... Exhale...

I wonder if you know what horrific waste is like.

I do. It's a sickening, heartbreaking, miserable feeling that makes you want to scoop your eye balls out with a melon baller designed for Lilliputians. Why the hyperbole and drama? Well, I realised on the way back to Bombay last night that the the camera I'd borrowed from A was set to take pictures that could be "used for e-mail attachments". E-mail fricking attachments, would you believe it!

This might not be a big deal you might say but as a photographer, this is the most tremendous waste of close to 3 weeks of photographs. I loaned George to the elder sibling's art partner a while ago and have been using A's wonderful Sony DSC-H7. I didn't bother to check the settings because it was a damn fine photographer's camera and was, presumably, set up properly. *Sigh* More the fool I.

I've now got over a 1000 pictures that are bloody low-res and hence are pictures that I cannot zoom into and play with. These are pictures I took of the TOI Crest William Dalrymple event at Bandra Fort, the ex-reviewer and other performances at Kala Ghoda, the World Book Fair in Delhi, and my Ahmedabad trip (making up 600 of the 1000 photos).

Sigh. Sigh. Sigh. No use crying over what's done but I cannot stop feeling bloody upset. I suppose when I get down to working with these pictures properly, I'll know the full extent of the damage. Until then, let me leave with this photo from the wedding in Ahmedabad.

I shall now go and salvage.

Meet George

This is George.

The elder sibling hates the name and the ex-reviewer thinks I stole his dog's name. But there's nothing I could do, you know. I lifted him out of the box and I just knew — this was George. He's about eight months old now and I'm still in the process of getting to know him and what he's actually capable of.

Truth be told, I'm still more than a little scared of him. I know, I know. Time and practice and all will be well. I've got to admit that for a camera that I've wanted a long, long time (a DSLR and not the 450D), I am bizarrely reluctant to use it. After having used three cameras over the past four years, I know every camera has a point after which it is yours.

I don't know if this reluctance is a function of not having much to say with my camera or just plain intimidation - you know, the variety that comes calling when you, in a terrifying instant, realise that you're in so far over your head that there's no way but forward.

I took six months and a fourteen day trip to Goa to make the elder sibling's camera "mine". I took a trip to Takhatgarh and Jodhpur to become less frightened of George. I'm jinxed in Rajasthan, you see. Another one of A's cameras bit the dust in my hands in Rajasthan. Don't ask what happened or don't ask how it did but suddenly, I was much, much closer to George. Everything looked rosy on the surface of it but suffice to say, the results leave much to be desired. And for once, I really think that the less I say about something, the better.

In the days since, I have spent nights with my camera manual and the guide book. I now hope for work to leave me alone enough to go out and experiment with what I think I have learnt. I save up for macro and telephoto lenses and badger professional photographers at store events for tips. All things remaining equal, in a lifetime or so, George and I will have no secrets between us.

Pray for me, won't you?

Memories of Madras

I have, I think, reconciled myself to an ambivalent attitude towards Madras. I don't know if I will ever be able to articulate correctly or even coherently what I fully feel about the place. I swing like a monkey on crack, I tell you, in my highs and lows in Madras. And I always leave with more than just a pang of regret. I suppose that's mainly because I don't have enough time to resolve my space there... but in any case... I'm sure I'll mull this over some more until I know.

