocative market places. This festival used to be a private family festival during pre-independence times, until freedom fighter Lokmanya Tilak encouraged it to be celebrated as a public event, ensuring purposeful crowd gatherings in restrictive colonial times.

In a highly populated area of Lalbaug, Lower Parel, the ‘Lalbaugcha Raja’ (King of Lalbaug) takes form behind strictly guarded pandals. The history of ‘Raja’ is an example of peoples’ unity. In 1932, the fish markets of Peru chawl, Lalbaug were closed down by the British. With great efforts, a group called, ‘Sarvajanik Ganesh Utsav Mandal, Lalbaug’ was formed in 1934 avowing to rebuild a permanent market place and ensure the livelihoods of the affected communities. With persistent efforts of the committee members, residents and the land owner, Rajabai Tayyabali, the first idol of the deity was consecrated on 12th September 1934 and named ‘Lalbaugcha Raja’. The idol was decorated with traditional fisherfolk attire and since then, He is known to be the ‘iccha-poorthi’ (wish-fulfilling) deity of Mumbai.

There are two idols by the same sculptor every year, one of plaster of paris, and the other is of clay. The clay idol is for daily prayers and smaller in size compared to the 18-20 feet plaster of paris statue. The tableau displays meaningful and pertinent issues faced by society, as a prayer to the deity for absolution. One could acquire an official pass to get a closer look at the deity only from the Lalbaug committee office. One should beware of cheats who ask for bribes for an audience with the deity. There are two specific queues of approach, the Mukh Darshan and Navas queues, depending upon the duration of audience and the manner of worship of the deity. The pandal is lined by numerous food, curios shops, toilets and rest areas ensuring the welfare of the devotees as they wait patiently. On the 10th day of Visarjan, the idols are immersed in the deep sea, carefully heeding to environmental concerns, at Girgaum, Chowpatty sea face.

Each year the roads are stripped of vehicular traffic as millions witness Him depart from Lalbaug and take a specific 24 hour long route to Girgaum via, Arthur road, Bakri Adda and Pydhonie, blessing devotees all along the route. This route is mapped out by the traffic police and telecast via radio and television, to ensure safety and smooth movement of the procession. This procession is the best example of national integration as people from every religion, nationality and social status worship with faith as Lalbaugcha Raja passes by. During the procession special passes are issued to the foreign tourists by the committee for a safe closer look. Alternatively, one could throw caution to the wind and do the ‘Ganpati visarjan’ dance all the way to sea face!

While Bollywood spends millions to capture festivals like ‘tomatina’ and the ‘bull run’ as inspirational support to frail story lines, the annual Ganesh festival of India draws people from the world over. It is the promise of deliverance the deity instills in people’s hearts. No squishing tomatoes or raging bulls assure you of such peace and tranquility as Ganapati Bappa.

The language may sound strange and food habits alien; physical traits may differ from those of the mainlanders. Still North East is an integral part of India. With varied culture and religious practices, Assam holds the mirror of North Eastern life style. Citing the illustrious Kamakhya Temple and the rituals pertaining to it, Shubhashree sheds light on certain religious rituals prevalent in the region.

I belong to the Northeast region of India. And in my last six years of being away from home, I have come across people with the most absurd and outrageous notions about my part of the country. From one wondering which “country” would Assam be a part of, to another who claimed to have heard of a jungle-king still ruling the inhabitants of our “tribe”, I have met my fair share of idiots.

Maybe not as much, but even for the educated citizens of the rest of India, knowledge about the northeast is still under the shadows. Their general idea is defined by few cultural stereotypes – different-sounding language, different-tasting food and different-looking girls who are always assumed to be “easy”.

However, what very few know about Assam is that it has a rich ancient history, and a continuously growing legacy of cultural intersections and growth.

Kamrupa (ancient name of Assam), during the 2^nd – 5^th century CE, was the hotbed of Tantricism. It is here that pre-Vedic religious practices merged with Vedic, Shakta and Tantric philosophies to give rise to one of the strongest and most revered branch of worship today – that of the Devi (Cosmic Mother). What stands as the greatest testimony of this assimilation is the Kamakhya Temple Complex in Guwahati, Assam.

