Originally ours?

Sometime last year, I and my husband accompanied a Japanese Couple for their shopping. The duo was working at Orissa in a NGO project with another friend of ours. Obiviously they were facing lots of trouble in getting the common ingredients of their usual Japanese food at that remote and poverty stricken district. So coming to Calcutta was their big chance to buy spices , vegetables and fish of their choice .
We took them to a Chinese Restaurant at Tangra for lunch . Tangra, the mini china town of Calcutta is reputed to serve authentic Chinese food painstakingly preserved by the 200 odd Chinese families living in the locality for past few generations. Our Japanese couple was ecstatic at the proposal. Once in the restaurant, the lady asked for the menu in Chinese script as she had studied it in China and thought she will be more familiar with the dishes with their original names. But then, there was no menu card in Chinese. After all , the eatery was serving mostly to Indians and felt no need to have a Chinese menu…even the waiters of Chinese origin(there were very few of them) could speak fluent bangla but very little Chinese. We suggested probably she can try a chopsuey. She said she has never heard of a dish with such a name in China . Her husband, educated in USA also confirmed that this so called “American Chopsuey” is unknown to Chinese in USA . So we concluded that perhaps it is a local invention and called by that name for some strange reason. Later I did some Googling and found that they were right!
Chopsuey( it means “mixed pieces” in Chinese) is part of American Chinese cuisine, Canadian Chinese cuisine, and, more recently, Indian Chinese cuisine. Filipinos also have their own version of chopsuey. Though it is popular dish in Chinese restaurants in USA to suit American taste, it is never eaten by local Chinese. It is alleged to have been invented by Chinese immigrant cooks working on the United States Transcontinental railway in the 19th century and has also been cited in New York City's Chinatown restaurants since the 1880s. Other sources say that the dish (and its name) was invented during Qing Dynasty premier Li Hongzhang's visit to the United States: when reporters asked what food the premier was eating, his cook found it difficult to explain the dishes, and replied "mixed pieces” and as per another version of this 'culinary mythology', traces it to a dish of Taishan, the homeland of many Chinese immigrants. Whatever may be the case, our Japanese friends liked the taste of the unknown 'Chinese' dishes served in India .
Yesterday I read an interesting article by Chef Shaun Kenworthy in The Telegraph, about the origin of various vegetables and recipes. If one go in search of origin of popular food items , many astonishing facts emerge. E.g. the roti, Kali daal, Rogan josh even the kebab – the so called Indian classic food preparations are not Indian at all. On the other hand Manchurian and chilli chikan – generally taken as Chinese , are very much Indian by birth and by naturalization. Its difficult to imagine that some of the most popular vegetables like potato , tomato, cauliflower and bell pepper arrived in India only around 300-400 years ago. So the Kashmiri Aloo dum or our favorite Aloo tikki are not that traditional as we would have thought.

The article made me think about the ever evolving world of recipes and food traditions. In many cases it will be just impossible to pinpoint the origin of a particular dish .The current recipe may be far from the original one in its form , method of preparation and even taste .There are just too many regional and religious influences on the food in India . I am sure Chinese would have been amazed to find a pure vegetarian Chinese restaurant at Gujarat (they even have a MacDonald outlet serving only veg- world’s only of its type) . Then these days in North India you find a lot of experimentation with south India food specially the Dosa and idly . So paneer dosa and fried idlies are as popular as the original ones in most north Indian cities. And mind you, these are not just some local variations of the recipes but an entirely new recipe clubbing itself with the original name and still going by the tag of south Indian food . These days you can find a paneer sandwitch dhokala and Machurian pizza also. But then in this age of remix music, fusion language and inspired fashion, even this choupsuey cooking is most welcome as long as it suits our taste buds. So should I try some sprouted mung dal and paneer on my pizza tonight? I know I know ...Italians will be shocked to hear that .

On Punctuality: the virtue of the bored.