I didn't take very many photographs in Madras this time but what I did take, I am really quite happy with. This is only a sampler. The stories and proper photos should follow next week. I hope you're checking the photoblog though. There's an entire series on Mahabalipuram going on right now. I'll get to the flower market and other stories shortly.

~~~~

My sincere thanks to Plain Jane, who found time in her insane schedule, to make the collage for me.

Since...

... my photoblog deserves a little promotion, you should go and check out the picture below over there because it really does look much better large.

****
I've been having some serious problems with my internet connections BOTH at home and the office and hence, all posting activity has been greatly discouraged. Regular programming should continue soon.

Hot Monsoon Nights

You know, what I hate about the monsoon is that it just can't make up its bloody mind.

Consider. When the rains first began, it rained almost continuously for seven whole days, if you'll be kind enough to count them. Nothing tragic or even mildly distressing, thank you very much. Just the irritating kind of rain, and often drizzle, that will dirty salwar bottoms and discourage you from wanting anything else but for it to rain harder. Because then commuting is not possible, and without any guilt, one can then curl up in bed, everything but that wonderful Peter Ackroyd or E.B White forgotten. While one might seek a warm, warm cup of elachi chai, they might also venture a little while at the laptop, brightening photographs or jumping links lazily, only to come back to bed.

Then for a week and some more, it was as dry as a bone, if you'll forgive the trite comparison. And sultry and miserable and hot to boot. Since I don't sit in the perfectly air-conditioned but maddening environs of the shop floor anymore, every bit of the misery was magnified in my little room off the floor. Since this room has no manner of ventilation whatsoever, all that it really needed was a few more people stuffed inside (ranging between 4-9) to get the human humidifier going. Sigh... But the nights — dear God, the nights. Like the miserable October heat but worse — suffocating and stultifying.

But those hot monsoon nights have now disappeared, don't you know. Only to be replaced by hot, searing days interspersed too briefly with temperamental, fickle, flighty spells of rain. I tell you, the monsoon just can't make up it's bloody mind! I must admit that this does have its advantages. It is an indescribable thing to feel the humid air change character and depth, turning free and cold with the sweeping whispers of the rain through the trees. Suddenly, you wish you were out on the road, in a car of course, watching the rain envelop you... watching the city slow down...

But fanciful notions aside, I do not understand why it can't simply rain neatly in the night and let the days be overcast, dry, and gloomily beautiful. How can perfect photography weather possibly be so difficult — non-hot, non-sticky, and non-mucky? Please do me the service of not reminding me that I live in a tropical country with a full blown monsoon. I know — and apart from its indecision and heat, I quite enjoy the rains. Notice that it isn't the traffic, the congestion, or all the maddening things that make Bombay so charming in the rains that I am complaining about.

And I assure you, I am not the only one who thinks the heat is too much to take. Take, for example, our two friends below. It was two a.m and the ex-reviewer and I were on our way back from town when we passed them. Inebriated as we were, we went back to ensure that we weren't too drunk. And sure enough, there they were, licking and chomping away like it was nothing out of the ordinary. The neighborhood "icewala", as you can see in the top-right hand corner of the photograph, saw it fit or even kind to abandon this large chunk of ice on the pavement.

We watched them awhile and tried unobtrusively to take some photographs because dogs are fidgety-est creatures in creation. And the dog magnet that the ex-reviewer is, I had just a few minutes to get at least this slightly decent one. We left ten minutes later but the ex-reviewer says that he saw the female on right sitting at the block on his way home, while the male had disappeared with some of the other dogs around.

*****

I keep wanting to post without a photo but despite the photoblog, which I try update everyday, I might remind you dear reader, there are just too many photos to share. Perhaps I should stop carrying my camera everywhere...

Of Flowers and Poetry

The best part about working in your favourite bookstore is how books you'd reserved yonks ago show up out of nowhere, still reserved in your name. The books section staff come waving the bundle, reservation slip secured by rubber band intact, mischievously asking if you still want the books, knowing full well that you do. You chase them up and down the aisle, behaving in a manner most unbecoming of bookstore staff, till finally the pile nestles in your palm. What makes this triumph even more happy is that the books in questions are this one, this one, and very, very awesomely, this one!

I am the most thrilled about Tell me the Truth About Love simply because of its incredible price. I mean, when was the last time you bought Auden for Rs 150?! I've read some of the 15 poems (and no, it's not the same thing as the expensive version just because there are only 15 poems!) but some are new and, as all Auden is, they are delightfully brilliant and the subject of another post. The other two collections are really rather great and one of my very favourites from Short and Sweet is this one:

Animals

Have you forgotten what we were like then
when we were still first rate
and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth

it's no use worrying about Time
but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves
and turned some sharp corners

the whole pasture looked like our meal
we didn't need speedometers
we could manage cocktails out of ice and water

I wouldn't want to be faster
or greener than now if you were with me O you
were the best of all my days

--Frank O'Hara

The Chinese Erotic Poems, you say? Well, I'm still savouring a lot of the book but of the ones I have read, I lack the finesse to describe the sheer *poetry* of these two so I'll just let you get on and read them.

Tangled Hair
From 42 Songs

Last night I didn't comb my hair.
Like silk it tangles down my shoulders
and curls up on my knees.
What part of me is not lovely?


Night is Forever
From 42 Songs

The night is forever. I can't sleep.
The clear moon is so bright, so bright.
I almost think I hear a voice call me,
and to the empty sky say, Yes?

-- Zi Ye
(3rd-4th centuries CE. Translated by Mike Farman)

******

I'll leave you with a photo from a set that I hope to finish over the coming weekend. It was taken at the Globe Hotel in Udwada, Gujarat. I'm not much of a fan of "flower photography" (and I know there's a better name but I just can't remember it!) and I indulge in it quite infrequently but I must admit, I really do quite like the shot.

Deep Blue Something

One dark and exhausted evening in Madras, after hours of racking the HR and business sections — both of which I loathe, don't you know — a colleague offered to take me down to Marina. Despite warnings of it being dark and hazy and my not being able to see too much of the area or even the sea, I was quite happy to take him up on the offer. You see, not only am I seldom at the beach at night, I also didn't want to go back to a (then) alien and cold guest house. The smells and sounds of the ocean would go far calming very frayed nerves I thought.

It's a nice walk down to Marina from the mall, a single road that changes character at least thrice till you get near the beach. You'll pass a large gutter, overhead rail tracks, and small local shops nearly all your way down, when suddenly, wider, posher parts of the beach front arrogantly push their way into predominance. Amongst the lovelier buildings at Marina is the Police Commissioner's office. The graceful columns of that gorgeous building are an exquisite reminder that quite often, being a government employee pays. Marking the middle of the waterfront road is a Sivaji Ganesan statue. Erected by Karunanidhi, very interestingly, the plaque on the side of the statue carries the late, great actor actor's name in a much smaller font than the politician's.

I must admit that I was quite pleasantly surprised at the state of the beach. Quite unlike the filthy madness of Juhu Beach, Marina's fronted by a small promenade full of small carts and followed by a huge sandy expanse. The beach, I'm ashamed to admit, seems much cleaner than most in Bombay. We sat, watched the sea in a rather uncomfortable silence (mostly because of my unwillingness to speak then), and finally went home. I was still blue but certainly a little soothed. That visit, I didn't get another chance to go back for daylight photos, but one evening a few days into my second visit, I spent a few hours at the Besant Nagar beach.

This beach was at least a little more reassuring, with the eats on the beach and the balloon boards (the ones you try and burst with an air gun?), and the beach a little littered. The best part of being there was finding out what coming face-to-face with the Indian Ocean was like, especially after a lifetime of a very intimate acquaintance with the Arabian Sea. The ocean, whether in Madras or along the ECR, seems wilder, the waves crashing with more force than I remember seeing in Bombay. It is also certainly cleaner and with more vividly azure waters. The one thing that stands out most clearly about that night on Marina is how threatening the waters seemed. Two months and more down the line, I am not entirely sure if this is because I am aware of the tsunami.

These pictures below were taken at the main promenade in Pondicherry, on a rather short trip down. A and I'd planned to get some photos of the sunset and then head back to Madras. But that evening in Pondicherry, the wait seemed endless, and finally, the dusk arrived with only herself for company. Only later did it dawn on me that the sunset would never come because in the east, only the sunrise ever does.

And that evening, A and I sat watching the sea forever, taking a certain comfort in seeing the familiar on a completely unknown coast because some things don't change no matter where you are. This is a universally acknowledged fact, not to be disputed. Any urban beach in possession of a rocky outcrop must be in want of its share of the lone watchers and the couples sneaking their kisses. But it is quite rare indeed to find a couple sitting apart doing their own thing, staring out at the sea. I'd like very much to think that they were in perfect accord — not needing to say a word after so many long years, each part of the other's whole. They could, of course, be completely irritated with or indifferent to each other but it makes for a nice ending, what I saw of the way they were sitting there to imagine that they just were... the way I'd like to be.

*****

Just a few of things really. One, the Pondicherry pictures, on some screens, tend to have a most unbecoming yellow tinge. I assure you, that's not what I am seeing on mine or in my camera. Two, the second photo in Pondi is A's. Three, in nearly three years of E Vestigio, this post marks my 101th. :-)

Of Sore Throats and Certainty

Along with the sickening realization that summer is finally bloody here, I have just discovered that I have taken over two thousand photographs in the past eighteen months. How many of those have seen the light of this blog or Flickr? I am, admittedly, more than a little disappointed in myself that I have begun to collect photographs to "do" the way I collect posts to "write". And if I go to Goa at the end of this month, I just might end up collecting photos and posts of another trip before I finish the Madras posts or, bloody hell, before I finish the Goa pictures from October last year!

Since I'm stuck awake because of a sore throat and the oppressive Madras heat (yes, yes, I'm back here!) that won't quit, I'm going to content myself with this small post and this, if I may say so myself, lovely photograph of a tree outside the guest house balcony. I took this while waiting for this kooky friend to show up. I've finally made one of those in Madras. She's taken me around a lot, stood up for me and all Gujjus in the face of ridicule, and been one of the girls. It's been much better this time indeed. I'm still not at ease but it's been okay... really.

