Kabul - 2

It was a cold morning. Cold by my standards of course. We had slept upstairs. While JP slept in one room, Aj and I shared another. I, of course, was given the single bed that stood in the middle of the room, in honor of being ‘older’ and being a woman. Aj had made his bed down. JP did his magic trick with the heater… half an hour of clanking while he ‘taught’ us how to work the monster. We never learnt, of course. During our whole stay, our hopeful pokings at the heaters never convinced them to light up… it was as if the heaters waited for JP, like forlorn lovers, waiting to be set alight with his magic touch! JP would regularly scowl at Aj, probably wondering why a strapping, young six-plus-two could not light a measly heater… and our shared hilarity, barely suppressed, did nothing to quell JP’s temper, possibly only fuelling it more!

So … it was a cold morning. And we came down to a flask full of tea. JP was going out of his way to be nice to us – I mean, we knew the French and French idea of hospitality, after all. Our cumulative experiences in Paris had sent the community many, many notches down in our esteem. But then, that is another story. And while we were sipping tea, JP came in with Naans. Foot long naans. Our breakfast. And we munched at this different tasting naan with a little cheese and jam. It filled us up quick…. And while we lazily hung around, JP tried to coax us into going to work… Our walk to our work-place meandered through Karte Chaar. That is what this area is called, said JP. The streets were lined with rundown looking shops of various kinds, so much like home. Many of them vied with one another playing loud music, another one like home. Was that Hindi film songs being played?! Did you see that, said Aj. Wasn’t that a picture of “Tulsi”? That’s when we realized the Bollywood had quite invaded Kabul… the shops fronts were lined with posters and pictures of Apne Log… It felt odd. One usually was used to ‘looking up to’ everything non-Indian.. and here we saw people crazy and idolizing about India!

The French Embassy was fairly unassuming. The office even more so. It was simple and nothing like what an opulent, lush, overly self-important, Indian Embassy would look like. We were introduced around to the ex-pats and Afghans alike and set up quickly at two tables. We were in business. You have to give it to the French. They knew how to put you to work quickly and efficiently.

We quickly discovered that our Hindi worked. Most Pashtu Afghans knew Urdu and thus were able to understand Hindi…. And happily we chatted to Kamal, Ghulam and others. We also met Gerard and some other French girls who managed JP’s project. JP was the Architect. The French were re-building the Teachers’ Training Institute and the ‘french’ extension to the library in the University. Both of these were in Kabul. JP was also building the Juvenile Home at Herat. And off we went to see these works.

The TTI was already constructed and in use. It felt like any normal institute teeming with the energy of young people. JP gave us a nice introduction to the building, showed us the ‘before’ and ‘after’ pictures, explained to us his basic approach and the reasoning of his design. He had, he said, kept as much as possible to the original design. The roof was traditional. The old foundations were kept and the new structure built over them. And just by keeping the old foundations, as they were in good condition, he had managed to retain the original flavor of the building, because that automatically determined the shape and size of the structure.

There were some anomalies, of course. The ‘auditorium’ looked very ‘western’, oddly out of place. The chairs completely alien. Why so? Everything, JP said, had to be imported from France. Every chair, equipment, window-frames… you name it. JP said that there were no good artisanal workers available anymore. People had lost their crafts and skills… and the ‘quality’ of what they churned out was far below par. I had my share of questions... Why couldn’t the local people be trained? Why couldn’t France be more patient? Couldn't the project bolster the local economy? Why weren’t any locals on the team, except in ‘assistive’ and menial capacity? These questions did not pop up just then, of course. They slowly started taking shape over the week… as we went to project after project… of every country, of every type … and faced the same method, the same rationale, the same approach. Over time, my discomfort slowly and steadily increased.

The next day, vague suspicions began to sprout when I talked to their ‘Finance’ person. She handled the money and the funds of the project, she said. I, curious as ever, and wanted to hear other ‘stories’ of her experience. She told, quite innocently, that she had no previous experience. She was actually a kindergarten teacher. She was out of work and on dole and she was assigned this job as a ‘volunteer’. My stomach churned. A kindergarten teacher? On dole? Handling millions of euros of an architectural, construction, and International Co-operation project? I couldn’t quite digest this.