Situated atop the Nilachal Parvat, to the west of Guwahati, the complex is at present the oldest and most important Shakti-pitha in the country (the total number of Shakti-pithas being fifty-one spread all over India). Apart from the main building dedicated to Kamakhya Devi, the complex abounds in many other temples housing other goddesses (the Dashamahavidyas), and gods. The present day temple was constructed by King Naranarayana of the Koch dynasty in 1565, from the ruins of the previous temple which was destroyed by a Mongoloid invasion. The Ahom rulers kept adding to its upliftment and repair in due course of time.

Multiple myths surround the construction of this temple, from the stories about a certain king Naraka falling in love with the goddess Kamakhya, to those in the Kalika Purana and Yogini Tantra. Interesting to note is the process of assimilation and integration that the interpretation of these myths throw up. As it happens with all mythologies, the steps actually follow the other direction – the worship being prevalent in some form first, followed by the construction of a place of worship, and finally to the conjuring up of a myth to validate that particular deity in the mainstream.

Similarly, the worship of Kamakhya can be traced back to an ancient pre-Vedic form of fertility-cult and Mother-Goddess worshipped by the non-Sanskrit-ized natives here (called Kiratas in the ancient Sanskrit literature).When Puranic Hinduism reached this region, the cult of Shakti adopted the practice into their folds, a temple was constructed and the same non-Hindu, aboriginal rituals now became part of mainstream Hinduism. To justify this development, a story was spun out – one that would place the deity in its right place in the Hindu pantheon.

So Maa Kamakhya became a form of the “Devi”, the story of Shiva-Sati was told, of how after killing herself in her father’s ritual fire, a dead Sati was carried all over the world by a furious Shiva, the Universe on the verge of destruction by his anger. How then, the gods had to intervene, chop up Sati’s body into pieces so Shiva would stop his Tandava, and in each spot where the pieces fell, there emerged a Shakti-pitha.

What is worshipped in Kamakhya is not an image, but a natural rock formation inside a cave– triangular in shape furrowed by a long slit from where water flows naturally and continuously, keeping the area forever moist. One look at this rock, it isn’t too hard to guess which part of Sati fell here – the vagina.

As such it is the strongest centre of Shakti worship in the country – the vagina symbolising the “be-all, end-all”, the source of all creation, the Cosmic Mother. The word “Kamakhya” also means ‘the one who grants all desires’ – something that links the goddess again to the earthly Tantric beliefs.

The rituals and the festivals at the complex also follow from this particular characteristic of worship. There is an interesting festival called the Ambubachi Mela, the biggest festival of the complex, when it witnesses the largest number of tourists, devotees and pilgrims from all over the country.

During this time, it is believed that the Cosmic Mother menstruates, the temple is closed off to public for three days, and strips of cloth soiled by the “sacred blood” is distributed as prasada to devotees at the opening. What actually happens is due to some natural cycle, the water from the underground spring flows with high Iron content and turns reddish for three days, after which it goes back to its natural colourless form.

This festival is not just a ritual in the temple. Every household in Assam follows certain rules during these days. I remember my mother asking me not to pluck flowers, because it was Ambubachi. I couldn’t fathom the connection. Still cannot. It is probable that Mother-worship of the Kiratas was a derivative of Nature-worship, the Earth-mother.

Architecturally, the main temple follows the style prevalent in Medieval India. The temple is divided into four parts (Vimana) – Garbha-Griha, Calanta, Pancharatna and Natamadira. The Garbha-griha is vertically divided into Shikhara and Bada. The central section of the Bada (Jagha) is fully sculpted with images from the Hindu pantheon, while the lowest section (Varanda) is run by three horizontal decorative bands. The Shikhara is a six sided spire akin to an erstwhile Rekhadeul, made of bricks. It is topped by three Kalasha motifs on Padma-koshas, ending with a Trishula.

Sculpturally, the walls are adorned with shallow reliefs and sculptures, but are ill-maintained and hence in a degrading condition today. Some interesting images are those of a mother breast feeding a baby, two Chamunda sculptures, and that of an unknown female figure squatting in the “birth-giving” position. Very little research has been done about these images and their significance.

Kamakhya isn’t just a place of worship anymore. It is, rather, an entire lifestyle. The socio-economic aspect of this complex cannot be ignored – it is a source of sustenance for multiple villages that surround the Nilachala hill. Posts of employment, from the highest priests to the lowest attendants are traditionally fixed and passed on through lineage lines.

This complex has gradually come to become the culture-symbol of Assam, along with many others. It is proof that the region of Assam housed an organised religion based on nature-worship, developed an entire culture around it and exhibited an attitude of respect towards other faiths, since time immemorial.

