Konquered by Konkan

 Traveling on the Konkan rail is something that my husband has often spoken about and I  decided that it was time to translate that into action.

A day journey, to best savour the sights on offer, was planned, and we traveled from VT to Ratnagiri on the Mandovi Express. And what a delightful journey it was. Bright green grass formed a smooth carpet, interspersed with forests, which were a tufted deep green carpet. Sundry streams meandered. Translucent, mother of pearl clouds held the sway in some parts of the sky, dark glowering clouds in other parts. The second longest train tunnel in India, the Karbude tunnel, made one marvel at the engineering effort involved in realizing the Konkan Rail project; all along the route, boulders and steep cliff sides were covered with a net to prevent landslides. The stations were charming, with stunning backdrops. Vinehere was especially pretty. Not in the same league as Barog, but charming nevertheless.

As for the rest of our holiday, I must confess that I did spend some time wondering whether I should write this blog at all. The villages, the people, the vista were so unspoilt, that I want no part in changing that.

We stayed at a home-stay run by Medha Sahasrabudhe and her mother at their farm in the Kotawade village in Ratnagiri. The rooms were charming, made with blocks of red laterite stone, which is obviously Ratnagiri signature style when it comes to building dwellings. Some of the furniture was built in, a la Laurie Baker. Sloping roofs, with an occasional transparent roof tile to let in natural light. The loo was an absolute delight- natural light, palms visible through a high window while you showered, the run off watering a plant growing within the loo itself.  No mundane tiles here, broken plates formed the floor and the platform.

A shallow stream flowed past, about 30 yards from the room. You could walk across it, or just sit beside it and let the sound of water soothe the senses.  And then, all tranquil and quiet, you could walk through the village, and soak in some more peace and “unhurriedness”.

Food was delicious though simple. Konkani fare was  a new flavor, a mix of the familiar tinged with tamarind and coconut, which made it unusual.

This was my first experience of a home stay. If checking the count on the bed-sheets or obsequious service is your style, then this is not the place for you. But if natural surroundings, tended by welcoming people who are themselves, a cuppa chai with conversation about this and that, a leisurely walk with no destination and no interruptions by noise, traffic or hoardings is what delights you, then this will be perfect.

This entire holiday had been planned via the internet. When looking for a place to stay in Ganapatiphule, I had come across Jayesh, who runs a travel site called “The Western Routes”. He recommended Ratnagiri instead and sounded responsible and enthusiastic. I decided to go along – this was meant to be a surprise holiday for my husband, and not in his WILDEST dreams would he have thought of Ratnagiri.  Everything fell into place with the planning and later the holiday itself, and I must appreciate Jayesh for the same.

Day two of the holiday, we drove down deeper into the district, to Girish Bondre’s farm in Deoghar. Mr. Bondre used to work for the Sakal, a Marathi newspaper, for 27 years. He then decided to come back to his roots and look after his ancestral farm spread over 150 acres. The farm was a marvel of beauty and enterprise. This was no  absentee landlord; his love for the land and its bounty was obvious, as was his hard work. The most delightful part of our trip was this waterfall in the Bondre Farm. Refreshing water gushed into a tub like space which you sat in, nestled by rocks above and around you.  The child in you just wanted to stay there and the memory brings back smiles.

 In Ratnagiri, rice is grown in wide terraces on the hillside, the sides of the terraces lined with red laterite stone to hold in rainwater. Mid August, the rice is an even knee length, an even deep green, undulating to the breeze in the valley. When we walked down to Mr. Bondre’s farm, the rice fields were being watched  over by a spare, lithe, senior citizen, her face creased by my attempts at conversation in rudimentary Marathi. Like wise on the way back, only the gender had changed. Blessed souls, to be surrounded by peace and beauty.

The windows of traditional Konkani houses have vertical  square wooden slats that let in the view, the light and the breeze. I wonder if this architectural style finds an echo in the urban landscape.