~~~~

I wonder if the guilt trip would work but I suppose there's no harm in trying, no? If I neatly make a list of all pending photo albums, will I finally start "doing" the photos? I wonder. Here goes nothing then.

1. Kerala, August 2006
2. Hyderabad, Dehradun, and Pushkar, January 2007
3. Bombay, October 2007 - March 2008
   
4. Goa, October 2007
5. Pune, December 2007
6. Nashik, March 2008
7. Madras, April 2008
   

That's it - I was wrong. There was harm in trying — my procrastination is even worse listed down. Kill me now and be over and done with it. Really. I mean that.

That time of Life

Right then, my dears, I'm going back to work.

After seven months, to the day actually, of living a fuller life, I'm finally re-joining the ranks of the "gainfully employed". And totally unsurprisingly, the only person who's completely excited about this is my father. The poor man's had visions of his only daughter going down the idle poor road, you see. Once every month since I've been on a break, my father's asked me gently, but very diligently, what my plans were. No words like work or employment or job, don't you know. Dad is nothing if not sensitive and supportive. And yet every month, I'd smile beatifically at him and say "I haven't the faintest clue!" At one point I think he wondered if I ever planned on getting back to work.

The elder sibling says he will appreciate not having me underfoot all day with my "whining" and being a drain on all his resources. But personally, I think he'll miss me because not only does he utterly adore my company, he also won't have a peon anymore! The mother will generally miss me a little but the one person who's most certainly not going to miss me is M, who works in my home. I won't be dragging the sofas and chairs all over the place and enlisting her help to dust all the books for at least a month now.

To say that I am excited about the new job is a whole new acme of understatement. I finally have a job that I want, one that I am not embarrassed about, bordering on being ashamed of. I won't mumble while telling people about being intimately involved with running a bookstore, one of my very favourites places. I'll finally be realizing at least a part of my long-cherished publishing dream. So what if the execution won't be from within but from without? But I must admit, as hugely thrilling as being a book merchandiser is, I am more than a little sad about losing this break, this buttery, feathery independence. You see, there are few things as deeply saddening as not being able to ride into town on a whim for a beer at Mondy's. No, no, please don't state the obvious. The wonder of it is being able to do this at 3 p.m on a Wednesday when every other person you know, except the ex-reviewer, is working AND swearing at you when you call to say hello.

And you would have thought that my last two weeks would have been even more molasses-y. Time would have passed even more deliciously. I would have posted more, seen more of Bombay, drunk more beer, watched most of the 120 GB of films I brought back from Bangalore. Life has a way, I tell you. Like this cat outside the Standard Chartered Bank Building in Fort, I should have been sunning myself in the unnatural cold Bombay's been experiencing. Instead, I was hunched over my keyboard frantically finishing a last-minute freelance project. Life just has a bloody way that just bloody tears it!

In all the hunching, the Kala Ghoda Festival came and is almost gone. It seems to have been quite an experience, being run as an arts, music, film, literature, and children's festival this year. And I've missed most of it. All's not lost yet because in some rather excellent news, the ex-reviewer is performing at the Kala Ghoda Music Festival. I was at the festival this afternoon, looking through the schedule next to the main stage for his name. And even though I knew that I'd find it, I do not think I can describe the overwhelming pride at actually seeing his name on that large, black schedule.

The ex-reviewer's solo act is called Dischordian and will be playing between 12:30 and 1:30 p.m on Sunday the 10th of February at the Kala Ghoda Amphitheater. Come and watch him. I am not just biased but he really is a wonderful, wonderful musician who's experimenting with a new kind of sound, especially in our musically retarded and time-warped country. I can pretty much guarantee that you'll enjoy yourself.

Whew!

It's finally done. An entire journey chronicled.

This is the last of the Goa posts. I can't quite believe that I've managed to finish the tale, especially after my last attempt with a chronicle. Nor can I quite believe that you've actually read so patiently through all these posts, listening to ravings, rantings, and some observations. But now that it's come to this, I'd like to finish with this story, the product of a perhaps too much fine, fine feni drunk watching sparrows on a mellow afternoon at Brittos.

You see, sometimes (very, VERY rarely) being high brings out a bit (only a VERY LITTLE BIT, I will have you know!!) of the "cutesy-chick" in me. Hence, I am given to laughing dementedly and some other stuff that's best reserved for over a vodka. Whenever it is that you and I meet, hmm? Well, on this particular occasion at Brittos, while trying to get the sparrows and my hand to stay still for many, many MB of photographs, I couldn't stop saying "Birdy Num-Num"... followed by a highly embarrassing giggle. And not for the love of anything at all could I remember where — or when — I'd heard the phrase. But irritatingly stuck it was in my head anyway.

Some more feni later, I was convinced that Birdy Num-Num was a song I'd heard in the far reaches of the distant past, I gave the bloody words a tune, don't you know. I sang it all the way back to the hotel room and until I finally gave into the high and promptly fell asleep, much to the mirth of the ex-reviewer. Unfortunately, I came back to Bombay only to realise that the phrase wasn't my hitherto unsuspected but sublimely brilliant musical talent shining through.

Tch, tch, and tch but the photo is cute anyway!

Dil Chahta Hai

While it may seem that my time in Goa was spent either being a beach bum or exploring Panjim, it should be known that it wasn't. You see, the minute I found out that Charpora Fort at Vagator Beach was where they'd filmed Dil Chahata Hai, it was on the non-negotiable list of things to do. No, no, I don't have any great love for the film, don't you know. But the place looked so incredibly lovely in the film, not to mention inviting, representing all that I’d ever thought Goa would be: being still, connecting with myself and friends... about newness and susegaad.

And so, in the pursuit of the closed-for-the-off-season Lila Café for a much recommended breakfast, we found ourselves indolently following the green and blue back roads of the Baga river down to Anjuna and Vagator. I don't think that we intended to ride as far as we did, but accompanied by the sparkling, twinkling Baga river, following these roads became very special and much fun. You see, they're where I finally learned to ride the Activa without falling apart like unmoulded jelly. They're also where the ex-reviewer began to take a fledging interest in photography and for once, allowed me to take the lead, without heckling me at all!

We arrived in Anjuna first, and I must be honest, I didn’t like the vibe of the area much — although it may also just have been my eagerness to get to Vagator. Over a beer and some beef, I cajoled my way into Vagator and twenty minutes later, we were at the smaller Orzant beach. But seeing that it was too crowded with people and their buses, we went down to the main Vagator beach. It wasn’t much better there because there were at least a million people milling around too little beach.

In the hurry to escape the crush, I completely forgot about the wonderful Shiva face an unknown artist sculpted out of the rocks on Vagator. Check out the missed photo-op here. Sigh...