Our talks with K and G revealed more. What work did they do? What was their role in the project? And by and by we discovered that they were the ‘interface’ of the project. Basically all "international projects" had the same approach... the ex-pats ‘executed’ the project with local ‘partners’. The local ‘partners’ provided the linkages to the local bureaucracy, markets, suppliers, labourers and workers, and filled them up with the local ‘lingo’. The ‘interface’ was also a euphemism, which I only realized for what it was, after our own post-tsunami reconstruction finished. The ‘interface’ basically trouble-shot, pulled out the chestnuts from any local fire, took the brunt of any local ‘troubles’ and basically was the ‘frontliners’ that kept the ex-pats safe and protected from local bureaucratic and legal hassles. But then I am being unduly catty, and acerbic. Should I be a little more compassionate? I couldn’t be. For it only got worse.

While an internal disquiet was taking birth, we continued playing ‘happy guests’. We played Hindi songs from our laptops… and before we knew it had the whole office surrounding us, chatting and sharing excitedly. People had forgotten (thankfully) that I was a woman, and talked freely to me too. GB came out of his cabin, wondering what the commotion was about… and saw to his amazement, his quiet-as-death office transformed to a lively, happy, energetic interactive space. The French kept their reactions to themselves. In all this G invited us to lunch at his home the next day. They were having some ‘function’ and his whole family from all over was gathering… would we like to come? Of course! A traditional Afghan function? Who would ever miss an opportunity this??

Kabul - Arrival

The whole journey from Delhi to Kabul was filled with excitement… filled with many firsts. My first sight of the Himalayas, my first sight of snow-clad mountains, my first visit to a war-torn country. I knew not what to expect. We were literally going in blind. With no information whatsoever on JP (our host) or anything else. If JP didn’t come to the airport, we might as well be dead.

Aj couldn’t have been a better travel companion. I was meeting him just a second time, the first time was in Paris, where we hadn’t interacted much. A travel veteran (which I only discovered later), he patiently listened and tolerated my incessant chatter… oh look at this ! oh look at that! Please please click this photograph!... and so on. It never occurred to me that he must have been very much amused at my childish excitement… but then Aj being Aj, he could be nothing if not sweet.

The first sight of Kabul was amazing. It was nestled in a ring of high mountains. Couldn’t quite ‘see’ the city… no high rises… no smoke… no ‘signs’ of a metropolis. Before we knew it, we landed, and through the window we saw lined, aircraft upon aircraft, of every shape and size – fighters, bombers, helicopters, rescue-planes. We were quite stunned at the reality of what it meant to be at war.

The airport itself was impossibly small – not even bigger than the airport in my city. Felt as ancient too. The general aura of the place was frightening, tense.

We breathed a sigh of relief as we sighted T. (He was the French-end projects guy). With him was JP. And what a guy! He fit to ‘T’ every description of a M&B hero. Tall, dark and ruggedly handsome… and a guy who worked in difficult conditions! I was totally smitten, of course. We piled into his rickety car … while T recounted his week at Kabul. The sights, sounds and smell felt so much like home, yet so alien. Billboards advertising cellphones, televisions… armoured cars… armoured car? hello was that an armoured car??? Oh gosh!

Men wearing pathanis, a completely different dress-code. Not many women around, though.

We came to the road that was passing by the American Embassy. And that was my another first – an encounter with sand-bag walls, electrified gates, tortuous, lethal looking somethings embedded on the road that would tear the tyres apart in a jiffy, if one tried to ‘run’… no running away here… and massively built, grim faced commandoes with the military specification machine-guns. We were searched. Papers examined. Clipped questions. Stuccato answers. JP looked like an Afghan. He did not look like the normal white man. Hence the questioning. We were passed through … My respect for the ‘rebels’ grew… these guys, with their out-of-date technologies, and lack of ‘resources’ could circumvent such organization?! Wow. What was brought home then was that clearly the hares were much smarter than the hounds, in any situation… that a bunch of underfed, ill-equipped, in-hiding, on-the-run brigands could bring down and keep an organized, well-equipped, well-funded, well-fed, healthy, and strong ‘structure’ running in circles… something to be said for them after all. Sides and politics not withstanding.

That journey from the airport to JP’s place was a journey through lifetimes, a journey in education. Crumbling walls. Shell-shocked buildings. We were completely bug-eyed and as shell-shocked as the buildings! What are those pock-marks on the walls, I wondered… “bullets..”, said JP with a sideways look. Oh! (JP was also the strong and silent type, I forgot to mention!). But more shocking than the war-torn buildings was the ‘normal’ life that seemed to thrum and thrive around. People went about their daily business. As if nothing had happened. Children played around on the footpaths. People shopped on the streets. Life like anywhere else.