The Arrey Warrey beach is the same vicinity, but we had no time to go beachcombing. Saw it from a distance on the drive back and wished we had more time. The drive back, through forests and foliage, rivers and rain, was a joy in itself, till we hit “progress” and then it was downhill, pun intended.

Cant resist a cliché, Ratnagiri was  a jewel indeed.

A hold-all of memories

Day journeys in trains are particularly conducive to conversations. Perhaps because, in these times of living life on the go, train journeys actually force you to slow down, and give up, for a few hours, the control of the direction of your life, to some unseen but reliable power. The world passes by, but does not intrude, thanks to the double glass windows of the AC compartment. You cannot, even if you try, stick your neck out, literally in this case, to catch a glimpse of the train as it takes on that bend, and catch a bit of soot from the huffing engine. Spending a few hours with another human being, that too an acquaintance, without recourse to the outside world, is a skill that is buried deep inside somewhere, harking back to lazy summer holidays of silent afternoons and games of “seven tiles”. Yes, train journeys do encourage conversation and reminiscing.

On one such journey, a short while ago, the conversation somehow wound its way to train journeys of our growing up years.  And suddenly, the hold-all appeared from the crevices of ones’ memory.  Tellingly,  also called a bistraaband, at least by my mother. It brought memories rushing back…. Frenzied stuffing of the hold-all with quilts, pillows, towels and even occasionally shoes, for leisurely vacations. Sitting on it, to tighten the leather straps and lugging it to the station. It was wonderful to sit and bounce on while father paced the station to find out how late the train was running. The mater pulling out holiday fare of puri alu.

One particular memory is a train journey to visit Hazaribagh and Ranchi. Those were the days we weren’t petrified of cholesterol and lipid profiles were unheard of. We tucked into a puri – pakora combination! That leads  of course, to  the famous bondas of Igatpuri, the snack facilitated by the long stop to change to an electric engine, now that we were so close to Bombay. The biryani at Daund, recommended by the boys in the batch. I almost got left behind on the station, while tucking into it! Had to run to catch a moving train. Once I actually did get left behind on the platform , this time waiting for a dosa, I think. Some devotion to culinary offerings of railway platforms. The paper thin omelettes of railway platform dining rooms, if available today, would actually induce me to miss the train. Sadly the omelettes and ceiling fans with those impossibly long stems have passed into history.

Creatures of comfort that we are today, the intensity of the earlier experience is whittled down. The hold-all is history. The ride through tunnels do not induce palpitations ..the compartment is lit , not pitch black. The wind does not flap in through the window, neither do drops of rain. And you do not stick your neck out, to catch a glimpse of the train as it takes on that bend. No soot to catch from the huffing engine. Yet, all is not comfortable. The plastic strewn landscape, the squalor of the settlements along the track, are visible even through the double glass window, our legacy for our children. Is the platform , where hordes jostle for air, opportunity and elbow room , our future?

The Flight to Mandalay

The flight to Mandalay landed on a dusty, rattle-y runway, in the middle of nowhere. A looooong drive to Mandalay took us past a  vista that has at least one,   and mostly many, muted gold pagoda spires in view.   Myanmar is steeped in Buddhist tradition, calm and peaceful, the people, as well as the terrain. The green vista was broken infrequently when people drove past on two wheelers and bicycles modified to allow sarong wearers to ride comfortably. Cars too, almost all of a certain vintage, all driving past silently, no horns blaring unlike some places we know……….

The Mandalay fort is unusual in that it is on flat ground, unlike the Sinhgadh, Purandhar, Jaipur  and other forts that guard impregnable heights. The fort in Mandalay is protected by a moat that runs on four sides…. A picturesque protection. The water body attracts walkers and exercise buffs in the morning, no crushing melee, a silent group, only mildly curious about an alien looking fellow morning walker.

