Soundtracks for a Wandering Soul : From the Temple to the Tavern

 

In October 2023, when I landed in Kerala — full of  a stubborn resolve, uncertainty, and a suitcase full of confusion — I promised myself a spiritually uplifting start to each day. My chosen ritual? Listening to MS Subbulakshmi’s Sri Venkateswara Suprabhatam every morning. A prayer composed by Prathivadhi Bhayankaram Annangaracharya, this pre-dawn chant is traditionally sung to awaken Lord Venkateswara in Thirupati. So while the divine lord was being lovingly nudged awake in temples and homes across South India, I too stirred under the soft glow of coconut and banana trees and the ethereal blue of the Travancore sky.

The rendition is so powerful that, willingly or not, you picture the deity slowly rising to the mellifluous, almost maternal voice of MS. But a few months in, as the exotic thrill faded and the realisation dawned that banana trees can’t make up for friends and familiarity, I started feeling homesick.

One morning, in a move that surprised even me — and might’ve scandalised my inner aspirant of ascetic calm — I abandoned the predictably serene strains of the Suprabhatam and queued up Pandit Jasraj’s soul-stirring bhajans instead. As his voice soared, slow and reverent like incense rising in temple air, I felt something shift. A few minutes later, almost instinctively, I followed it up with Ajay Pohankar’s Shri Krishan Govind Hare Murare in Raag Bhoop, a melody soaked in bhakti but grounded in something far more familiar: memory.This wasn’t a spiritual upgrade. It was more like finding your comfort shawl in a new house — suddenly, the air felt less foreign. It wasn’t that I was ascending toward divine consciousness; if anything, I was tumbling backwards into the comforting echo chambers of my past .

Raag Bhoop, with its pentatonic simplicity and upward lilt, somehow held all my dislocation gently. It didn’t ask me to transcend. It just helped me stay — with my yearning, my loneliness, my reluctant hope — and hum along. This wasn’t music that lifted me out of the world. It was music that let me belong to it again, if only for the length of a morning.

It was just that the familiar strains made the still-unfamiliar place feel more like home. And so I woke up on humid mornings waiting for monsoon and finally sailed into the lush, green rains of Kerala — less as a spiritual seeker and more like someone finding comfort in the radio of memory.

And then came the rains in full glory. With raindrops weaving a gauzy, silvery curtain across my windows and frogs launching unsolicited monsoon symphonies outside, my mornings shifted in texture. The devotional tracks, like seasoned stage actors knowing when to exit, stepped gracefully aside. In their place emerged the soft, contemplative poetry of Tagore — verses that carried the scent of wet earth and the melancholy of waiting. Megh boleche jabo jabo, the clouds said they would leave, and yet they stayed, just like my moods. Neelo Anjono Ghono, with its indigo thunderclouds and slow-building longing, became the soundtrack to my monsoon reveries.

The music no longer needed to uplift or anchor me. It simply needed to mirror me. Some mornings, the raag in my ear matched the gentle nool-mazha — the threadlike drizzle that stitched the world in silk. Other times, the thunder would roll like timpani, and the skies would host a tula-mazha storm — dramatic, theatrical, and best set to a Tagorean crescendo. I found myself not listening to music for comfort, but with it — like an old friend who didn’t fill the silence but respected it.

By November, Kerala’s version of winter arrived — not with frost or fog, but with a faint breeze that occasionally remembered to show up. It was less of a season and more of a suggestion, like someone whispering “winter” across a steaming cup of chai. But with it came a slump I hadn’t seen coming. My romantic affair with solitude, once poetic and Insta-worthy solo travels, began to simmer into something less palatable — an overcooked stew of loneliness and unwanted introspection and procrastination. The bhajans quietly receded. Even Tagore, with all his rain-drenched wisdom, couldn’t keep me afloat. I needed music that didn’t pretend to console — I needed music that sat with me in my gloom and nodded in solidarity.

