Agra

It would be a good idea, I thought, to buy UG’s in Agra — Mumtaz special. A laugh it would be we decided if we found someone selling something similar to what Mumtaz Jahan wore for the Shah.

I didn’t have the time to go looking. Nor did our Agra Fort guide mention if the Mumtaz wore Ugs or if any of the Mughals liked wearing Ugs (we also did not broach – although he did say that the Mughals loved women and had loads of them, there were harems with over 3,000 women or that the Mughals did not like messing with doors, they preferred curtains, they liked hanging out with their wives in the balconies and doing nothing during summers.) 

And so the Taj variety of love is surf excel clean ( as if you didn’t know).  The owner of the place  where we lunched ( as did everyone else) referred to the Taj as a ”Pyar ki nishani’ – the sacrificial kind.  
 The only comic endearing moment during the Taj trip was when a warden ticked off a tourist for smuggling cigarettes in the soles of his shoes. (As the sheepish tourist with his love for cigarettes walked back to the locker, Aye asked the by now smug warden how did he figure out where to look. The warden said he just knew. )

as i have complained to most people, the Taj is a big letdown. The guides we followed – we didnt hire our own — at the Taj were insipid. A friend had asked me to hire a guide to learn about the architectural wonders of the Love Mahal. It didnt work.

Heading back from the love mahal was a nightmare. We were three girls, one visiting the Taj for the first time, one after 20 years, and one after four years, though that was not the reason why we hooked ourselves up with an auto driver for day long transportation. It was a  very bad idea. We got into a bus in the evening that took the longest time – from 6 pm to 3 am — to get to Delhi.(In Delhi, we got hauled by cops when we couldn’t find a single open gate into the society.)

 One soaring moment during the day was the lunch we had at the back alleys of Jama Masjid. The chicken I nibbled on from Aye’s plate was better than Delhi’s Karim’s. I had asked for dal-chawal  ( i was trying to be vegan), but they gave me a mild version of fried rice, with peas, boiled and fried in oil,with cashew, cloves and other spices.

 Aye has coined a sobriquet for Agra – ‘city of thieves’. Agra ke log chor hote hain,  is what we told everyone who was within ear shot as they forced us to sight-see through Mathura and Vrindavan in the dark, both filled with mercenary priests. 
People say, one is predisposed to like the Mahal, even before one steps in. Some other people said before we left that that it is a symbol of one man’s ego. If one feels compelled to try out the Taj Mahal, then it is useful to remember that the Love Mahal is like a temple at the time of an ‘Aarti’. Or do the night trip – which is about Rs 500 for 20 minutes.  

I feel sage enough to add that it is best to talk less in Agra. Do not strike deals with the auto drivers to take you around. Stay away from guides. Stay away from crowds. It would be a good idea to carry as less  money as possible. Aye said the city is renouned for pickpocketeers. Do not buy anything, you will most definitely get fleeced.  The city is really not worth it. One ends up with an unsavoury taste, it erodes most things positive in you. Aye and I felt like our years of education and so many years of working and dealing with hardboiled eggs was wasted on us.

Spitian Notes – I

On our drive down to Kee monastry in Spiti valley, an animal loving friend got off the jeep to hug one of the two donkeys. For the donkeys this was probably strange even for Spiti standards.

In the next two days, Pooh Jha ( as she will be called here ) would hop out of the jeep to fondle another donkey, some sheep, a few blue, brown and yellow mountain goats and one domesticated and saddled horse. And although she expressed a desire a number of times to sink her head into the hairy mane of a yak, we never found one close enough for her to hug.

This was perhaps good for the yak as Pooh managed to spook the majority of the animals we spotted whom she tried to hug, despite proclaiming deep love and affection for all of them.

It began with the donkey pair that was quietly grazing on the road side, the day we went to Tabo and Pin. Pooh moved one step towards them only for them to shuffle sideways, away from her, without interrupting their afternoon meal, pretending to ignore the world, which perhaps allowed a distant thought to lull into her head that a hug may be possible after all.

She stretched her hand to pet one of them and they wriggled their rear and put a couple of more steps between us. She lunged one last time to hug and they broke into a trot and scampered away in tandem, their bums and tails synchronized and swishing. Oddly though, the donkeys never brayed.