A short distance later, we sat down at a place called Willy's Shack, only to walk right out because the man didn’t serve Goan food. Without much of a choice, we settled on a restaurant called Tintin’s right opposite the road. It was still opening for the season and turned out to be one of the better food decisions we've made in Goa.

Along with what were most certainly the best beef chops in creation, Tintin's had the saddest dog ever imaginable hanging around. The little mutt kept looking at the ex-reviewer and I miserably throughout our meal! He must finally have made away with a decent portion of my chop but there was just nothing you could do to chase him away. No matter what, he'd just keep coming back and giving us that hungry, mewly look from under under his heavy, sorry brows and we'd be lost.

After firmly refusing to share my beef curry and languidly finishing my King's in the mild afternoon light, to Chapora Fort it was. Having looked at it from the beach and having watched Dil Chahta Hain, you know that the fort is perched atop a cliff and can be approached directly from the beach. The guidebook is kind enough to warn you that this is a route only for the seriously fit. Right then, we were off to an access point that's further uphill. It's still a decently vertical climb and by the time I got into the fort, I just needed some water, of which there was none, and some sitting... and staring.

Chapora is gorgeous — and peaceful — in its green, gold, and red colours that are so beautifully encased in blue. Instead of the hordes infesting the beach below, small groups of people dot the ruins, sitting around, sharing the sea. There's not much noise — only you, the sun, the sea, and this great hunch-backed lizard of a hillock protruding into the sea. You can climb a good distance down the lizard, almost to the sea but I contented myself with the broken ramparts. It's an interesting experience, visually, to stare out endless, open ocean on one side and a waving golden meadow nestled admist ancient ruins on the other.

From the northern ramparts, you can see across a small creek to Morjim Beach (the photo below), part of the stretch of the non-touristy, northern-most beaches. The view is terrifying in its beauty and scope. I cringe while writing this but there is nothing more magnificent than the sea. And watching it at various places in Goa, I've realised just how much I've missed it these past three years. I've missed all those nights spent at my window watching the lights from Madh Island (or from the bays down to Bandra) dance tantalisingly on the ominously dark water. There is something about standing on a cliff, watching the sea swell and break, the vista stretching as far as your imagination, that reinforces its uncontrollability and untamed nature... that reinforces how small we seem in comparison and how incredible it is that we can actually do the sea real harm.

Remember how I used carry on about being the only 27 year-old who’d not been to Goa in 23 years? How all my memories of Goa were a four year-old's? Well, all of these said memories revolve around the Taj Beach Resort at Fort Aguada. We’d go in a large group of my parents’ friends and their families, all of us waking early for boisterous walks on what I now know is Sinquerim Beach. Those were mornings spent fighting over shells and walking the ocean's edge to come back to a sumptuous buffet breakfast. We'd spend the rest of the day at the resort, venturing only to the beach in the early evening or at sunset. We must have made a few trips the Sinquerim Lighthouse because I've always recognised easily it from other people's pictures, but I don't think we explored any more than that.

Unfortunately, I don't have very clear memories of the Fort, despite living at a hotel built into it. I cannot remember if we ever climbed up the completely intact northern rampart or went down to the southern-most, but ruined, boundary of the fort. I can only remember seeing a huge building outlined in the distance while walking on the beach. My memories now are coloured with the ancient red-black beauty of the northern parts of Fort Aguada and of the views it offers. It is, I think, worth the time to stand facing the fort and watch the waves beat ceaselessly against the resolute rampart.

In retrospect, I think my reaction to Utorda was based on a childhood memory of Aguada: quiet, almost entirely deserted, and strewn with fish and shells. Today, expectedly, Aguada is more touristy and commercial, infinitely more than the Charpora Fort. It’s also too crowded because of all the water sports and the fact that you can take cars up to the southern end. I tell you, there are just far too many cretins in this world that want to drag their Scorpios up a path, not even a road, meant at best for two cycles riding abreast. But I suppose the view is worth it, no?

****
More photos on Flickr if you'd like to see them!

The Panjim Papers

Among the first things done towards the fulfilment of the Goa trip was buying the Outlook Traveller Goa Guide. You see, there was enough "advice" about the beaches but no one knew a bloody thing about anything else, especially Panjim. This was when I was planning just a few days in the North, including a day in Panjim and Madgoan each, and a few days in the South of Goa. But after merely flipping through the book, it turned out that there was too much to do in the North, and so we decided to stay up there.

And that's how I came to spend a decent portion of my days in Panjim. Before I get to anything else, let me tell you that when discovering Goa, stick to the Outlook guide. Despite its erroneous maps and slightly vague road directions, it's a very well-researched and well-written book with some excellent photos — as opposed to the completely ludicrous Times of India Goa guide. It was also a lot of fun trying to find the places that are supposed to be in one corner of the map but are really some way off! And apart from the places-to-see recommendations, I also discovered a number of interesting dining options through the guide.

It's an interesting thing about the towns of Goa, or at least the ones I saw. Unlike Bombay, Bangalore or Hyderabad, the center of activity is usually not more than a couple of kilometers from the town limits. For example, once you've crossed the Mandovi Bridge and driven into Panjim, the river front and its associated landmarks, restaurants, and precincts are either just there or a very short drive away. It's the same with both Mapusa and Madgaon.

To say that Panjim's really glorious is stating the obvious. The city is enchanting, with its Portuguese architectural heritage and one-way roads, all of which lead into Church Square, the seeming center of town. The river front is like the main road of Panjim and you'll find most of the sights down one left or the other off it. It's a lovely, green-shaded road that is best explored at leisure or you'll miss gorgeous buildings like the the green-yellow-white Secretariat (which is currently under restoration) and the beautifully built and maintained promenade with its parks and restaurants and the Kala Academy.

We turned back only at the sign post for Miramar, the Juhu Beach of Panjim, and randomly followed one of the lanes leading into Church Square. Along the way, little markets grow into blue buildings with contrasting green trees and traffic islands with designer artefacts. You'll also find that the stories you've heard of Goans (in Goa especially) with a strong Portuguese identity aren't the figment of someone's exaggeration. There were a number of stores with signs in Portuguese and NOT in English. The only reason I knew that one of those stores was a fabric store was because the Portuguese word for textile, which I cannot remember right now, is easily recognisable in English.

One of the main sights in Panjim is Our Lady of Immaculate Conception in Church Square — so named after this church. It's a pretty church with an exquisite altar indeed. But its magnificence was eclipsed completely by the ex-reviewer's Jesus number.

See that little blue pulpit?

Our man decided that he needed to express his atheism for posterity in the land of his roots. So up he climbed to the pulpit and spread his arms wide, like Christ the Reedemer, for the benefit of my camera! He also proceeded to bless an imaginary congregation! Amused as I was, I've also rarely been as scared as I was taking those photos. In a known city, you know what is permissible and not. For all I knew, in Panjim, we could well have gotten lynched for a stunt like that.