Better three hours too soon than a minute too late- Shakespeare said it and I practiced. Well, apart from some exceptional occasions ,I am never late for classes, appointments, movie shows, functions and parties. But these days, I am having doubts at this habit of being punctual. I know, it is difficult to get out of this carefully practiced routine but then I think I am destined to get friends, colleagues, subordinates and even spouse who do not care for keeping time.
The world is divided in two groups of human beings – those who will watch preparations for any function, mike being set for a meeting and carpet being brushed ..will beat the cleaning staff in reaching office…. will conveniently double check all seats in a lecture hall before settling for one and those who will catch the last bogey of local train every day without fail….apologize to colleagues for keeping them waiting, will enter office every morning just when the attendance register is entering boss’s chamber , will reach home late and say almost genuine sounding “sorry” to their wife/husband and will repeat the cycle again the next day. Incidentally it is for the first group that they put so many poster ads at Railway stations and bus stops …these people, invariably early to catch a train/bus , find all the time to read the posters and even point out spelling mistakes in them. The other group is the responsible for the inventions of lace free shoes, escalators and munch-on-the -way snacks. Being fair to the two groups, I don’t think it matters much in which group you are. Both have a fair share of successes and failures. If a punctual person like me starts a day with boredom of waiting for others to appear on the scene, habitual latecomers suffer from last minute anxieties. While in schools, colleges normally it pays to be on time , in social and even in official gatherings , it is fashionable to arrive late ....as no one important is ever present to appreciate punctuality.

So without any value judgments, without any decision of right and wrong why do I choose to arrive on time every morning knowing well that other car pool colleagues will be still pouring milk over their corn flakes? I guess it has to do with the habit. I can’t bear being late and on exceptional circumstances when I am late, I feel bad. My college friends once asked me jokingly if I was even born premature .Somewhere inside me, I still feel that lack of punctuality is a theft of someone else's time. If I have made an appointment with you, I owe you punctuality, I have no right to throw away your time, if I do my own. Lack of punctuality is a lack of respect for others and also is a violation of the Golden Rule that we are to treat others as we would want to be treated. How I wish they too shared my philosophy in this regard! Talking of habitual late comers, I have a bagful of them in my office. They perhaps curse their luck that I am that obstinate boss who insists on punctuality when for years together they were happily practicing KST-Kolkata Standard Time ( i.e. start from home at the time when you are expected to reach.) Amazing part is that these gentlemen and ladies will expect (a hope beyond hope) that trains and trams will be dot on time, buses will be ready for them the moment they step out and there will be no other problem and hence conveniently give themselves few more moments. Not even evidence of the contrary for decades can alter their trust in others’ punctuality or make them practice their own. Mind you, these habitual late comers are the first one to point out that people in bank/post offices are never on time. That the other officer is not on seat and hence the work suffers. The same principle goes for submitting replies and returns. In putting up files and meeting with deadlines. In fact, in most cases deadlines are long dead when the work is finally finished. But then late coming has its own virtues too. It encourages lateral thinking and creative writing. I wish I could compile the creative excuses I get from my staff for being late. In my previous office, once I unexpectedly asked for attendance register of an IT savvy section and found about 6 people missing. They were asked to show cause and voila! I found another use of IT….promptly came 6 identical applications for condoning late coming all for the same reason – child at home met with some accident. I called the group again and asked if they share the sunsign as well… Or if aliens have attacked the children of Kolkata on the fateful day. Another very interesting encounter was with a Bengali gentleman who was irritated with me for expecting him to be on time. He with all generosity once explained me in great details, how he gets up very early ,reads newspaper , goes to fish market to buy fresh fish, which will be then cooked by his wife and will be served in due course and only after a hearty meal (like a worthy bhadralok) he can start for the office . He then asked me in an agitated tone that how can I expect him to be earlier than his usual time when he has so many morning rituals to fulfill? Well, I gave up.
Still bound by my own habits, I religiously put crosses in attendance registers, shout at my husband for always being late and make faces at my car pool colleagues.
I know all arguments, all fussing- is a waste…they can’t change their habit as I can’t change mine. So I am destined to arrive at the time of mike-testing and dusting of chairs and they will run over the stairs with shoelaces loose. They tell me "Better late than never……………” And I reply back “……… but even better- NEVER BE LATE”