These traits still define the people of Assam and of the Northeast of India. Acceptance, open-mindedness and consciousness towards the environment are still strongly entrenched character-traits in our people. Tradition and modernity go hand-in-hand in our lifestyles, each playing its part in shaping our identity.

So yes, I belong to the Northeast of India, and proud of it.

Much has been talked about Delhi’s priced religious possessions, Akshardham and Lotus Temple. As this issue of Travel & Deal deals with religious tourism, Paramjot Walia decided to take skeptical look at the famous Chattarpur Temple complex located a few kilometers away from Qutub Minar. She comes out with these observations.

Chattarpur Temple is famous not only for the grandeur of its architecture which makes the Shaktipeeth different from the other temples, but the moving spirit of its founder, Shree Baba Sant Nagpal, who dedicated his entire life for the service of the down trodden and the needy people.

It is a huge complex with a series of temples on either side of the road. Within the walls of the Chattarpur Temple complex, one can visit quite a lot of different types of temples devoted to Indian gods and goddesses in various forms viz. Goddess Laxmi, Lord Krishna, Lord Shiva and Lord Ganesha.  Set out to measure the unplumbed depth of my unacknowledged “religious” self, I had to literary stop and choose from where to start. I entered the main Maa Katayayani Kala mandir and started my “spiritual journey”.

At the entrance I was greeted by the sacred “Kalpa Vriksha”, planted by Baba at the time of Bhoomi Poojan (consecration of the land where the temple is to be built). What caught my eye was not the flock of people gathered around and praying nor the red sacred threads on the tree but a rabble of bees hovering under the tree. I immediately thought of basic hygiene and the possible health hazards caused by a bee sting. Devotees tying threads on the branches of the tree suggested ‘making a wish’. But would those wishes be granted from a place like that? Questions started haunting me. Yet, I kept my agnostic self under check and proceeded.

Giving air to my skepticism I went inside the mandir. I entered a prayer hall with a priest reciting his prayers. I did not intend to distract him but the beautiful silver architecture commanded me to stay. Apart from the silver latched door, which refused to open ,I noticed reflections of other religions in that prayer hall like Guru Gobind Singh Ji’s photo, symbolizing Sikhism. It did stupefy me for a minute but later gave me a sense of relief that I had not started a religious chauvinistic journey.

In the temple, two forms of Goddess Durga are commemorated. One shrine, located on the first floor, is dedicated to Maha Gauri (a form of Durga), which is open for ‘darshan’ every day. Another shrine is dedicated to Goddess Katyayani (also known as Mahishasur-mardini), where the devotees are allowed only on the day of ‘ashtami’ in each month. During the ‘Navaratra’ days one could have the darshan of Goddess Katyayani throughout the nine days.

Chattarpur Temple is carved entirely out of marble pieces. Cholas and Chalukyas style of architectural insight are prime influences on the overall construction style of this sanctum. Vimana and the Gopurams in the temple are typical to the Southern style. This is the architectural style that emerged in the Dravida Desam. The Gopuram in the Chattarpur Temple has two stories that have been separated by a horizontal moulding. The Prakara or the external wall, encompasses the chief shrine as well as the rest of the shrines which are smaller.

Roaming around the main temple appreciating the architecture I came across The ‘Sayya Kaksh’ or ‘Resting Hall’ of Durga Maa .It is decorated with a Mattress, Dressing Table, A Meeting Table with Nine Chairs (Shown to indicate the sitting location of the nine deities) all created of pure Silver and subsequent to the Meeting Table is a Wax Statue of Baba Ji noticed in a Standing position to welcome the Nine Deities and Goddess Durga. Visitors can catch a glimpse of this area by way of a glass panel. As you walk out of the Satsang Hall, the Shrines of Lord Hanuman and Ashtbhu Ji are seen opened to public only for the duration of the Navratra Festival.

From there I crossed over to the other side of the road and entered the main gate of Markandeya Mandapam Complex. It has a huge and imposing Trishul (Trident) of Lord Shiva standing on the back of the tortoise symbolizing the ‘Prithvi Tatva” (the solidarity –principle represented by the Earth).

Inspite of the rains I managed to see the beautifully carved Rath Bhawan and the Sree Nageshwar Temple. The Samadhi is directly below the Shree Nageshwar Temple on the first floor. Here the Shiva-Linga rising above the Shesh Nag coiled around, represents symbolically the immortal Eternal Creator.