Just to the right of Our Lady of Immaculate Conception is this incredible little place called George's Bar and Restaurant. It's obviously a local favourite because most of the patrons were locals. George's is where I discovered the joys of the perch, the butter fish, and the Goan sausage pulav — they've got to serve the best Goan sausage ever! I must admit that I did not like the feni much but with no choice — since they don't serve King's — it will do. The service is also excellent — ask for a guy called Santosh.

When you stand on the steps of the church with your back to it, you'll see two left turns, one far and the other nearer. The far left takes you up the gentle slopes of Altinho, pronounced Aal-teenyu according to the guidebook. Altinho seemed to me the Altamount Road of Panjim, consisting mainly of mansions and winding, airy roads lined with trees that have been around since Adam. The area looks like old money, complete with the Bishop's Palace (it really is a palace!) and dramatic views of the water ways surrounding the city.

In a strange city, I've often found that going down one lane through another, being utterly lost, takes me where I want to be. As it was with our way into Fontinhas, the Latin heritage quarter. Let me say this now before I repeat myself endlessly — I love, love, love Fontinhas. For one absolutely wonderful moment, I thought I was back in Jew Town in Kerala. But as the shutter fell and I explored the area further, the Goan flavour of Fontinhas was unmistakable. I strongly recommend that you walk around the area for hours, getting to know its dilapidated yellow, red, blue, green, dark pink houses with wonderful blue ceramic name plates.

Fontinhas done and it was nearly sunset. While waiting for it to be dinnertime, we killed time taking a cruise on the Mandovi. I thought I'd rant about my terribly bad experience but I'll suffice it to warn you that you should avoid the ones on the river front. We didn't have the time to explore more peaceful options (if any) but I wish we'd stayed away from the Santa Monica sundown cruises. Also, it might also be a good idea to go on a morning cruise since one would actually be able to see something then!

We'd decided we'd end the day with a meal at the Hotel Venite, a place that the guidebook describes as having shut down the residential area to use the rooms to expand the bar! But don't you know, the bloody thing wasn't on the harebrained Panjim map. We found it by sheer serendipity while looking for a way back to Church Square. It was the magnificent seashell and blue mosaic doorway that first drew my eye and the friendly, cheery waiter in the balcony, who directed us back and helped ensure that I wanted to come back.

I can't tell you how glad I am that we did. The Hotel Venite was possibly amongst the best restaurant experiences I've ever had. Once you cross the seashell threshold, a warm warli mural covers walls that enclose a brown-red and cream staircase leading up to the sitting area. What I had presumed were merely decorative balconies were actually booths with a really small table and two stools each, lit by a madly swinging cane lantern — look at the far end of the photo below. I have some excellent night shots of that evening despite not having a tripod. In fact, if that evening has taught me something, it's that I should always, but always, carry my tripod, because at the Hotel Venite, I might need it during the day as well.

It's been well over a month since I've been back and I still do not have the words to describe the sensory assault of a wonderful day followed by a cool, still night, encased in warm, liquid yellow light, mingled with fantastic feni, good food, and excellent service. If you finish up with rum caramel bananas, then life ceases to be elsewhere indeed. I hope this photo shows you what I mean, though.

Finally, should you be a North Goa person, I'd strongly recommend not missing out on Panjim. It's a Goa you won't see in a shack, restaurant, or club at the beach: there's an everyday-ness about Panjim that puts you at your ease almost at once. There is also a sense of sudden surprise that lurks in every corner, which will make you want to ride and walk around all day. That's what makes it so interesting and such fun, I think.

On the Road...

... in Goa is where you'll come across these incredibly funny hoardings. When the the ex-boss told me about a few advertising local musical talent last year, I refused to believe him until he showed me camera phone evidence. This year, I found them too — all over the place. I found this hoarding on my way into Baga from Porvorim but I finally ended up taking this shot on the way to Anjuna.

The Voice of Goa 2007 contest features Henry K "Iglesias" from Benaulim, "Shakira" Soares from Saligao, and Joaquim "Morrisson" (the Lizard King must be rolling in his grave!) from Mandrem in the finals. For good measure (apparently), the organizers have also thrown in a performance by Hard Kaur. Ah, to be back for this show. On the whole, it's a decent-ish campaign but the Henry K hoarding is nothing short of a stroke of the utmost genius!


This photo below is just a little off Calangute Beach. It was only my second morning in Goa and I wasn't particularly enthusiastic about settling down to feni just yet. What I was enthusiastic about was trying to ride the Honda Activa. I wheedled my way into turning left off the beach parking lot and riding down the lane that led to this sign. You've got try this — say Maddo-Waddo really fast a few times and you'll find that it has a lovely rhythm that's bloody addictive... or so I thought. I don't suppose that it bears mentioning that Mr. Boatcar's name just made the frame!


The photos aren't as well-shot as I would have liked but I must admit that it's a little difficult to take good pictures when you're balancing yourself, a camera, and a bottle of King's on the backseat of an Activa. Ah well, you win some but for the ones you don't, there's always some King's.

Me-bop by the Sea!

If there's one thing I've learned from my Goa trip, it's this: never put off a trip too long, because when you finally make it, there'll be too many non-negotiable things to do. So, after much agonising and deliberation (and some heartbreak), we decided to stay North for this trip. We would just have to be content with a day spent in Colva-Utorda. And so, after wending our way through luxuriant rice fields and drying harvests, we spent a wonderful few hours at the Colva home of the ex-reviewer's family friends, N and S.

Since we arrived just a wee bit after lunchtime, we were, very graciously and warmly, ushered down to a meal. The food at the Gonsalves table was exquisite in the way only great home food can be — non-greasy, perfectly seasoned and cooked without tasting like restaurant food. There was some absolutely fantastic fish, plain curry, a meat preparation, and rice. N would have had three more dishes on that table if we hadn't been so full. I must also say, I've rarely felt as welcome in someone's home, especially as N took me on a guided tour of their home and a part of the ex-reviewer's childhood.

The only way to finish that meal was with chocolate rum pancakes that the ex-reviewer hadn't stopped ranting about for over a year. Off to Benaulim Beach then, to Pedro's Beach Cafe. But we needn't have bothered. Sure, there was a lot of rum in the pancakes, but the chocolate was watery and almost non-existent, the banana hard and bland. So, by the time we stopped wasting our time with the unspeakably bad service (45 mins to serve pancakes!!), I was in a very bad mood indeed. With rain sweeping in from the beach, putting paid to my Utorda plans, I was positively furious.