We reached JP’s place. A ‘regular’ RCC structure. Big. Empty. Cold. We will light the heater, said JP… and for the next half-hour we gathered around the ‘heater’ and watched while JP tinkered and coaxed an ancient, time-warped, grey monolith …and brought it to life, to the collective sigh of relief !

Trees

Trees seems to have their own character... shaped by wind, rain and sun and their own destiny, they twist and turn or stand tall or spread wide and strong... each tree will have its own stories to tell... the many years it has seen pass, and what it has watched go on around it.

Invitations

In the fields ... organic, pesticide free and ... yummy !

Village Khatuaha, Samasthipur District, Bihar.

In the Middle ... as always.

Prem Sankar Singh, is a performer of the first order. Amazingly articulate, and entrancingly theatrical, he held us rapt, in the grip of his agitation about Kala Pani. He agonized, energetically, about the pains and travails, the Sugar Factory brought to the people of his land, as it spewed its poisonous waste into the water-logged lands around in the Runni Saidpur block.

Prem Sankar Singh, promised a 'jail bharo' agitation in January. The People were at the end of the tether, he said. To this, Ram Sevak Singh piped up "jail bharne se kya hoga ...? pehle bhi kuch nahin hua hai, aur abhi bhi kuch nahin hoga..." meaning what will happen with this? nothing has happened before and nothing will happen now. "Bihariyon ka khoon garm nahin hai...", he disparaged at the helplessness of the people.

Prem Sankar rose fittingly to the occasion. "Hum madhya-wadi hain ...", he continued. The people of this land are moderates, and have always walked the middle path, he defended. Look at Ram. He didn't go off at the deep end. He stood at the shores of the ocean, and tried negotiating with Ravan. Give back my Sita and we will go away, he had said. And Krishna? What did he do? He went to the Kauravas, on behalf of the Pandavas. Give us 5 villages, he said. And we shall not fight. And Buddha was of course from here. He attained his enlightenment at Bodh Gaya.... So how can we fight? It is in our nature to seek compromise.

Hmmm. Had never thought of Bihar to be madhya-wadis ... especially considering the tales one gets to hear of the rule of the gun. But then, one learns new things every day.

Two ancient men and a quirky generator

It was 11.30 in the night. The fog swirled around us, blanketing everything. Visibility (what visibility?) was reduced to probably 10 feet. And Sunil, our most capable driver, was concentrating driving on the narrow, narrow roads, perched high above the ground.

Satyendra kept calling up, trying to find directions. Yes, we were trying to find our way to the Ashram, in a foggy dark night, with directions being given over the mobile phone. We couldn’t see anything in front of us, leave alone make out turnings, little pagdandis, left or right. Satyendra was certain we would find the Ashram, while I was equally certain we wouldn't. Doubts crowded in my head, while John happily gurgled at the back, the edges of his anxiety firmly blunted by a good drink.

And while we were looking around for the lanes and bye-lanes of the given directions, Satyendra carried on with his commentary on the side ... we were crossing Bangaon, he said. Bangaon is a most unusual village. In deep, remote Bihar. Almost all the IAS officers of Bihar and some of the best bureaucrats spread out in India came from this village. Don't ask why. But this village was blessed by Maa Saraswati.

Finally we found the 2 electric poles, standing side-by-side. I mean, where else would you find two poles standing side-by-side ??? We stopped. Totally, hopelessly lost. Stay put, said Rajendra Jha, I will come and get you. And we waited and finally we saw a bobbing, pale torchlight !! Saved !!

We made our way into the Ashram, pretty much dark, a lone small LED lamp battling valiantly against the dark. And Baba came out from inside the depths of some cavernous room. They proposed to put on the generator. They clanked around, under the pale light of the torch, while I sat inside that cavernous room, shivering and trying to keep warm. And finally, after 15-20 mins of energetic clanking, loud discussions, we were told there was no fuel !! So we went to sleep. A very comfortable bed indeed, in their training centre. A mosquito net. Many blankets. And we all slept, warm as bugs.

Morning revealed to us, what, thankfully, the night did not reveal. These two men, the guardians of the Ashram, were ancient !! One at least 70 while the other over 85 !! These two were staying alone in this remote ashram ????