My Family and Other Animals

O yes…even beyond those fancy looking musicals of Karan Johar ….its all about loving your family. I started reading Orhan Pamuk’s Istanbul where he is recalling his childhood amidst a pair of fighting parents and an affluent joint family -full of uncles and aunts, nannies and maids, grandmother’s discipline and weird cousins, pianos which were never played and family heirlooms in the showcases . I was surprised by the detached way he has been able to tell about his parents and their relation.
Though as a writer if you choose to write about yourself …I guess, it is fair to expect an honest account of things from you and I do believe Pamuk is giving just that…yet somehow , I find it strange that one can write about one’s own family in this way. No, it’s not being malicious or washing the dirty linen in public, its just that he is not trying to hide things which may not be so comfortable to write about. A writer, I read somewhere ,should act like a mirror which reflects how things are or were – even if the details are unpleasant or uncomfortable. I have no problem agreeing with all this in theory…but in actual life it is difficult to write so dispassionately about people you are close to. People with whom your best memories are associated with. People who are your FAMILY.
So what is a family? Long back I read a very apt definition of Family in Readers’ Digest . It says- Family is a group of people who eat different breakfasts every morning on the same dining table . Jokes apart, families are a very important part of each one of us. Even those parts of extended families who are physically apart play a role in shaping our character and perhaps our destiny too. I was just wondering what I would like to remember about my family? What is my family? Why would like to remember or tell anyone about my family …and here is what I gathered after much thought on the issue..my very own Three theories about families.
My first theory says that every family history as known by a member of the family has two distinct sources. Things and incidents which were “told” to him or her and things and incidents he/she witnessed. Both parts together complete the story . Now the first part necessarily has the narrator’s bias inbuilt in it and the second has the bias which we all have if we are part of the happenings. So the family history …as told or as remembered, is neither factually perfect nor emotionally stable. However, the things which make a deep impression on us – true or not so true- are what we choose to remember and relate to. Talking about the content of the family history , each family has its own share of sorrows, achievements, mistakes,clashes, heroes, scandals and embarrassments, things to boast about and things to edit for subsequent generations. So a normal family, has all the ingredients of life - pleasant and unpleasant.

Now the second theory says that every (extended) family has by the same law of normal distribution , has some characters of specific types. These include-

•  People who are an embarrassment to talk about before friends/in-laws/spouses
• People who were mean and opportunistic, selfish and cunning. ( they are accused of taking advantage of other relations but are always made part of family gatherings for courtesy sake
•  People who are kind and good hearted but plain and simply- unlucky
• People who crib about everybody and everything
• People who are rich, successful and/or stylish and look down upon other relatives( In their parties/gatherings everybody tries to be upto their standard and later disowns them as artificial and shallow. They are also the people we like to mention about before friends and colleagues.)
• People who are considered worldly wise
• People who are fun to be with – they also double as best family historians, always ready with censored part of stories about family elders
• People (including servants, nannies, drivers) who were “almost like family”
• People who like to keep in touch with everybody and everything in the family but are absent on the times of crises.
• Uncles who have funny habits
• Aunts who are critical of the family (they always marry the most favorite uncles )
• Cousins who ignore all communications
• Sisters who marry the most hopeless blokes
• Brothers who are henpecked
• Nephews who are oddballs
• Nieces who are unruly and stupid

……and so on. Its irritating and overwhelming at the same time to be associated with such a group. And that is why,we all tend to be Family people .

So back to my original question what would I like to remember about my family?

My answer is I would like to remember everything – all bitter and sweet incidents, all discomfiture and disappointments too…but to be honest I don’t think I would like to tell others/write about all of it. In the end perhaps the feel good moments will dominate my memory. I would like to be thankful for all those people whose presence (even though physically they were not always near) made me feel secure and gave me a sense of belonging. I may not be keeping touch with many of them, may not even have met with some even once in my life but consciously or unconsciously they and their lives were part of mine too.
But , I will be failing if I don’t give my third theory of family (like Newton’s third law) which says that it is interesting to observe how our definition of family changes as we move along the life. Perhaps in our childhood our family was the group among which we were born …in adolescent some friends and neighbours joined in and as adults spouse, in laws, colleagues , activity partners become part of it too. Today I feel much more close to many friends than most of my cousins. Some other seniors /friends I met in the world outside the family bond are as respected as some of my blood relations. Well, I read somewhere that the bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other's life. Rarely do members of one family grow up under the same roof…..

So here is to all those who gave me strength and pride in my family name…and also to those who felt equally elated on my smallest achievements and as concerned on my tiniest sorrow as my so called "real" family. Yes, I agree with Karan Johar…its indeed -all about loving your family.