Not being very keen to ride 50-odd kilometers on a wet NH-17, we set off northward with me muttering about the pancakes under my breath. And to irritate me a little more, by the time we got about 10 kilometers up, the bloody rain had stopped and the roads were drying up. Can you bloody imagine! At this point, the ex-reviewer wasn't sure if he was amused or irritated at this magnificent display of puerility. But serendipitously, just a little before Zuari Bridge we came across a sign proclaiming "Kenilworth Beach Resort and Spa, Utorda Beach. 3 kms"

Perhaps all was not lost yet. If it were, I'd have lost out on this.

I wish the light had been better because the photo would then have told the truth of it. You see, I'm told that the water couldn't possibly have been greeny-turquoise. That we don't have very many beaches like that in India and that Utorda's not one of them. That I was being fanciful. But I can tell you, with at least a degree of certainty, that that the colour was really close. Thing is, I don't like most of my photos from Utorda a quarter so well — mainly for a couple of reasons. First, because of the fallen and the impending rain, I didn't have even acceptable light to work with. Second, I was too busy jumping around the beach to bother with taking photos.

If anything will convince you of the merits of the south of Goa over the north, it is Utorda. The elder sibling tells me that Palolem and Butterfly Beach in the South are as exquisite... next trip... but I've never yet set eyes on a beach and wanted to dive into the water at once. Utorda's far beyond beautiful and too far beyond my feeble words to attempt a description. But somewhere in those white, unbroken sands and that inlet of warm water a little way up the beach, with minute fish speeding past, I was entirely lost. Off came the sandals, out came the camera, and madly danced the penguin on Utorda Beach!

Utorda has a lot more character than beaches like Baga and Calangute because there's nothing else there but the Kenilworth Beach Resort and two shacks. A deep, loopy stillness whistles about you instead of beach chairs, massage men, and water sport peddlers annoying the living f%$k out of you. Makes for a lovely change, don't you know, to see so many shells on the beach. It was also a strangely reassuring experience to collect shells as I did on the sands on Candolim as a four year old. What sealed Utorda as "favourite beach" though was this, my prize find. In these two years of photography, this is my second favourite composition.

Another of Utorda's attractions is that most gorgeous restaurant/shack, Zeebop by the Sea. The guidebook says it is "arguably the best shack in Goa", and while I'm not sure if it qualifies for restaurant or shack, I had a wonderful time there. I'm told they have full bathroom facilities and space to leave your stuff so that you can spend the whole day there. They also have an incredible array of fresh seafood available, from which we sampled the superb seafood cocktail. The charming staff, especially the man who seemed to be in-charge, Baiju, were enthusiastic enough to bring out trays of lobsters and prawns for our selecting pleasure!

Because it began raining again, we didn't spend as much time at Zeebop as we would have liked to, but it was quite enough to let me fall completely and utterly in love with the place. I don't know exactly why I feel so strongly, given the unseemly brevity (I fervently believe!) of our visit. Perhaps, there was something that intermingles and sparkles about great food, good feni, Utorda Beach, and the name Zeebop by the Sea. Perhaps there was something about the silence and wind. I'm just glad I had the chance to experience it.

****

Finally, here's wishing you a very happy Diwali and a marvellous year ahead. As always, I hope you are surrounded by family, your loved ones, and loads of mithai. I hope this festive season is safe and prosperous for you and yours. I've had an amazing past few months and I really hope that the New Year ahead continues to bring halcyon days like these for both you and I. Saal Mubaarak, people! :-)

Notes from a Goan Table

In all the years that I was a Goa virgin, I never heard a Goa story without the teller going into paroxysms of gastronomic glee. Have you? I don't think I've heard a Goa story without the tiger prawn, the lobster (or crab), and the baby kingfish assuming center stage for at least three-quarters of the tale. And each of them comes into its own only at specific establishments, usually in Baga-Calangute-Candolim. In fact, I think that's one of the primary reasons why I chose the touristy North Goa stretch over the deserted sands of South Goa.

Not my usual hyperbole, don't you know, to say that Goa is amongst the greatest gastronomic adventures possible. It goes without saying that I ate only food unavailable or difficult to get in Bombay. Only prawn and fish curry, Goa sausages, masala-fried and recheado-tossed seafood, sorpotel and vindaloo and sannas, crab xacuti, and all manner of chilli fried meat. I'm sure I'm leaving something out! Certainly, there was the occasional seafood or prawn cocktail and even a butter-garlic calamari, but we've walked out of restaurants not serving Goan food — only after a beer, though!

I consider myself respectably fishetarian but I don't think I've ever even heard of as many different varieties of fish in Bombay: perch, butter fish, sea bass, red snapper, and rock fish. Even though I've eaten mostly kingfish in Bombay for the past few years, I haven't had the pleasure of kingfish as fresh and succulent as I did in Goa. And where shall I begin about the squid? You don't get calamari as juicy and firm in Bombay - it's one in a million chance if you do.I have but one regret about the seafood and it is the lack of crumb-fried mussels. The elder sibling and the ex-reviewer won't stop raving about mussels but don't you know, mussel season begins only mid-November. It became something of a quest finally, the hunt for bloody crumb-fried mussels. God knows, I tried everywhere — from Baga to Calangute to Vagator to Panjim to Utorda.

And let's not forget the chorizo. That most wonderful, worthy, and spicy sausage. I ate it fried, boiled, in curry, in pao, in pulav, and chilli fried. Since that was not enough, we trekked to the Mapusa Friday Market to buy a few hundred to bring back home. While I was at the market, I also bought the only things that can ease being away from Goa — Goan masalas. The ache eases, truly it does, when you've made crumb-fried prawns and kingfish marinated in recheado masala. A wee bit of San Andre Port wine along with the food and the constriction inside begins to lessen... really!

My first proper meal in Goa was at a little bar and restaurant on the second floor of a house 30 meters from Baga Beach. The ex-reviewer's prize culinary find, it's called Alex's and is run by a rumbling, quiet man named Alex and his wife, who is the most incredible cook. We started with masala-fried calamari and some seriously great cashew feni. A failed request for crumb-fried mussels later, a plate of two large crumb-fried mackerels wound up on our table. Finished that up with chocolate-banana pancakes and I couldn't have been happier.

Alex's is certainly one of my favourite places in Baga, not just because of the food but because of the wonderfully relaxed atmosphere: the TV blaring, Alex's mad little son running all over the place, funny British people, and a huge old dog that looked like a stuffed sausage. For our last meal in Goa, Alex scoured three fish markets to buy crabs for us. He didn't find them but he did buy clams, which his wife cooked into the best clam coconut curry I've ever tasted.

The holy trinity of food at Baga-Calangute is easily Souza Lobo, Brittos, and Infantaria. While great local fare is par for the course in Goa, these are somewhat overrated places. They each have a couple of outstanding things on the menu but otherwise, like the ex-reviewer observes, good loos make the trinity.