But they were no ordinary men. They were people who had walked side-by-side with Vinoba Bhave during his Bhoodan Movement, had worked alongside Gandhiji during his satyagraha. They regaled us with memories and incidents of the Bhoodan movement and satyagraha. Real, live experiences, no history book chapters were these. And they had done some wonderful work with rain-water harvesting - the megh-jal abhiyan - the rain-water campaign.

And they were so generous, so so wonderfully hospitable. Baba (yes, the 85 year old), was spry and could leap across steps to quickly serve hot rotis before we could even finish the word. Old, did I say ? Think again.

And the generator? It did start, with a good drink of a litre of petrol. We needed it to charge our cameras – modern day, equipment, which gasped their death, at fading batteries. Huh.

The Temple of Ugra Tara

One evening, after we had finished our work for the day, we looked around for chai. Unexpectedly, we were near the temple of Ugra Tara. And, surely, we went in.

Tara is not only an ancient Hindu Goddess but also one of the most important Buddhist Goddesses.

Apparently, the term Tara, from the Sanskrit root 'tri' means deliverer, saviour, to "take across" a river, an ocean, a mountain or any difficult situation. Tara also means 'star'. Hence she is the star of our aspiration, our muse who guides us on the creative path.

Ugra Tara, just after her daily,

ritual "bath"

Ugra Tara, is her aroused, or demonic form. And apparently, she loves liquor, meat and utter devotion. Animal sacrifices, of goats and cows, are common. Goats are sacrificed regularly, while cows are sacrificed during Dasshera.

Yep. The animal sacrifice place. The big one is for

the cows and the small one for goats.

Apparently, Ugratara temples are extremely rare in this part of the country. As far as it is known, there is no other regular temple of Ugratara anywhere in Bihar, although the image of Tara particularly of the Pala period have been found at various places, including Kurkihar in Gaya district. The worship of this rare deity at this inaccessible village excites curiosity.

Ugratara is also known as Maha-Cina-Tara and this later Buddhistic image has been imported to India from Tibet through Nepal. Saharsa district is quite close to Nepal. The frontiers of Saharsa district and the district of Saptari in Nepal adjoin.

Ugratara is an image of Tantric culture.

Bagmati

Bagmati is one of the tributaries of Kosi. Baagh means tiger - or here it would be tigress. Baghmati - the intelligence of a Tiger. And Bagmati is exactly like that. A tigress. People in Raxia, Seetamarhi, who live within her embankments, said she is the tigress. One can hear her roar, her garjana, when she is in flood. And at that time she becomes Vyagramati - the tigress.

Bagmati, is also said to be purer than Ganga, more potent. One attains swarg, heaven, when one bathes in her.

One story, narrated by the people in the village, goes like this ...

A Brahman had four sons. 3 of them were like him, competent and well able to lead a prosperous life. The fourth was a loser, a waster who whiled away his time in meaningless pursuits. During one such pursuit, he landed up with a prostitute. And in the night, he was thirsty and asked her for water. Sleepily she told him it was by his bedside and he had to only reach out for it. The Brahman-youth drank deeply and to his consternation found out that it was madira, alcohol !

Being a Brahman, it was great sin to drink madira. (Don't ask why it was not a sin to visit a prostitute !!) Anyways, deeply distressed, he runs to priest to ask for a means to atone his sin. The priest has no answer.

The youth then goes to many, many people asking for a way to atone his sin. And finally in a village comes across a priest, considered by many to be a prankster. This chap hands him a danda, a walking stick, and tells him, that he has to keep walking, be on pilgrimage, until the stick sprouts, and gets an ankur.

The poor, misguided, youth, walks many miles, many years. But nowhere is he able to find his answer. He reaches a riverbank, and tired, lays his stick down, and goes down to her to drink and bathe. When he returns, he finds, lo and behold, that his stick has sprouted and sports an ankur !

The river, it is said, was Bagmati. So potent, that she could sprout even a walking stick.

And the Brahman? Of course, his sins were washed away ... :)

Mandan Land

Bihar is also, sneeringly, perjoratively, called Laloo-land. After Laloo Prasad Yadav. The ex-chief minister of Bihar. The fodder-scam man. But that is another story.