And so entered the gentle melancholy of Judy Collins, the wistful resilience of Pete Seeger, the velvet baritone of Dean Martin, and the tender ache of John Denver. Both Sides Now played like a lullaby for grown-up disappointment. Send in the Clowns waltzed in with mascara-streaked irony. Turn! Turn! Turn! felt like a cosmic shrug to everything that had and hadn’t happened. Even on mornings when the sky wore its brightest blue, these songs somehow found the shade beneath. I had officially entered my existential playlist phase — where melodies didn’t lift you up but wrapped you in a soft, flannel-lined sorrow and said, “It’s okay, you’re not alone in feeling a little lost.”

Christmas rolled in with vacations, plum cake, and an unmistakable whiff of nostalgia. The world outside sparkled modestly — just enough to remind me of carol nights and school nativity plays. And just like that, my playlist too found its way back to the pews. Gregorian chants and hymns took over my mornings. Ave Maria and Amazing Grace played as the sun filtered softly through the curtains, evoking school assemblies minus the scratchy uniform and the well-timed nudge from a best friend during silent prayer. It was less devotion, more déjà vu — a gentle revisiting of some inner sanctum lined with memory.

By late January something shifted. Kerala’s version of spring arrived — not with daffodils and cherry blossoms, but in more grounded, tropical metaphors. The hibiscus everywhere bloomed like red punctuation marks in the green paragraph of landscape. Mangoes began appearing on trees with quiet confidence, and the koel, that seasoned herald of Indian summer, cleared its throat and began practising its solo. Butterflies performed delicate choreography across the yard, and kingfishers sat like royalty on electric lines, tossing glints of blue into the air like confetti. And so, my mornings bloomed too — with the elegance of Vivaldi’s Spring, the whimsy of Carnival of the Animals, the floral swirl of Waltz of the Flowers, and Debussy’s dreamy fauns dancing somewhere between my coffee and my consciousness. Life, in those moments, felt like a meadow in a French painting — but with a distinctly Malayalam

 caption.

Then came summer — hot, reflective, and restlessly existential. The air hung heavy with unanswered questions, and so did I. Living alone, once a thrilling badge of independence, had lost its charm and was now a slow-burning ache. The wait for change felt endless, like a buffering wheel spinning in the middle of my life. Thoughts of my faraway family weighed down on my chest in the early hours, and I sought solace not in music, but in monologues — TED Talks on AI, gender dynamics, mental health, and Stoic philosophy. If Socrates had curated a Spotify playlist, I think we’d have been algorithmic besties, matching notes on the futility of desires.

But as my mornings grew more abstract and my inner world more unruly, I realised I needed something gentler — something that didn’t dissect my brain but wrapped it in silk. And so, I turned to Studio Ghibli. I needed that world of meandering rivers, rustling trees, noodle bowls, and floating spirits — where life unfolded in its own quiet rhythm and the stakes, though high, never screamed. Always With Me and The Name of Life — became my morning companions, in all their avatars — vocal, piano, flute. Their gentle melancholy and quiet hope transported me straight into an anime universe, where even loneliness looks like a hand-drawn masterpiece.  Their delicate sorrow and childlike wonder offered a kind of invisible hand to hold. Mornings began to feel like painted scrolls: I wandered through them slowly, eyes wide, heart open, as if I too were a character in a Ghibli film — wistful, a little lost, but beautifully scored.

And just when I thought I’d run the full circle of sonic self-discovery, the rains returned. The scent of the earth made me long for Malhaars and Kajris, for music soaked in monsoon. But even Kishori Amonkar's Barsan Ghan Aayo Rangilo and Shubha Gurtu’s Kajris didn’t quite satisfy.

Until this morning. When Manna Dey began singing Harivansh Rai Bachchan’s Madhushala, I smiled — this was it. This was the frequency I had been searching for.

As I write this, I’m humming:

छोटे-से जीवन में कितना प्यार करूँ, पी लूँ हाला,
आने के ही साथ जगत में कहलाया ‘जानेवाला’,
स्वागत के ही साथ विदा की होती देखी तैयारी,
बंद होने लगी खुलते ही मेरी जीवन-मधुशाला !

"In this brief life, how much love can I give, how much wine can I drink?
No sooner had I arrived in this world than I was called 'the one who must leave'.
Even as I was being welcomed, preparations for my farewell began.
No sooner did my life’s tavern open than it began to shut."