For example, the elder sibling nearly froths at the mouth about Brittos, but apart from the baked crabs, sannas, the desserts, and the sublimely brilliant palm feni, I wasn't particularly impressed at all. As was the case with Souza Lobo. The roast tongue with Russian salad was brilliant — the quality of the meat was just superb. But I didn't think so well of the Goa sausage chilli fry or the other food. In addition, I didn't like Calangute beach much and that just added to my general impression.

Infantaria though is my very favourite of the three. I was decently disappointed by the famed Infantaria breakfast because it's not as large as the menu claims and hence isn't value for money. Avoid the feni — too harsh and bitter. But they have best strawberry and blueberry doughnuts ever. The Kahlua Mousse Cake and the Chocolate Walnut Date Tart, and the Crab Xacuti which at 85 bucks is some real value for money. But honestly, a major reason why I loved Infantaria was the *awesome* service that we enjoyed. Should you stop there, ask for John and Michael. They're quite friendly and happy to stop for a chat or invite the ex-reviewer to sing.

There are also a couple of other places that I recommend. One is on the Candolim Road and is called Lloyd's, after the guy who runs it. His mama does all the cooking and the food is excellent, if a little expensive. The potato chops looked delicious but were over by the time we ordered. The fish cutlets are definitely a must-try. The feni's not too good, but he does serve King's. The other place is called Mirabai's Goan Village — featured in the photo below. I wasn't very keen on the place because of a misunderstanding and some overreaction on my part but I'm glad the ex-reviewer convinced me otherwise. The fish was incredibly fresh and well-cooked and the feni smooth and light. Coupled with the lovely ambience, friendly staff, and loquacious owner, I had a really good time there.

I don't think that I'd be doing the Goan experience justice if I didn't mention the alcohol. Especially since a decent effort was expended in the noble pursuit of finding the best local palm or cashew feni. We devoted ourselves to it with such single-minded purpose that we did not suffer a single drop of anything else (but King's) to pass our lips in all that time. Feni is the loveliest high — easy, lazy, and mellow like a summer's day. Pour it over ice, add some sugar (syrup, preferably), sip it gently, and watch the languor unfold. Ah yes, the final verdict on the feni? The best palm feni hands down is at Brittos while the best cashew is available at Alex's.

To end this post, I have just one word of advice. North Goa, long being a tourist haven, has restaurants all over, some of which are run by the most unlikely suspects. As far as possible, stay out of shacks and restaurants not run by Goans. Both the service and food are likely to be quite bad. Also, there's one recurrent thought — for the life of me, I cannot fathom what a vegetarian would eat in Goa. I don't recall seeing any vegetarian Goan food on any of the menus I studied, either on or off the beaches. The ex-reviewer's more worried about the poor teetotallers but I, being driven by my stomach, am terrified for the vegetarians.

****

I've gone through over 500 photos from Goa and would you believe it, I cannot find more than these two photos of the food!! There's only one more and it's a remains-of-the-plate sort of one. There are assorted cats, dogs, hoardings, and hazy beaches, but no food. I suppose I was too busy to take photos, no? :-)

Time Turtles

If you asked for a time line of my sojourn in Goa, I fear I may not be able to furnish one. You see, as I found out, that one great Goa cliche is really quite true — time really doesn't seem to have much meaning here. It only turtles along and wraps you in gelatinous languor. I cannot tell you which day precisely was spent tramping about Colva or which day in Panjim. Nor can I say which days were spent watching the sea or simply staring at it, sometimes idly, sometimes glassy-eyed.

What with it being my first trip, I was labouring under both my own expectations and too many recommendations. So after some deliberation, we decided upon North Goa with a day in South Goa thrown in. A miserable bus journey later I arrived in Baga — in the middle of the Eid weekend. It's true, you know, what they say about Goa in season. There really were far too many people already down in Baga and most of those from bloody Bombay! Of course, things settled once the throng left on Monday (but still!): we got lazy, discovering Baga, Candolim, and Vagator in the silence of the early season.

Goa's the most beautiful country — lush and green and truly, quite like Kerala. Both so abundantly flaunt the blessing of the South-west monsoon in their waving palm trees and mid-harvest fields. The Baga, the Zuari, and other rivers meander across Goa with elephantine grace as do so many rivers across Kerala. Both states also carry the unmistakable stamp of familiarity with the Portuguese. This is especially true of Panjim with its brightly painted buildings in Fontainhas, the Latin quarter, so greatly reminiscent of Jew Town in Fort Kochi.

Another intriguing similarity — you can't go five kilometers in either Goa or Kerala without some symbol or house of religion!

Goa's also amazing food and alcohol country. It's at least a mildly disorienting experience to be in a decently fancy eatery and find that Smirnoff's only 45 bucks to the large. And you know that we're doing something right as a country if we're producing a liquor as fine as palm feni and a beer as mellow and easy as King's. It's such a pity that neither are available in Bombay. I'd like to rant about the food because God knows Goan food deserves the paeans, but then I won't have a next post. But I will say this: as it is usually is with hearsay, I was disappointed with some of the restaurants so long hallowed.

Live in sight of the sea for most of your life and you may begin to take it for granted. I, on the other hand, have learned its true value in the last three years. And so, I rediscovered the sea in Goa. There is such a pure and beautiful joy in sitting in the deepening twilight, reading or writing or talking or being silent, letting the sound of the waves wash over you. In the North Goa stretch, Candolim is the best beach for those evenings. Candolim is also where I walked the sands of my childhood: where memory nibbled in small tendrils of nostalgia. Some roads were familiar and some vistas beloved.

The elder sibling warned me that because of the length of my stay, I might just end up being disillusioned about Goa much sooner than I need be. And perhaps, I was. In season, I don't think there is much of a difference between Baga-Calangute and Juhu Beach. Unthinkably irritating, don't you know, being kept just too far off the beach. Also, since I don't see a point in partying in Goa, I take at least some manner of exception to the loud, intrusive Bollywood and other "music" and the speeding cars along a road wide enough for two bikes!

Over that week, I came to realise that I like some of the big things, like the restaurants, but otherwise Goa is in the quieter and smaller things. In the little "bar and rest" that no one notices. In the genial, rumbling patrao who checks three fish markets to get your crabs. In the homes of people who don't know you from Adam but welcome you warmly at their tables just the same. In the stark, deserted beaches that bring you back in touch with your penguin roots. In the run-down bungalow down a green lane in Colva selling sausage-pao for 10 bucks. In the old, friendly and pushy aunty who sells chorizo at the Mapusa Friday Market but owns a flat in Napean Sea Road, Bombay.

Finally, I'm glad I went with the ex-reviewer. I doubt that I would have seen so much of Goa otherwise - a fact the elder sibling corroborates. Or had such a completely indulgent vacation. He watched me thumb through the guidebook only to finally gleefully let the susegaad win me over. He stopped obligingly on rattling and busy bridges for photographs. He laughed when the feni made me mad in my toes and very, very drunk. He also stole my camera every now and then only to make me the unwilling and tortured subject of too much wasted camera battery. And yes, those will never see the light of day!