And in this Laloo-land, one came across Mandan-land. At Mahishi. Around 17-18 kms. from Saharsa, is this ancient village of Mahishi. Archaeological Survey of India's findings dates this village to be 2000 years old. One can quite believe it. It looks rather untouched by the chaos of the so-called outside world. Mahishi is the birth land of the scholar Mandan Mishra, a great philosopher of the eighth century. It is here that Shankaracharya, who came from the South, had a philosophic debate with Mishra and then his wife Bharathi. Legend has it that Shankaracharya aced Mandan Mishra in the debate. His arrogance began showing through. He was however challenged by Bharati, Mandan's wife, who told him that his victory was only on her husband. He however still had to contest her, Mandan's ardhangini, the better-half.

During the debate, Bharati posed questions related to sex and physical relations between man and woman. Shankaracharya, being a Brahmachary, i.e. celibate, did not know the answers. And hence was defeated by her.

Shankaracharya, decided to understand this aspect of life. He left his body in care of his disciples, and entered the dead-still-to-be-cremated-body of a prince. He lived as the prince, with his wife and children for 2-3 years, getting embroiled in the moh and maaya of sansara. Eventually, he returned to his own body, challenged Bharati again. This time he could speak from experience and won the debate.

Even today, there exists the site where the debate was held, so say the people of Mahishi.

The Crossing

We were to move to the next village, Kodra. A village that resided in between the embankments of the Kosi. And for this we had to cross one of the rivulets (some rivulet!) of the river.

The bank was steep. The water ran fast and swirled in eddies far below. This river was different. Her speed and power, even during the off-monsoon time, was not to be taken lightly. We waited patiently for the boat to come in from the other side.

No engines. No oars. How did it work, I wondered.

Two stumps, one on each bank. A strong, plastic rope tied around them, across the river. (ignore the people on the forefront ...)

Another piece of rope hung from this, something to hang on to?

And anybody could just pull themselves, on the boat, across.

Simple? Simple.

Married & Unmarried rivers !

We were listening in rapt attention to D.K.Mishraji, to his analyses of the impacts of the Kosi embankments. D.K.Mishra, is the grand old man who has devoted his life to researching, writing and activism on Kosi, against her embankments. He is a story-teller, a teacher who can hold forth in complete authority on the subject. He is an IIT graduate, a structural engineer who does understand the intricacies of the impacts of building mega-structures like the Kosi embankments. His talk is peppered with stories he has heard from the people of the land. One such story was of the Rivers.

People, from time immemorial, know how to live with floods. Note: they do not control floods or even manage floods. They live with them. Unlike our foolish technologists who tried to conquer the temperamental Kosi. But not that now ... I will talk about that in another piece. For now, I am recounting the story of the Rivers. So, as I was saying, people lived with the floods. Monsoons came. The rivers swelled up. The waters spread out - clearing garbage and trash, filling ponds and wells, rejuvenating the tired land with fresh soil from the Himalayas. The water rose up to 4-5 feet. And the people built machaans, platforms of bamboo, where up went everything. Their grain stock, their precious assets, their kids and cattle and also sometimes a stray snake which found its shelter from the raging waters. But that was the principle during the floods. Everybody helped everybody. Enemities, even between the species were forgotten. People waited the floods out. Eventually, in a few days, the waters would recede. And life returned to normalcy.

Once in way, the rivers threw their tantrums, refusing to withdraw to their course. The women, then, held poojas, lit lamps and prayed to the river to go back. And if the river still refused, the women threw sindoor, the red powder which married women in India wear on their forehead. They threatened the rivers with marriage !

These Himalayan rivers, were apparently unmarried. They were young, they were full of life, and they came tumbling and skipping down the slopes. They were immature and juvenile. And thus they were unmarried. Ganga, on the other hand, is married - at least in Bihar. She has run a long course, seen the world, runs sedate and peaceful, and nurtures her people. Marriage apparently has tamed her. Made her more responsible.

The Kosi and her playmates, Bagmati (the tigress), Kamala, Gandak etc. were as yet unmarried. They changed their course ever so often. Got distracted. But were powerful.

The threat of marriage, the women say, works. For the rivers retreat in a hurry when sindoor is thrown at them.

Looks like even the rivers know a good thing, huh?

Jugaad, again !

We are in this Musahar village. The Musahari community is one of the most marginalised community. A neglected, backward and really really poor lot. No education. No specific skill-sets. Totally dependent on the mai-baap landlord. And most probably a bonded-labour to boot, though one would not reveal it, even in whispers.