What a year and a half it’s been — not just a chronicle of shifting weather and evolving playlists, but a quiet cartography of the soul. My mornings have been chapters in a private novel — each song, each note, a footnote to my state of being. I began this journey hoping for spiritual discipline and found, instead, the sprawling, shapeshifting terrain of inner life.

Music, I’ve come to realise, is less of a background score and more of a portal. A certain raga can transport you to a courtyard you’ve never visited, with rustling neem leaves and the sound of anklets in the dusk. A Ghibli piano piece can drop you into an animated landscape where silence speaks and even sorrow glows. Judy Collins can make you believe that everything — your choices, your doubts, your longing — is part of some vast, tender pattern.

Sometimes, music gives you strength — not the marching-band kind, but the quiet steel that lets you fold the blanket and face another uncertain day. Sometimes it wraps around you like your mother's saree, smelling faintly of nostalgia, offering no solutions but plenty of company. And sometimes, it simply says, “I know.”

In its mysterious way, music holds space for all versions of you — the hopeful seeker, the weary thinker, the wide-eyed child, the homesick adult. It doesn’t demand answers. It doesn’t hand out prescriptions. It just plays — gently tuning your heart to the frequency of the day.

If Spotify Wrapped could capture soul-searching, mine would be a tangle of chants and cello suites, rainsongs and revolutions. It would be confusing, yes. But it would also be a story — and a beautiful one at that.

Choice of Adjectives- Remembering Empress Sisi

"I am a seagull, of no land, I call no shore my home, I am bound to no place, I fly from wave to wave.

Empress Elisabeth of Austria

If you have been to Vienna, it is difficult to miss Empress Elisabeth or Sisi, as she is often called. From chocolate boxes to posters and from museum tickets to souvenir shops – she is everywhere. A true popstar of her time, the biggest icon of Austrian Royal family, compared with Lady Di by biographers, subject of novels and movies- she is presented as a glamourous but depressed queen.  The Hofberg palace has a full museum dedicated to her – displaying her personal articles, her chamber, her letters, and her famous dresses. It was first in this museum that I read her poetry. It is sad that with so much emphasis on her doll like persona of a fairytale princess, her other remarkable characteristics of being a poet, an avid traveller, reader and an intellectual – a woman very aware of her socio-political situation, are never highlighted. Her concern for women suffering in lunatic asylums of Europe of her time, is often ridiculed and so is her free spirit and constant demand for privacy even as an Empress of Europe’s biggest empire of that time. Her media avatars are either of innocent young girl trapped in court politics or of a cold-hearted vain woman obsessed with physical beauty. In fact, her insistence for physical exercise by installing a gym in every palace she lived in, is also depicted as her unreal desire to be ageless. In today’s vocabulary, she would be a health enthusiast, a fitness icon even.

 I was suddenly reminded of this as I was watching a DW documentary - Sisi’s Legacy 

 this morning and I noticed something. In this documentary as well as in numerous articles written about Sisi or the TV series or movies based on her, the choice of adjectives is very problematic. The documentary calls her eccentric, narcissistic, obsessed with ageless beauty, a mother who neglected her children, a woman who refused to stay on with her husband and finally someone who was reckless enough to get assassinated. She is also guardedly blamed for taking her first daughter on travel with her causing her death. The commentary is quite easy to the fact that she was fifteen when she was made empress, sixteen when she was a mother and that she was unaccustomed to the ways of the most proper and stifling court of whole of Europe.

Oh swallow, give me your quick wings

And take me with you to distant countries.

I'll be happy to break the chains that hold me

And to break the bars of my prison ...

If I could fly with you

Through the blue eternity of heaven

How I would make thank you with all my being

The Goddess that men call freedom!