Sigh... I'm back.

Getting onto that bus to Bombay was amongst the most depressing things I've ever done. The elder sibling assures me that despite going to Goa five times a year, the depression never fails to come a'calling. Staring at my screen instead of a Goan sunset, feni in my glass, and crumb-fried prawns on my plate feels so incredibly wrong... Wrong. Wrong. Wrong!

A Random Frame...

... in Bangalore while being squeezed in a rickshaw. I was on my way to Blossoms to drown myself in books.



Pst! This post is not blogger's block, don't you know. Just don't want to lose the habit of posting at least semi-regularly.

Now pat me on the back, I say! ;-)

The Coorg Chronicles - Chapter I

It is 22:20 on the 3rd of June when S and I arrive at Kempe Gowda Bus Station (a.k.a Majestic Bus Depot), in the heart of Bangalore. It's cold, it's wet, the weather is glorious - and I am throughly annoyed. Why, you ask?

Well, primarily because S, beloved soulmate and now favourite travel-mate has me trekking over and under smelly, slovenly, sleazy archways, carrying a heavy bag and my tripod, searching for cigarettes. Even when I smile sweetly at a conductor and ask where to buy them AND receive accurate directions, S still knows better - having gone to Majestic twice in three years in Bangalore. Never mind, I tell myself, as we buy smokes at the conductor-directed tea stall. This, too, shall pass.

Back at Majestic and we're trying to figure out where platform 7 is to board the "luxury bus" that will take us to Coorg. We locate the platform and S now goes about the business of being a man - finding the right bus. I am both nettled and amused by his telling me "Stand here, on the side, and wait. I'll find out about the bus - don't go anywhere!" But I decide not to argue and stand quietly in my corner because this is going to pass, remember?

Oh alright, alright! In all fairness, S means extremely well since about 5 different men have tried to rub up against me in the 200 foot walk from the entrance to the platform. Bombay or Bangalore, street harassment doesn't seem to change, now does it?

In short order, settled into the bus and beginning to unwind, I am impatiently waiting to toast our trip with a dose of Avomin each, being motion sick as both S and I are. At 23:05, we are now officially on holiday. On our way to Gonicoppal and then Kutta, South Coorg. To five self-indulgent days of pork curry and homemade wine. To rain, coffee estates, and the middle of nowhere. To serious quality time with S and clearing up head space - for the both of us.

The first crater on the "highway" reels me out of my soothing soliloquy. I close my eyes and attempt sleep, and finally settle into an uneasy, fitful dozing which the rain imitates. I close the window only to nearly break it open five minutes later. The fetid breath and sweat of 35 other people necessitates braving the rain and cold all night. No matter. I'll be in Coorg soon.

All of sudden, it is 05:00 and we get off, bleary-eyed, at Gonicoppal Bus Stand. S, standing surrounded by me and the luggage, is on the phone with the taxi driver, Dharamaja. He informs S that we got off 35 kilometers too early and we should now take another bus to Kutta. It seems we were to get to Gonicoppal and inform Dharamaja to expect us in 90 minutes. Informing him did not involve getting off at Gonicoppal. Small detail, I presume.

Now usually, I'm not at my best even at 11:00 if I've just woken up. At 05:00, after a bad night and faced with championship like this, I'm not likely to be anybody's best friend. S, knowing this, is smiling at me almost coquettishly in an attempt to placate me. But he doesn't need to. I smile (!), climb into the main hall and sit down to wait... and watch a town wake up.

I am still taking it in when the 06:40 bus arrives. S and I clamber on and find ourselves a seat . I place S's bag between us on the seat and S just stares. Apparently his bag was taking up the place of another person and he'd be damned if he'd just watch. I try reason - if someone needs to sit, we'll put the bag into the rack. Or bitchy and tired as I am, we'll let them stand.

But no! The bag must go and it must go now. Fine. With little further ado or ceremony the bag is dumped onto the rack and S and I are now taking in the road to Manchalli, where we must get off. Unfortunately, I don't remember very much because I kept nodding off. The snatches I see look like the South India I encountered in Kerala with huge white-washed houses with red tile roofs.

I finally wake in Manchalli because Dharamaja stops our bus in the middle of the road to ask if "Datta" was on board. That's us! Now what happens next is priceless. The offending bag, relegated to the rack? S lifts it off only to find that it is soaked through. The rack, you see, had a layer of standing water, which S neglected to check on. It is all I can do not to howl triumphantly but I settle for a smug smile.

It is only a three kilometer ride to the Chilligeri Estate Home Stay. But it is a ride through mile upon mile of paddy fields steeped in water and tract upon tract of terraced agriculture stretched out in all directions. The only word to describe this place is green - and not just beautiful. I smile as the fact that I'm truly on holiday sinks in.

Clouded!

I have half a mind to sit quietly in one corner. It's been well over a week, the wonderful weather in Bombay has vanished faster than beer on a hot afternoon and this post is now entirely irrelevant. I mean, there's really no point now in going on about how the weather was so perfect or that this time, the rain, light as it was, didn't bring slushy roads and maddening traffic jams in its wake.

No point either in waxing on about the rain also bringing overcast weather - the sort where you want to curl up under a blanket. With either a pizza, or a cup of tinned tomato soup, or a bowl of moong ka dal and rice. (I have funny rainy day comfort foods - what can I say?) One of those days when you put on some Miles and leaf your way through a book all day. In the evening, you catch up with friends, clean and roll their weed, while drinking gently into that good night.

I always mean to post every three or four days and if it isn't a tyrannical reviewer or my own sloth that prevents it, there's something else that requires my attention exactly then. And once it's done, my point and the post are usually immaterial. And that, my dears, is the fate of most posts in the Drafts folder.

But perhaps this once, both me and the post shall make an exception because of the overcast weather which brought such wonderful lighting for photography, even in the middle of the day when light is usually harsh. At the risk of stupendous immodesty, I don't believe I've ever shot as well as these and only on a few other occasions, enjoyed myself that much!

I was on my way to town to collect my transcripts, return books to the library, and watch a film perhaps. I do not wish to make the beauty of the day trite, ergo, I am going to let these images speak in their own voice. A couple of things though. These images are in chronological order and none of them has been touched up for the colours or improved in composition - among the reasons I am so proud of them. :-)











I can only be grateful that A was kind enough to let me monopolise his camera (since I had been stupid enough to forget mine) and patiently pull over wherever I asked - even if we were in the middle of the Western Express Highway, doing 70 kmph! The mercies, I tell you, of being driven by a fellow photographer. :-)

There are, of course, some more here.