It is evening. Dusk is falling fast. The fires glow bright warming up the chilling air. Smoke billows around. And there... out there was a teensy-weensy, bright, LED light, lighting up this guy's little shop. And we all stand around and admire the handywork of this proud father's son, making suitable noises. Until he unwittingly reveals that it was done by his 10-year old son, who probably hasn't gone to school !

Jugaad !

Jugaad !

Jugaad is such a lovely word ... it means improvisation, innovation, finding solutions in most unexpected ways ... a "un"-scientific, out-of-the-box, ingenious solution to problems that may otherwise seem difficult to solve.

And this one was one such totally unexpected Jugaad !

The fire was out and the embers were burning low. The customers were early but hungry. A quick solution to getting the fire up and burning is needed. Out comes a beat-up, old, rickety fan. The two wires are stuck into the socket. The fan shoved near the opening of the choolah. A whirr. And the embers burst into flames. The rotis come rolling out and the subzi gets done in a jiffy. The customers are served.

Everyone is happy.

Rajoli - Village of the Singing Looms

Rajoli is a village in Mehboobnagar District. Sitting by the River Tungabhadra, which forms the border between Mehboobnagar and Kurnool Districts.

The first thing one encounters in Rajoli is the wall of the city. Rajoli is too small to be called a city. Yet the wall surrounding it, built ages ago by the then Raju or the King, gives itself the status it feels it deserves. The wall apparently runs round the village, as one can see in the picture.
The River irrigates the fields of cotton, sunflower and other black soil crops. The soil here is black, deep and clayey. The Sunkesula Barrage, stops the Tungabhadra, to divert the water for the many acres surrounding the river. The Tungabhadra, now a trickle, continues to join the Krishna a few miles ahead only to be drowned out in the Srisailam Dam.

Rajoli is a village of handloom weavers, who weave the beautiful Gadwal silk saris. But for its weavers, Rajoli would be just about one of the villages among the half a million villages in India.

The visit opened my eyes to the intricacies of handloom weaving.

The cloth was woven in Pit Looms. A complicated machinery

made of wood stradled the pit while the weaver sat at the edge of the pit with legs hanging in. The loom rhythmically clacked away ahead, while the weaver, monotonously pulled and pushed the shuttle with the weft through the warp.

I was fascinated with the "design cards" ... apparently the loom is controlled by punchcards with punched holes, each row of which corresponds to one row of the design. Multiple rows of holes are punched on each card and the many cards that compose the design of the textile are strung together in order.

"Each hole in the card corresponds to a "Bolus" hook, which can either be up or down. The hook raises or lowers the harness, which carries and guides the warp thread so that the weft will either lie above or below it.

The sequence of raised and lowered threads is what creates the pattern. Each hook can be

connected via the harness to a number of threads, allowing more than one repeat of a pattern.

A loom with a 400 hook head might have four threads connected to each hook, resulting in a fabric that is 1600 warp ends wide with four repeats of the weave going across..", thus said wikipedia, during my later reading on looms.

It takes 15-20 days to weave one sari. And an initial investment of Rs.10,000 to buy the silk threads, the design cards etc. The loom head costs around Rs.8,000-Rs.12,000. The loom heads are bought from Madurai or Bangalore, while the design cards are from Dharmavaram. The "silk route" of South India - Bangalore-Dharmavaram-Madurai....

The complexity of the activity was amazing. I wondered at the patience of the weavers and the skill of the master-weavers who "constructed" the threads through the hooks. Many times this connecting-the-strings gets done in the night, all night long, with an oil-lamp burning, its pungent smell permeating the atmosphere, while tired eyes concentrate on the intricate effort.

The Saris seem much, much more beautiful now. The cost of the sari seems nothing compared to the effort that goes into making it. Every thread, every waft, every weave, a tribute to the weavers of these small villages, their skills spent on the rhythmic clacking of these Singing Looms.