Harry Potter and the Fables of Modern Age

I had an eventful weekend. I started my journey on Friday night and found the world was a gloomy place… and good people were getting killed. There was a coup and secret societies were functioning to fight the rule of dark forces. There were killings and misadventures all through Saturday and Sunday. But by the Sunday evening there was again some hope and happiness…..and finally at 6 PM the Dark Lord was defeated by the gutsy teenagers and “ All was well!!” Yes with these three magical words I finished my journey with Harry Potter and his friends.

And even I, never an obsessed fan of the series, am strangely contented. Can’t say I am elated .Neither am I sad that the series has come to an end and that perhaps there will be nothing more. I’m just content. Content that I’ve finished a rollicking good read. Something that I was not expecting to say as I plodded my way through the first few chapters of the 7th book of the series , through ordinary prose and middling dialog. But from that point on the book picked up like a beast unleashed. And I found myself getting caught up with the events hurtling towards their singular conclusion. Who had time to pay attention to the language then? Who had time to stop and raise eyebrows at the derivative ideas that drove the story forward, when the horcruxes were to be found and destroyed, dark forces were to be defeated and Hogwarts was to be saved? I must say that the success of the series is very well deserved. Rowling deserved every penny she earned on it (and probably deposited in a vault at Gringotts!). She excelled herself with each new book and finally managed to gave a fitting and cinematic end to the series Even if the end is to be expected and perhaps mocked at she brought it to a close with confidence and without resorting to mawkishness.

I deliberately waited for the euphoria to end after the release of the 7th book. This cooling period was needed so that I can make my own opinion about the book , without getting reviewers’ prejudices. And my verdict is 10/10 for the books and the writer. The books deserve a place in the list of modern classics and they are fables in the true sense of the word.
Yes..I said fables….It hardly matters that they talk about the world of witches and Wizards..of magic and charms..spells and flying on a broom. And no, there are no high sounding morals given at the end of the story “ So the moral of the story is ….” . The morals and the teachings are there nevertheless. They are so well intertwined with the story that any careful reader will sense them even without finding them in words. And the teachings….they are in tune with the times…very much for the reader living in the age of Osama Bin Laden and Pepsi Cola. The books talk about things we need to realize in the modern world- that things may not be as they appear in the first instance. Even the heroes are fallible. The biggest fights are fought with guts and not sophisticated weapons. Even friends have differences. Relationships break…and love at first sight may not be everlasting.And most importantly, itI talks about trust and friendship, about love and courage. Though most of these you may not find in the text…you’ll be able to feel them alright. Very unlike any fairy tale, the hero of the series was far from being the perfect good boy . He made mistakes…a lot of them…misjudged people, broke rules and was even defeated. He was hardly any match in skills to his friend Hermione and yet he was the “chosen one”. In the very first book the reason came from the mouth of headmaster Dumbledore : “It’s our choices Harry, who make us who we are far more than our abilities”. On another occasion the same Professor says: “It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to your enemies, but a great deal more to stand up to your friends."

And how true is this lesson for each one of us who are finding survival strategies in the world governed by peer pressures and books dictating what is “in” and what is “ not so cool” . That is perhaps the reason why so many people, young and not so young were glued to the books. And how wrong were the critics who thought its just about magic and some fantasy world of imagination. Of course there is magic and fantasy coupled with brilliant imagination …but it is much more than what you can find in the text. They are delightful books by any standards and I rate them at par with the all time favorites like 'Alice in Wonderland' or 'The Little Prince'—though these are of a different genre .
Yes, read the book…even if you are not a fan (I resist calling you a 'muggle' ) and even if you are one of those who look down their long noses and wrinkling brows at a world gone crazy in the grip of Potter mania, get off your high horse and immerse yourself for a few hours for a broomstick ride of the world which while inevitably simple is very very exciting. I can bet you will forget your reservations once you have read few pages. After all there will be hardly any time for the doubts so 'muggle-worldly' once you are hooked to the world of Harry Potter.