Ending my Chattarpur Temple visit here I believe temples are vestiges of theism and the beliefs our ancestors held and grew upon .Though there is an exotic preposterousness about the way temples and deities are being constructed  still its pious calmness seeps in you and moves you little (if not much) closer to the Supreme power.

Keep Moving to get a clear Swiss Picture – H.A.Anil Kumar

Nobody should stay at Switzerland or Helvetia-land because the place where one resides can never be a worthy tourist spot, for the dweller. The second reason is that, it no doubt looks spectacular to view this country standing at almost any point,   but the best way to view it, believe me, you will be moved by what I suggest—is to watch Switzerland while being mobile, seated in a train, a bus, trekking or even by jogging. Hence nobody should ‘stay’ in Switzerland. The Swiss stand testimony to what I say, they keep moving and working even at a very ripe age. They are taxed up to 7% of their earnings. It seems the cost of the wheel chair that physically challenged is provided with by this welfare society is costlier than a car. It all depends on whether you hear it right, or (from) the left (politically). One of the costliest countries this also called as CH. Many Swiss are not familiar with its expansion as ‘Confederation of Helvetia’. I wonder whether ‘Helvetica’ font is their contribution, like ‘Italics’ might be an Italian contribution, because they have a ‘leaning’ (like italics) tower of Pisa.

The Swiss do not have a language of their own: they speak French-Swiss, German-Swiss, and French-Swiss, Italian-Swiss or a very minor percentage of a vernacular-Swiss. Hence, if you are an only-English speaking guy (or gal), you are happy because you cannot differentiate between them, when they make announcements in the buses and trains. In such cases, even a change in the schedule, promptly announced in one of those languages reaches you only after the action is over. Even the metro-shop-wallas (an wallis) are not apologetical about them being very familiar with English.

They also have a rule which is as strange as their language (or the lack of one): if a majority of Swiss citizens (or a million votes, whichever is higher) vote for or against any issue, any time, the issue is officially endorsed, immediately! Let us say, one such voting would be about cancelling such a voting right of those very people! Even that might get enacted! That will be heights of contradiction; and Swiss governance stand testimony to it. And perhaps they must have all similarly voted for this notion of ‘mobility’ in Swiss. It is a country, perhaps not bigger than Karnataka, which can be covered in a day by train, owing to the perfect-legendary-timing of their public transport system. A train covers two kilometers per minute. Just within a couple of weeks of my stay at Zurich, I was so corrupted by their sense of timings, that I began to grumble about a couple of minutes delay while waiting for connecting trains, despite hailing from a country in which some (or “most places” as cynics say) places trains arriving at 11am today while it would be scheduled to arrive here yesterday at 11am! The Swiss do not pay to travel but to keep up their legendary status of travelling in-time, to-the-minute.

I decided to be hence mobilized throughout my stay at Zurich for six weeks. Equipped with sufficient funds from Pro Helvetia, a cultural funding agency, I bought a Swiss Pass to travel for a month, which was a roughly 36,000 /- Indian rupee. It was an average salary of an Indian lesser known art school lecturer. With this pass, one could freely travel throughout Switzerland, every day, all the days, throughout the day, from wherever to whenever, in trains, buses, ferries for a period of one month, round the clock. The Swiss trains halt in the night, since they can cover the length and breadth of the country in the day time and spill out beyond the nation’s boundary if the journey continues into the night. There are two reasons for this: the country is too small and trains are too fast. However conditions did apply for the Swiss pass—you could not travel in cable-cars at the most scenic places like Jungfrau, Interlaken, Lucerne, for free. The occasional ticket checking and inspection in public transport system was so frequent that I thought it to be almost a regulation. If caught without a ticket they fine you with 100 euros, with a smile. One of my friend-curator, obviously a Swiss, told me that once she knew that she did recognize one of those deceptively dressed inspector, she had a chance to get out since she hadn’t bought a ticket due to hurry, yet did not care; and ended up paying the fine. That’s the least price you pay for the fatigue-of-perfection-syndrome, a typical Swiss characteristic.

The one thing that captures your attention while travelling across from the eastern Basel to western Engadin (‘the most beautiful Swiss canton is Engadin’, claim a few. And most of them happen to be residents of Ingadin!), from northern Bern to southern Geneva—apart from the fact that even if you close your eyes and shoot the camera, you get a reasonably attractive mindboggling picture—is the confusion between farming and gardening. It seems: the farmers farm on the ground level during summer, go higher up during spring to clear up the ice on the road; and graze animals and dairy products in severe cold season during utmost winter. Thus the farmers have three professions and three houses for three different seasons and three different professions; and hence are politically the most powerful Swiss community.