Kabir, the mystic and poet of the 15th century was a weaver himself. He sang this beautiful song about the cloth that he wove.

jhini re jhini re jhini chadariya, jhini re jhini re jhini chadariya

ke ram naam ras bhini chadariya, jhini re jhini re jhini chadariya
ashta kamal dal charkha doley, panch tatva, gun tini chadariya
saiin ko siyat mas dus lagey, thokey-thokey ke bini chadariya
so chadar sur nar muni odi, odi ke maili kini chadariya
das kabir jatan so odi, jyon ki tyon dhar deen chadariya

in translation:
This is fine, this is fine cloth.
It is been dipped in the name of the lord
The spinning wheel, like an eight-petal lotus, spins,
With five tatvas and three gunas as the pattern.
The Lord stiched it in 10 months
The threads have been pressed to get a tight weave.
It has been worn by gods, people, and sages
They soiled it with use.Kabir says, I have covered my self with this cloth with great care,
And eventually will leave it like it was.

Howrah Bridge

It was so exciting ! The cab turned and there we were ! On this Bridge which I had seen only in movies. It was the most romantic symbol of Calcutta hearthrobbingly brought to light by the old 60's movie 'Howrah Bridge' with the most beautiful Madhubala in it. Since then I had always dreamt of seeing this marvel.

It was exactly as I thought it would be - noisy, crowded and gorgeous. The setting sun on one side and the rising full moon on the Hoogly at dusk added sheer magic to the moment. Dozens of boats and millions of lights on the banks !

It is considered to be an engineering marvel, which took six years to construct in the 1940s. Over 2,590 metric tonnes of high tensile steel make-up this unique cantilever bridge that joins the main Railway Station (for Calcutta) and the industrial city of Howrah with the city of Calcutta. Supported by two piers, each nearly 90 meters in height above the road level, the bridge has a span of almost 500 meters (no pillars in the middle). It was opened in 1943 and today it is one of the busiest bridges in the world. It is the third largest bridge in the world, has around 2 million people crossing over it daily. Visible from many places in Calcutta, the bridge is called 'Rabindra Setu'.

Kolkata !

It is easy to understand why Calcutta is called a city with a soul. And its also easy to see why it is so easy to fall in love with this city - with its crumbling, old buildings, its beautiful but rusted grills, its caked with grime facades, its cobblestoned roads, rickety, ready to fall-apart buses, its truly out-dated, out-moded, rickshaws pulled by sweaty and labouring people, its mad traffic - taxis, pedestrians, buses, autos, rickshaws, pedestrians, all in a jumbled-senseless melee yet all surviving the cut-throat competition to get that one little opening where one can push through.

It is truly amazing.

Though the words may sound critical, they are not critical at all - they are only meant to paint the picture of what I saw. If there is a city I fell in love with instantaneously, it is Calcutta. The women beautiful, the men unnoticeable :). It is a city where one can feel the palpitating poverty. Bombay has its crumbling old buildings too. Its has its slums too. But Calcutta seems so much more different. There is no visible wealth here unlinke Bombay where it can be obscenely visible. The rural and colonial air of the city permeates through every layer. Its as if the city is caught in a time-warp. It looks forgotten. As if nobody really cares if this city dies or survives.The buses are a testimony to this. Rickety to the extreme and a design which must be at least a couple of centuries old (!), it looks as if Calcutta hasn't even seen, let alone caught up, with modern developments.Its a city I am sure to go again and again to. And I know deep inside that this first glimpse was only the first of many to come ...

Amsterdam !

If I could choose, I would like to be like Roos when I am 62. Roos is a grand lady, a friend of a friend, who is full of life and living. She could go dancing at 2 o'clock in the night and could invite positive attention from young people who wanted to dance with her ! Roos lived in this wonderful house, full of light and warmth, just as her heart. Set in three floors and an attic, it was close to a waterfront.

I loved Amsterdam, its beautiful waterways, boats, flowers and cycles.

Roos, took us to see the Tulip fields, as that's all I could think about ! And from there we went to a coastal village on the North Sea. The water was freezing and dipping our feet into the sea didn't seem like a good idea.

Saharsa

We met Ratneesh, from a local NGO, over a hot breakfast of Parathas with Sabzi, and many pyaalis of chai and got updated on the flood situation in Supaul and Madhepura. He gave us contacts of his team mates in Murliganj.

The travels guy had rustled up a macho black scorpio and we were off to the field areas. Premkumar, our driver, was initially a little sullen ... didn't change much though, inspite of all our efforts at making friends with him.