The Dangers and Delights of Dak Bungalows

If you are living in India , are fond of trekking or are part of Government service then the word Dak Bungalow will strike a note in your mind immediately. Well , in very simple terms these are the government guest houses usually in such small towns or remote localities where even today no hotels exist . They are a refuge to the trekkers and poor government servants on duty who by virtue of their passion or work have to visit these forsaken places. When I started writing this post I thought I’ll call it Government guest houses and National Integration as the inspiration came from the fact that food in all these guest houses tastes exactly the same. But I am abandoning the idea because I know a couple of scholars who specialize on National Integration and " just about anything" kind of topics. Who knows they have already dealt on the subject with this title and my poor post will fall for copyrights.

Before I start with my comments on food in the Dak Bungalows let me brief you about their genesis. Ever since the early days of Raj the British used to travel far and wide for various reasons including administration, policing, revenue work, trade, hunting, trekking and photography. In those days it was not very safe to travel alone and usually they traveled in convoys. These rest houses were built along the major routes to provide night halts for the travelers. They were primarily for the government officials but also entertained tourists and civilians if the rooms were available .
If you are fond of Raj stories you will recall how the families of Burra Sahebs along with a full contingent of servants will stay in these Rest houses during their visit to some remote hill station . Civil servants and Army officers used to frequent these places. Usually built by Garrison engineers these were places sans any luxury but more suited as a halt than a tent in the open. And the glorious tradition lives till today. You can’t help staying in /passing by one such PWD Guest House if you are trekking in Uttaranchal or Himachal . Even the elite cousin Circuit Houses-elegantly standing tall in every big town of India, are serving the purpose of providing refuse to Government functionaries with much efficiency.
To be fair I must take views of these Sahibs of yesteryears about the comforts and conditions of these dak bungalows . After all they were the one who thought for this chain of rest houses which survived the test of time. So here is what Alan Shaw writes in his book “Marching on to Laffan's Plain':

“We stopped at a dak bungalow (a post house) on the first night. This was very much part of travel in rural India. It was a Government maintained bungalow usually miles from anywhere, in the sole care of a keeper and his family with a chowkidar to keep guard during the night. The dak bungalow keeper could produce simple meals like poached eggs (“sunny side up’ or “turned over” sahib? was always his prompt question) and sometimes a scrawny jungle fowl with curry and daal (lentils).
Trying to sleep in a dak bungalow bedroom could be an unnerving business. Overhead was a dirty grey ceiling cloth stretched under the rafters forming a nightly battleground for lizards, snakes and rats. A mosquito net was a necessity if only to protect against wild life falling from above.
To offset these horrors was the pleasure of awaking and walking out into the pearly light of the Indian hot weather dawn, an almost mystical experience, especially in a wooded place surrounded by the calls of jungle crows, mynahs, hoopoes, coucals, the hawk cuckoo or brain fever bird and doves. Flowering trees and shrubs abound in India even under the arid conditions of the hot weather and in the middle of the dreaded hot weather the day still commences with this magical hour. "

This fascinating pic is taken from a Gertrude Bell archive of photographs from her travels to India in 1901 and 1902 .The archive exists on the Internet: www.gerty.ncl.ac.uk

My favorite account on these guest houses is by Ruddy baba i.e. the famous (and infamous) Rudyard Kipling who informs that a good Dak Bungalow worth its name should have at least few resident ghosts and a Chaukidar to tell about them. He writes in his delightful “My own true Ghost Story" :

“Some of the dak-bungalows on the Grand Trunk Road have handy little cemeteries in their compound--witnesses to the "changes and chances of this mortal life" in the days when men drove from Calcutta to the Northwest. These bungalows are objectionable places to put up in. They are generally very old, always dirty, while the khansamah is as ancient as the bungalow. He either chatters senilely, or falls into the long trances of age. In both moods he is useless. If you get angry with him, he refers to some Sahib dead and buried these thirty years, and says that when he was in that Sahib's service not a khansamah in the Province could touch him. Then he jabbers and mows and trembles and fidgets among the dishes, and you repent of your irritation.
In these dak-bungalows, ghosts are most likely to be found, and when found, they should be made a note of. Not long ago it was my business to live in dak-bungalows. I never inhabited the same house for three nights running, and grew to be learned in the breed. I lived in Government-built ones with red brick walls and rail ceilings, an inventory of the furniture posted in every room, and an excited snake at the threshold to give welcome. I lived in "converted" ones--old houses officiating as dak-bungalows—where nothing was in its proper place and there wasn't even a fowl for dinner. I lived in second-hand palaces where the wind blew through open-work marble tracery just as uncomfortably as through a broken pane.
I lived in dak-bungalows where the last entry in the visitors' book was fifteen months old, and where they slashed off the curry-kid's head with a sword. It was my good luck to meet all sorts of men, from sober traveling missionaries and deserters flying from British Regiments, to drunken loafers who threw whisky bottles at all who passed; and my still greater good fortune just to escape a maternity case. Seeing that a fair proportion of the tragedy of our lives out here acted itself in dak-bungalows, I wondered that I had met no ghosts. A ghost that would voluntarily hang about a dak-bungalow would be mad of course; but so many men have died mad in dak-bungalows that there must be a fair percentage of lunatic ghosts.”