Once when I was in a bus to the university on top of the mountain from wherein one could view the whole of Zurich. I suddenly smelt something very familiar and almost nostalgic. The huge shed did not visually reveal its content. While returning back, I got down at that very point and saw what was inside. The smell directed me towards it and it was bliss: the typical huge Indian farming houses wherein people and animals lived together seemed to be reinstalled herein. The farmhouses with latest gadgets and oldest tamed animals and farming equipments, alongside what seems to be a park and a latest banking company is a treat to watch in CH-land, provided you get a quick comparative view of them, successively. And this is possible only if you are mobile at Switzerland!

I had to shell out about six thousand Indian rupees for the six kilometer return train journey to the Top of Europe at Jungfrau Mountain. They issued a memento-like train ticket which looked like a fake passport, as a mark of celebrating hundredth years of the tunnel-vision journey (built in 1913)! The train travelled through the mountain like an outdoor submarine. While travelling, the train–carrying the name of a famous Hindi filmmaker–and the people were enveloped with ice, rather literally. Few Asian-looking travellers were wearing shorts and later I ‘realized’ that they had ‘realized’ pretty late that it was the most inappropriate dress to wear in the given situation. After half an hour or so, I could not even remove my shivering right-hand off the glove to shoot Sherlock Holmes, sculpted in ice. It seems this fictious character pays a visit to this mountain in one of Doyle’s story.  Obviously many tourists had misread the severity of the Swiss summer’s cold on Top of Europe stop–Holmes’ analytical mindset would have been very apt, to adopt. I literally had a severe bile headache at the top (of Europe) and it went down as soon as I arrived at the ground level!

While being at the top, I was in the midst of an ice-clad mountain, for the first time in lifetime. I mean my lifetime, not the mountains’. Earlier I had seen Annapurna Himalayan range in Nepal, but never been amidst ice. You can never see an ice mountain while being ‘on’ it, the ranges look like squeezed out white butter, because it is you who stepped upon it at the first place. Humans squeeze out the essence of whatever they step upon. In the Bollywood Café at Jungfrau, with plenty of Indian film posters displayed in it, Indian chai cost four euros, hence the price and the tea both tasted hot! Suddenly I felt very homely in this foreign location and the second reason was that the Indian cafe had dirt all over the floor! This perhaps was the actual reason as to why they had ropes all around a certain limited area of ice outside—otherwise the whole Jungfrau would be begetting the feel of dirt—in a typical Indian tourist mode. Most Indian films have song sequences from here, even when they want the depicted location to indicate the Himalayas!

The ice clad mountain is deceptive and refutes a factual perspective. A particular wide ice road between two mountain ranges, visible from the safety of the café over there, was as big as a football stadium, going from here to nowhere. Two visitors had a heated argument about the solitariness that the mountain range would evoke, “will you be able to stay alone in this tiny cafe room, alone, throughout the night?” The demand was for a sincere answer, which was not to come. The least populated place on earth should be ice-clad areas, not just because it is very slippery. Many haunting stories about Swiss mountains have been turned into films as well. It is the sound of the mountain which we the humans are yet to place into an experiential perspective.

The Swiss are clinically clean. The new migrants earn 7 euros per day, with which they can only buy peanuts. This is only till they pass through several grades of social tests. However, the American Indian maid who cleaned the house I stayed in was paid 50 euros for two hours (roughly 3000 INR). But it was only once in a month.

There is a community of Srilankans—both Sinhalese and Tamilians, which migrated in 1990s and were adored as physically hard working people. Their children, the next generation, are neither here nor there. Being one of the costliest cities in the world, Zurich is compared with the cheaper Berlin in the neighboring Germany. Many drive from Basel to Germany, eat, buy and return on a weekend and save a lot. However, the flea market, where anybody can sell anything and everything (except nothing) offers even Indian objects. They were bought in an excitement of visiting the Oriental country and now sold because of it’s over familiarity. A shop that sells old people’s clothes near Wedicon terminal (like elsewhere) is called as the Ghost’s-company: the clothes they sell belong to the dead old people! You buy and wear one of them; you invoke the spirit of its owner! Often many unwanted, but not discarded household objects kept outside the house premises are chosen by the poor. The best part of this operation is that after choosing what they want, the poor repack the left over. In my place, we display what we have left out, making a statement about our taste as well.