She never named this couple citing treason on their part as the chief reason, but her next donkey love, Pooh called Ghanshyam.

This one was grazing away unsuspecting of what was about to descend on him. But Ghanshyam was quick on the uptake. The instant he sniffed non-four legged presence around him, he put in as much distance in between as was possible on donkey legs after an interrupted meal and days of non-bathing.

For a while, Pooh and I ran with Ghanshyam, calling out to him to wait and be hugged and then pose. But Ghanshyam ran unmoved.

I do not have pics of Ghanshyam. Of the first pair I have a forlorn Pooh looking at two donkeys running in the distance.

These were our later days in Spiti valley. And this was much before my camera phone broke. There was one horse — I forget his name — who Pooh managed to hug, of whom I have a video clip. Otherwise sheeps ran away, goats ignored, even a little kid didn’t take being pichkooed too well, but that is another story for another day.

On the third or the fourth day, journeying in Nako, we found a water beetle, who Pooh adopted and called Augustus Kramis – the third. Augustus ran away when he was scrubbed, force fed and force-sent to learn Sanskrit to be a Brahmin. An adopted housefly called Raghupathy in Kaza fled home when Pooh offered to get him married – or so I think, I forget the real reason. Of these I never managed photographs.

Yaks we never found in Spiti. They said they were abundant in Leh. But I have a postcard of a bunch of yaks on a farm in Spiti. Two of them, Pooh has named Ganpathy and Kundalika V. Young Ganapathy is peacefully grazing unaware that Kundalika is eyeing him. Kundalika is good at math and Ganpathy is good with knitting, or so Pooh said – I think. I might frame the postcard as an ode to the hug that never happened.

prayer

Amoeba is our temple. When I first met Mip in Chennai, that’s what I apparently asked her, ‘Oh so you’re from B’lore, have you been to Amoeba?’ Mip says I asked her about 20 times after that; she exaggerates. On the lane to Amoeba, off Brigade Road, there is a Ganesh Fruit shop. We had mango milk shake. Mip compared it to Gujrati mandal. The aamras there is fiery orange in colour. This one looked like poop, Mip called it — poop coloured turmeric paste. We were drinking a diseased shake.

It wasn’t that bad. Should we compare things in life? It may always not be a good idea. When I first joined JC in Chembur, each person there reminded me of some another; I would compare mannerisms and accents of these new acquaintances with my friends from school and colony. I had never really adjusted. I was longing for brighter mornings. Getting up early and showing up at 7 in college, in dirty mud brown uniform, and studying in a convent like atmosphere was not my idea of college. But it had been my choice. And I think I tried to cope by comparing, all the time. Tough times in life.

After the poop juice, we reached a broken down tomb like structure some twenty paces from Blossoms – the bookstore. Amoeba was not there, instead stood a monster in construction covered in blue and yellow tarpaulin , wooden ladders sticking out at appropriate places. Some renovation, perhaps. We had been walking quite a distance towards our temple and now this wasn’t funny.

Mip was upset. Tired too. She wanted to go home. We decided to skip Blossoms. Nowhere else would the heart go — Amoeba was no more. Or so we thought.

And then we saw a board high up in gleaming electric red. Amoeba. Behind Mainland China. Mip had been mistaken after all. Behind us were a gaggle of Chinese students, and Mip had commented on our way to the demolished monster — how predictable, bunch of Chinese in front of M China and all. And this M China had blocked our view. Unplanned planning. Life had returned. We were in front of Amoeba: temple of first friendships, for more reasons than one. It was here that last year I met two other friends, who were actually acquaintances and friends of a v good friend before we met at Amoeba.

I have a picture of this moment of Amoeba – lost and found again.

B’lore

I am on holiday in B’lore now. Pretty B’lore, lovely Blore. The only trouble in this house is that besides human beings, cockroaches live here too. Huge, flying, deep shade of brown cockroaches that scare the day lights out of me. I complain each time I come here, but I still come. This place is other wise beautiful. It has only gained in beauty in the last five years.

Summer is here in B’lore but the weather gods seem confused. It rains here quite often, with lightning and thunder that send the night demons into deep burrows. Otherwise bring out the knives and the crazy lines. Kachang!