So in such romantic surroundings (with a lunatic ghost or two for company) when a officer in Uniform will reach with his sawar and orderlies , the chaukidar cum cook of the Dak Bungalow will hurriedly do his shopping from the nearest village and knock up something to suit sahib’s taste . Availability of ingredients, conditions of cooking and the skill of the cook were sparse and therefore the Dak-bungalow cuisine always had a easy to make factor in it. Next time when you find Chicken Dak Bungalow in a restaurant , please remember that the recipe was invented by a native cook (and not an Anglo Indian housewife-as widely believed) in some remote hilly guest house. Then there are other delicacies like Burra Memsahib's Vegetarian Seekh", "Sir Alfred's Chicken Makhni", "Havaldar's Dal Tadka" and occasionally "Dak Bungalow Lamb", "Regiment's Dal Makhni" etc. Another recipe which is associated with the Dak bungalows is of Non vegetarian cutlet. These days one can find it occasionally in military messes . The Dak Bungalow Curry was another famous dish during Colonial times. It was prepared with either meat or chicken and served with rice and vegetables or bread to the British Officers when they stayed at the various Dak Bungalows, while on official trips around the country. The recipe for preparing this dish varied with each cook at the Dak Bungalows depending on the availability of ingredients in a particular place during the war. But strangely the taste was more or less same. I can guarantee this about the Vegetarian stuff available in the numerous circuit houses, PWD guest houses and Dak bungalows ( from Shimla to Port Blair…and from Allahabad to Kanyakumari ) even today . I wonder how in each guest house you find same yellow dal, same Aloo-gobhi sabji and even salad is cut in the same manner. Tea will be served in similar cups and will taste almost same .
Talking of similarity, even the look of these buildings…. I mean that of the original buildings are more or less same. They will be usually painted in Yellow (interestingly called PWD Yellow) and Brick colour . These places usually have a neat front garden and messy back garden . Even the rooms and “not-used-for-long” fire places smell the same everywhere. Huge bathrooms with spartan décor and the keeper who will provide all stories, resources in the town and will double as a guide for the market with just a small “bakshish” .
And I bet you’ll agree that time stops in these places if you try asking directions for these dak bungalows in small towns (I can vouch for UP towns) .Most probably you will have the same experience which Thomas Stevens had in 1886 .He narrates in his book “Around the World on a Bicycle”:

"The average native, when asked for the dak bungalow, is quite as likely to direct one to the post-office, the kutcherry, or any other government building, from a seeming inability to discriminate between them. At the entrance to Umballa one of these hopeful participants in the blessings of enlightened government informs me, with sundry obsequious salaams, that the dak bungalow is four miles farther. So thoroughly has my fifty-mile ride used up my energy that even this four miles, on a most perfect road, seems utterly impossible of accomplishment; besides which, experience has taught that following the directions given would very likely bring me to the post-office and farther away from the dak bungalow than ever…….Traveling leisurely, and resting often, for thirty miles, the afternoon brings me to the small town of Peepli, where a dak bungalow provides food and shelter of a certain kind. The sleeping-accommodation of the dak bungalow may hardly be described as luxurious; ants and other insects swarm in myriads, and lizards drag their slimy length about the timber of the walls and ceiling. The wild jungle encroaches on the village, and the dak bungalow occupies an isolated position at one end. The jungle resounds with the strange noises of animals and birds, and a friendly native, who speaks a little English, confides the joyful information that the deadly cobra everywhere abounds.”