Coming back to my concept as to why one should be mobilized to watch Helvetia-land (CH) is: a small plot of one quarter of an acre will be having a few cows grazing; and the next compound will be an I.T company! Next to it will be a lone jogger at almost any day and any time of the day. The landscapes are all tailor-made, as if they are waiting for the film or crew to arrive for a shoot. Nothing accidental, even the dramatic light, pure air, lush green, lakes and rivers seem to be frozen in time. Yet, the pleasure in watching or documenting them would be spoilt if one stays still and shoots them because one would have seen them already in picture-post(ers)-cards and tourist manuals. One should move and move on to get an unusual comparative imageries like a cattle herd, next to a farm house, a cow dung-dumping ground, a factory, a balcony always filled with plant-flower-pots next to an unusually huge size bridge with very few vehicles on it. Switzerland is always a mobile vision of comparative viewpoints that refute any singular view/definition about itself.

The Swiss are extraordinarily conscious about their figure (more than their health, perhaps). Their physical figures are inversely proportionate to their expenses. The Swiss artist Rahel Hegnaeur–a contemporary artist who was in a residency in Bangalore, several times–used to travel throughout the Indian city on a bicycle. And this was a habit that came to her from her home town of Zurich. Be it places like the restored antiquarian village in lower Engadin canton (eastern end of CH) or even that Jungfrau train track—there are special considerations for walkers and joggers. The Engadin antique village, a few centuries old, carries the tradition of scraping the wall surface to create design. I totally emptied my water bottle in order to collect and drink from the five varieties of natural spring over there. The bicycles are parked next to a metallic ring on the wall which was used to tame horses, a couple of centuries ago. The Noir’s Artist Residency was initially a Jewish place of religious solitude. It is a real insult or need sufficient ignorance to purchase water in Ingadin. The myth about the prosperity of Swiss banks is that many Jews deposited their wealth with these banks and never returned back from the concentration camps and gas chambers, to collect them!

Switzerland is proud to be a politically neutral country which seems like a political utopian. The rumor that a million migrants from Germany, who wanted to escape to elsewhere via Swiss-land, perished by the time the Swiss decided for it, is a long forgotten story. Even a small time residency like that in St.Gallen canton receives government funds, which is sufficient to run a reasonably good university in India. The cost of cleanliness and timing keeps the Swiss on their heels, always.

Scores of Swiss artists had come to Bangalore over the years, from last two decades on residency programs. One of my agenda was to meet all of them in their own den. A tired artist had turned into a curator, a performance artist had undertaken artistic research, some had changed their overall personalities and a few went missing. My only question to them was to how they imagined Swiss-ness, like I did comfortably with Indian-ness. Artists like Sadhyo, Pascale Grau, Michel Omlin, Rahel, Wenzel, Christophe Storz, Nesa, Lilian Hesler had explained Swiss with such variedness, that I ended up with eight versions of Swiss nation, because I had spoken to eight of them. They were never Swiss, but either the Bern-ian Swiss, the Baselian-Swiss, Genevan Swiss, Zurich Swiss or the Interlaken ones. The information about Switzerland is so abundantly colorful and colorfully abundant in the techno-suave web media that I had to search for that which the media had missed out. Otherwise it is very easy to visit CH land without moving out of you room, but with a net-connected personal computer, like that ad about A/C hinted a few years ago. Hailing from Bangalore I expected a typical Swiss-cold weather, which was not to be. Zurich was hot, the more serene Aarau and Bern was colder by a fewer degrees, Engadin was the coldest. Artist friend Wenzel A.Haller, runs an artist residency called ‘the Garage’ and consists of a board that consists of its name written in my language (Kannada)!

Hailing from India, it is difficult to digest Switzerland as a nation–it is that small. Historically its neutral stance is much advertised, though such adoration has been contested time and again. Perhaps those who are jealous about this country’s prosperity have done it, among others. The Swiss keep to themselves, but are helpful. They feed you, let you stay with them and make time for you. Yet they don’t demand you to reciprocate. It is a country for lovers of visuals and sound—a farmer’s delight. Yet they have a whole village dedicated as a museum of farming! Rest of the Europeans visit this country for a holiday, while Swiss move into Europe business. At least that is the mythical cliché I would love to believe.