The highway was monotonous, with roadside slums, and a variety of occupations of the unorganised sector. Finally, after many hours, we were able to shake off the tentacles of urbanisation, and made inroads into the rural areas. Rural bihar is as beautiful as any rural area of the country. The villages were clean, mud houses with a variety of roof-tops, ranging from thatch, tiles to the ubiquous RCC, goats and cattle, carts full of hay ... and one felt enconsed in the romantic bollywoodian theme of the rural.

Bihar and water could be synonymous, notwithstanding the floods. There were many, many streams, rivers, snaking all across the flat landscape and one understood the meaning of the phrase 'river plain'. For a person with a background of hilly regions, seeing the horizon at such distance was amazing especially when the land below was carpeted with yellow mustard fields, and a variety of green.

Dusk came early. 4.30 p.m. and the light started fading. 5.30 and the fog started appearing. The journey in the dark was crazy - it was dark with the ghostly light of fog. But the dense fog made the road invisible. We drove at 20-30 kms. an hour, looking out for the edge of the road and hoping that we would not roll over the edge of the 'high' road into the fields below.

We hunted for food for dinner, but rural Bihar had gone to bed and did not co-operate with us. The line-hotels (dhabas) were far apart, and we were desperate for food by the end. Finally we found a line-hotel, albeit a small one, who doled out hot-hot rotis with the ever-present aloo-gobi. Tummies full, we felt we could face anything.

We reached Saharsa town. The kosi-nivas, the best hotel in town was full, so we went looking for accomodation. The Embassy sounded good and we decided to give it a shot, but we shot out at full speed after confronting its dingy and shady interior with Urinals and rooms side by side and walls painted and splattered with pan-pichkaris ... ! We finally managed to convince Kosi-Nivas to give us accommodation. It was heaven after the Embassy. And not to forget the HOT water that was available for a bath !! We slept through the rambunctious celebrations of a wedding behind the walls and got up in the morning, once more ready to face whatever the day held.

Bihar !

My first memory of Bihar will always be of fog. I woke up early morning, and looked out of the window of the train, and looked at a ghostly landscape, shrouded in fog. People, stations, poles, signals, trees, ponds, seemed to appear from nowhere - stayed in sight for a few moments and disappeared once again into nowhere.Patna, bustled with life and activity. Granite platforms, jazzy columns, glass and chrome in places, tried to give an impression of progress and modernity. Many groups of policemen all around made one feel at once safer and insecure. Insecure as one wondered 'why so many policemen ?' and safer as one thought 'well, at least we are protected'.The chaos outside the station is indescribable - autos, cycle rickshaws, cars, handcarts, ramshackle buses, and a mass of people vied with one another for space on the narrow roads. The autos were banged up, with cracked and broken windshields .. left like that ... as if there was no point in repairing it !

I settled into the guest house, and the day was spent waiting for Suneet, whose train was almost 10 hours late due to fog !!

Kolleru

Its only serendipity that can bring such experiences into one's life.

We (Pankaj, Siva and I) were on the grim task of evaluating some of the post-tsunami reconstruction projects in coastal Andhra Pradesh. Long, long journeys were punctuated by hot and dusty stops at featureless, monotonous, army-barrack like projects. Hearts were heavy and the limbs were tired. The soul, as usual, seemed to have a million questions ...

What saved the trip was the wonderful, green, dotted-with-tanks landscape of the coast. The beauty was indescribable.

And then one tired afternoon Kolleru happened. Kolleru, I imagined, was a huge lake. And when the field team talked about boat rides, my ears perked up.

Never, never, never, in my dreams I would have imagined an experience like this. Kolleru was no simpering lake. It was a huge expanse of a wetlands ... that swayed to the rhythm of flooding and receding waters - leaving behind a vast variety flora and fauna. The fishes thrived. And the place was a Birds Paradise. In half an hour, we must seen at least 30 varieties of birds - ranging from the tiny twittering ones to the silently, meditating 6 footers !



The boat-ride was through a forest of "kikisa", tall reeds that grew giving a tunnel effect. The swirling, silent water seemed to hide myriad of secrets in its depths under a vast bird-filled sky.


The trip included a visit to a remote island village which was famous for its temple. But remote or not it boasted a bar. The hoarding seemed incongruous in the setting, sitting side by side the temple ! But then there's a strange rightness in that - for, after-all, both promise Nirvana !

The trip that lasted a good 2-3 hours, ending only as fell, seemed like a reward, a compensation for the task we were doing.

The soul was replete. Filled with gratitude.