-                                                                                                                                                --  Empress Elisabeth (1856)

 

Last year another movie titled ‘Corsage’ came in European theatres. Once again , Sisi is the unhappy Royal who is hysterical and irresponsible. Forcing modern feminist sensibilities on her is hardly doing any justice. Most of her biographers are sympathetic towards the shy, young girl, miserable at court, but then they start to chide Sisi for her selfishness in disregarding her husband's concerns, neglecting her duties, feigning illness etc. While there may be some truth in all these – the contemporary portrayals for her husband and son are not this harsh despite their very questionable personal and public conduct.Neither there is any probe in why an Empress had to feign illness or avoid public scrutiny ? Even in this documentary, there is no judgement of Franz Joseph for subjecting his son for very cruel “physical and psychological hardening” (which eventually was put to stop by ‘irresponsible’ mother Sisi) but Sisi is repeatedly judged for leaving her children behind for her travels (‘on State Expense’) or for not staying in the court. Her son Rudolf, similarly,  is painted as a man ahead of his time in his views- while underplaying the fact that he neglected his wife and daughter, had series of affairs , got a STD due to his visits to brothels  and killed his mistress before committing suicide. Sisi, however is judged even for smoking, wearing black after the death of her son or refusing to get photographed.  

My friend Zehra recently wrote on Facebook how women are accused of not knowing their mind, though the reality is that most of the times, they do know exactly what they want. The problem comes in acceptance from community and family on ‘what’ women want. Our family and society are yet to mainstream the true wishes of women and are very quick in judging them for their conduct and desires with wrong set of adjectives. Even in popular media, for every portrayal of a woman who speaks her mind there are ten where the stereotypical loving wife, mother and the sacrificing woman image is reinforced. It is often the fear of being judged, labelled as ‘difficult’ that makes women hesitant and unclear in expressing their mind.  When I see women politicians and actresses being shut down from serious discussions and being judged so unfairly and blatantly on their appearances, accessories, and private lives, I wonder how we blame women in families to be shy in expressing their true wishes and opinions? It is a bane of our times that at times in ordinary houses people are willing to take steps in the right directions yet our system, our organisations and even our courts paint it the other way. It is still rare in communities and public forums to allow women space to express themselves freely. to shake off the stereotype and not being  subjected to scrutiny and judgment. From Empress Sisi to Mahua Moitra and  from mythical Draupadi to Sunny Leone – it is a continued stream of judgement  and use of negative adjectives that colour the narrative of what women want.

The Old New Tale

 

“...the secret of the Great Stories is that they have no secrets. The Great Stories are the ones you have heard and want to hear again. The ones you can enter anywhere and inhabit comfortably. They don’t deceive you with thrills and trick endings. They don’t surprise you with the unforeseen. They are as familiar as the house you live in. Or the smell of your lover’s skin. You know how they end, yet you listen as though you don’t. In the way that although you know that one day you will die, you live as though you won’t. In the Great Stories you know who lives, who dies, who finds love, who doesn’t. And yet you want to know again.
That is their mystery and their magic.”

                                                      ― Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things

Like any other reader, I too have my favourites tales which I like to read and re-read. Characters who are as real as my real life friends and some more. Places which I have visited only in these tales and yet they are so much my own. The quote above resonates in more than one ways. Familiarity with a favourite story adds to its charm. I always find difficult to deal with sequels and prequels written as fan-literature. I read many of them as they bring back to life, some of the favourite characters and sometimes add to the stories known till then. But at the same time, the new twists and new plots sometimes disappoint even enrage me. Fan literature of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice is a good example of that. There have been numerous searches into the finer points of Elizabeth’s and Darcy’s characters. Some sequels make monsters out of them others try to find modern sensibilities in their tale. I am not sure I like either.

But retelling of stories is not limited to modern classics. Fairy tales have been written and re-written with numerous versions over the years. From Victorian purists to BBC and Disney’s adaptations, several changes have been attempted in the tales of Cinderella, Rapunzel, Snow White and even Aladdin. Many of these tales originated in China, found their way to middle east and then reappeared in Europe. At each appearance, they changed colours and subtle nuances of the tale. Back in India, traditionally, there have been infinite versions of stories of Ram and Krishna. Many add local flavours, others omit some unsavoury detail or end with very charming twists in the tale. In modern times, stories of Ramayan and Mahabharata have been written from the point of view of several different characters including women characters. Some of these retellings appeal to me. e.g. when they make women characters more independent, strong and significant or when the fairy tale princess is not only a blonde with blue eyes. (Writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie brilliantly sums up the sentiment of the danger of a single story here. )

But I thought of writing this post due to two attempts of retelling of myths/ stories, which I came to know in last few days. First was Luciano Garbati’s sculpture “Medusa with the Head of Perseus” which was unveiled on 13th October 2020 in Lower Manhattan.