Now tell me , was I wrong in my earlier choice of title for the post? Or may be a more appropriate title will be "Time stops at the Dak Bungalow" .

Creatures of the Night

It was the year 2001 .New Delhi . I was part of a group undergoing Officers’ Training for IIS. Those were lively days and livelier nights. On a random late evening …say at about 1 am you may find some of us listening to music, chatting on net, discussing books/news/anything in a group ,writing mails, watching movies, and even washing clothes. That was the time when suddenly most of us turned to be creatures of the night. Partially due to the compulsions of busy day schedules and partially by our own choice . Some of us, who were veterans in this art of insomnia, initiated the novices and soon it was a norm. Many choose to be awake till late night just for nothing in particular.

There is a certain desperate beauty in not sleeping. To lay awake the whole night and do all kinds of vague unimportant things. To stretch time that keeps pushing down on our eyes in the form of sleep. To overcome the sleepy tiredness that grips your body at around the time the clock inches past. It is an exercise in patience. It is also, for want of a better term, an art form. Something that can only be achieved after endless nights of determination and perseverance.
You may ask -Why? I don’t know the right answer. Surely it is no apprenticeship in the Dark Arts…not for appeasing the goddess of night either.It is not even the longing for the loved ones or wait for a long distance phone call in all cases . Then why do some of us find such sinful pleasure in the art of sleeplessness? Why suddenly after a tiring busy day we find ourselves full of energy as the sun goes down? At the risk of causing great disappointment to my comrades dabbling in the occult the answer I have derived after much thought on the subject tonight , is much simpler and perhaps, depending on your perspective, mundane.

It is to celebrate the calm of night and to welcome dawn.

A perfect blue slowly brushing the blanket of night off her beautiful brow and opening her eyes of azure. It is a unique joy to stand at an open window and peer in to a world so still that your heart aches to echo it. The quiet bliss of inhaling clear crisp air, rising off the awakening trees, to purge the darkness of the night from your lungs. To stand still and listen to the birds sing with the happiness of first light tickling their feathers.

In spite of the insistent hands of sleep clawing at your eye lids, in spite of the weary creak of your tired bones it is worth it. It is worth it just to stand there as if you are the last person left on earth and welcome dawn into your open arms.
Perhaps another very valid reason is the solace given by the night in terms of silence of the maddening world around . It is the time when you are the master of your fate. No one to pry on your moods and thoughts, no one to nag you about the trivialities of material life. It is a time for confession of your innermost insecurities, fears and also to weave dreams with eyes wide open. Those moments of peace,silence and introspection in an alien (even hostile) world are precious .One need not spent these hours of delight alone…as some of us , by our volition decided to share these with friends . I can trace some of the best discussions on literature, cinema, politics and philosophy to those sleepless nights in IIMC hostel in New Delhi and then again at Yarrows,Shimla .That crazy …even childish life in the dark hours ,had some hidden charm in it…It was a wait for tomorrow. A curiocity for things yet to happen . An anxiousness for the secrets future holds for us in its folds . It was also a child's expectation of finding gifts in the socks tomorrow morning. After all , if nothing else, every night had a hope of a lovely morning.

These days, in an attempt to keep pace with the rat race of daily existence this pleasure is denied to me .Though at times I try to live back those days..err..nights of better existence during holidays and weekends..but alas ..that revolt against the closing eyelids is definitely less frequent . I may once in a while find myself working till midnight or may be engrossed in a book till late hours...but the joy of remianing awake without any reason is gone . On the contrary I have also joined the world in forcing myself to sleep. Pillow talks and midnight strolls are just sepia tinted memories now .
Tonight, when I lie awake in this unknown room of the technology guest house at IIT Kharagpur, memories of those insomniac nights are coming to me like a dream river.