At the Kuthodaw pagoda were the entrancing stone inscription caves. Symmetrically laid out white stupas, each bearing a marble slab inscribed in Pali. While the pagoda is apparently in the Guinness Book of Records as the world’s largest book, it was the tranquility of the shrine that was more remarkable than any record.

The town is made of symmetrically laid streets , on old imperial capital.  The fort had served as a jail for Bal Gangadhar Tilak and the city as  a stopover for the bravehearts of the INA on their way to Manipur. The Indian connection remains , though much whittled down. I met two Indian families  with  roots in Calcutta; their Hindi was intact, though interspersed with Myanmarese. The city has two gurudwaras, both in the vicinity of the fort.

Yangon was a different story. Parts of it were elegant, colonial and very clean. Others parts, run down and crowded, but like a cleaner, quieter version of the less affluent Bombay suburbs. People in both cities wear male and female versions of the sarong; a strong sense nationalism ensured that Western attire did not take root post independence.

The Traders Hotel in Yangon is plush and hospitable. The Mandalay Swan Hotel requires to work on air conditioning and internet access.

Myanmar has been Buddhist for two thousand years. The more austere Theravada form of Buddhism is practiced, so there is none of the exuberance of the Tibetan tradition of Buddhism. Monks, children and adult, and nuns walk the roads seeking alms. The greeting “ Minglaba” is made with folded hands. I gather, from Wikipedia, that one of the cardinal principle of Burmese culture is concern for that ones’ action may lead the other to be offended or lose face or be embarrassed. I can’t imagine something so diametrically opposite to what one perceives every day in Delhi.

Even as I write, Aung San Suu Kyi has won the bye election, her fragile form hiding steel within.

There is a possibility that I might travel to Myanmar again. I look forward to that.

Post script: Tried a Thai massage at the Bangkok airport - a singularly unpleasant experience during which a surprisingly strong, slightly built, petite girl proceeded to successively dig the sides of her palms, elbows and knees into my limbs and torso. I was seriously concerned regarding the health of my bones, and later, of  each of my joints, since she yanked at them with all her considerable strength. The grande finale of the massage was an extended maceration of each fibre of my trapezius muscle, which continued to complain for a few days thereafter!!

 

Sun lit yet sepia tinted: AFMC Poona, 2012.

The alma mater had turned fifty and she beckoned.

The ride from the airport set the tone for the rest of the holiday. The old, warm, solid, reliable, gently drawing out memories , some shared,  some hidden and the new, full of hope, energy and promise. Old friends, the warm envelop of their affection, the continuity of the connect. Old landmarks, Ghorpudi, Prince of Wales Drive, Empress garden, Wanowrie – a snatch of conversation remembered, a walk, a weekend jaunt. The new – friends’ children, young and restless to live  their promise, their parents appearing suddenly in the eyes, the walk, in that tilt of the head. The new buildings in the college, defined mostly by negatives – not musty, not gray stoned, not having corridors or arches unlike the ones they replaced, and luckily, not so many.

The two days went by in a whirl.  A quirky quiz that was meant as much for the funny bone as for the gray cells. Nostalgia on the dance floor, with the beat group of yesteryears assembled – a mix of temporary duties and major effort including a guitarist who flew down from the US. Solemn homage at the Martyrs memorial. Lunch at the spacious cadets, mess, a far cry from Papa Thomas of the “mustard tadka in baigan bharta” of the girls hostel. I wonder – do they still do those early dinners, rajma et al,  on movie days? Talent on display at the  variety entertainment program. The debate that allowed the young to be risque, presence of gray hairs in the audience notwithstanding!

 The oldies sang and danced with a zing that was infectious. Friends, batch mates, room mates and hostel mates, some unrecognizably portly and some inspiringly svelte, gathered for photographs on the much remembered steps.

And not the least, a long and lingering meal, with the fraternity and the sorority , in the lawns outside the main block, the lights and the mood and the music and the camaraderie – a magical warm embrace.

Cant wait for the diamond jubilee.