Story of an Extraordinary Daughter

I read a strange book. I call it strange because it made me feel emotions I did not know exist inside me. I also call it strange because after finishing the book I was not sure whether I will classify it as a fiction, history , a spiritual book or a sufi poem. I read “Rumi’s Daughter” by Muriel Maufroy this weekend .
A delightful little book , which the cover rightly claims , is from the tradition of Paolo Coelho's 'The Alchemist' . A book which transcends the time it tells about, the people it talks of and the theme it narrates. Talking about those trivialities, it tells a story of characters which happened during the middle ages( 13th Century ) in Turkey. It is story of a girl adopted by Maulana Jalaludin Rumi in the city of Konya .
Not long back I was reading the Islam Quintet of Tariq Ali where the author discussed the love hate relationship of Islam and Christianity. It was a narration from the very macro level. Of course, there were men and women, some historical characters, some very ordinary individuals in a specific period of history, but except for the first book – Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree which was set in 1499 in al-Andulus during the time of Queen Isabella's reconquista of Spain , none of the four books could capture the beauty of that age as one finds in Rumi’s Daughter.
Throughout the series, Tariq Ali dwelt on the tolerance of medieval Muslim society and, without explicitly saying so, indicates that Islam has lost some of these qualities. I found Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree the most vibrant of the books as it is raising many issues that still confront Islam today while explaining that the religion, like any other, has its tolerant and liberal face, which has been obscured by those that preach a single-minded approach and see things only in black and white. The Quintet threads different geographies and time periods together with the idea of Islam. It was an interesting read but it will not shake you up- at least it did not impress me that much. I mean I agree that the medieval age is about clashes and Crusades. Hard-won treaties and tales of treachery- full of romantic images of knights riding forth, pennants flying high, to defend the Crown and the Cross but somewhere in the pages of history it is also about the life ,love , passion and emotions of the people.
I knew very little about Rumi that is about Rumi-the person. In fact when I started this book- Rumi’s Daughter , I was not sure if it’s about the Daughter of Rumi or the title is just a metaphor .
Well, the book is about Kimya a clever, pretty child given to mystical 'timeless moments', growing up in a tiny village in the mountains of what is now Turkey at a time when the traditional Christian families and the incoming Muslims are still living peacefully together in such remote parts. Her mother Evdokia is a Christian, her father Farokh one of the newcomers. But the tale is of days when in the tiny village a mosque could be raised in the church campus and when the Muslim farmer did not find anything wrong in the beautiful statue of the virgin. Farokh for example believed like many other villagers that Allah and Jesus must be good friends . It is about times when Evdokia can go to a witch doctor to find a cure for her husband’s fever and a Christian priest be-friend the maulavi despite the differences on spiritual matters between the two.
So our little Kimya , will go to Konya to be educated by Christian nuns at the age of seven as per the last wish of a Christian priest . However, the nuns are no longer there, and her father leaves her with Maulana (Jalal ud din Rumi) and his family when Kimya seems to recognize the philosopher (from her dreams and visions) and wishes to stay with him. Maulana’s family takes her as a daughter and his second wife Kerra becomes a friend, confide and almost a mother to the little girl. All is well in the small house of Maulana where Kimya is learning much more than Persian from the great sufi philosopher and poet till there arrives a man called Shams . A beloved friend and soul mate of the Maulana Shams will be seen as a devil-incarnate for the rest of the city and Maulana’s students . But Maulana and Kimya will believe in isDervish from Tabriz and eventuallyKimya will marry Shams . The book takes a new turn from this place. Till now, Kimya was a daughter missing Maulana who now had no time for her and others after the arrival of Shams but now Kimya is wife of a dervish who is always engrossed in his own longings for the God. Kimya is confused – both about her status of a married woman and about her spiritual self which very much like Maulana and Shams crave to seek divine bliss on its own. This strange marriage will end with Kimya’s sudden death and so will end the book. But the feeling it leaves you with will not end so soon.

It gives you a very touching account of women in that age, of what it takes to be wife/daughter of a great man and then it talks very subtly about spiritual awakening in a girl and her confusion about it. On the one hand she can feel the immense joy inside her and on the other it is a fear of breaking away from an ordinary but very familiar life. 'Rumi's Daughter' tells Kimya's story with great charm and tenderness. Well written and thought-provoking, …..an enchanting read .

“The drum of the realization of the promise is beating,
we are sweeping the road to the sky.
Your joy is here today, what remains for tomorrow?
The armies of the day have chased the army of the night,
Heaven and earth are filled with purity and light.
Oh! joy for he who has escaped from this world of perfumes and color!
For beyond these colors and these perfumes, these are other colors in the heart and the soul.
Oh! joy for this soul and this heart who have escaped
the earth of water and clay,
Although this water and this clay contain the hearth of the
philosophical stone.”