 I do not think the sculptor has feminism or #metoo movement in mind when he inversed the sculpture. He stated that he was inspired by a 16th-century bronze: Benvenuto Cellini’s “Perseus with the Head of Medusa.( Perseo con la testa di Medusa)”  which stands in Loggia dei Lanzi, Florence In that work, a nude Perseus holds up Medusa’s head by her snaky mane. Mr. Garbati then thought of a sculpture that could reverse that story, imagining it from Medusa’s perspective and revealing the woman behind the monster.

Well, undoubtedly, like many other myths whether Indian, Egyptian or Greek - the original Greek myth of Medusa offers plenty to be angry about. The monstrous being with snakes for hair starts out as a human woman, who Poseidon rapes in Athena’s temple. The goddess then punishes Medusa, the rape victim, by turning her into a Gorgon and exiling her. Perseus is later sent on an errand to bring Medusa’s head to King Polydectes. Equipped with a mirrored shield, winged sandals, and a special sack for her head, Perseus creeps up on Medusa while she lies sleeping, cuts off her head, and then uses it as a weapon for turning enemies into stone. No wonder, the retelling of inverted story by Garbati today provides a powerful symbol of women’s rage against violence and injustice.  While I do admire the symbolism of placing the Garbati sculpture in front of the court where many cases of crime against women including rape come for hearing. The timing too could not be better. World over the anger is coming to surface against ongoing injustices and most violent crimes against women. Except for the fact that I would have liked Medusa to hold heads of not only Perseus but also Poseidon, the man who raped her and even Athena, who punished the victim, I find the sculpture very powerful. It is a retelling of a tale we need in the world today.

The second provocation for this post came from much closer home. I am an avid reader and collector of Amar Chitra Katha Comics. I always adored their titles and have written about my love for ACK in this blog also. Of late, I do not like the new titles as much as I like the old ones. the charm of hand drawn illustrations and the level of research has gone down over the years. Just by chance I came to an ACK title Shakti – the tales of Goddess, and while I can find many details either missing or incorrect in it, I loved this book. The book is very sensitive to the classic tales of mother goddess and also to modern sensibilities. Surprisingly, it was a good read.

These two retellings, made me think, why it is important for us to add new details in the old stories or to change the end of familiar tales. Is it our obligation to the next generation to tell them that the stories can have alternative endings too? or is it because the alternative stories were always in our minds and they just came out now? I think I agree with Mark turner who said - 

“Narrative imagining — story — is the fundamental instrument of thought. Rational capacities depend upon it. It is our chief means of looking into the future, or predicting, of planning, and of explaining.” 

I am sure with each new reader, a story adds another name to its owners who have every right to add their own narrative, their own experience, their unique prediction of future to it. Some of that may feature in other retelling and thus continues the tale. After all, after nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.

Garden Diaries: February (It’s springtime)

"Was it the smile of early spring

That made my bosom glow?
'Twas sweet, but neither sun nor wind
Could raise my spirit so.

Was it some feeling of delight,
All vague and undefined?
No, 'twas a rapture deep and strong,
Expanding in the mind!"

-  Anne Bronte, In Memory of a Happy Day in February

Spring has officially arrived in my garden. Flowerbeds are bursting with colours, birds are chirping, sunshine is bright and golden and the breeze is fresh and welcoming. I can spend all my waking hours in my garden and not get tired. There are so many kinds of flowers around that I often lose count of them.It has always been an issue with me whether to plant a single flower in a bed or have a mix of 3-4 kinds of flowers. This year I have gone for mixing...mostly . The result is not too bad. Well, there is only a finite number of plants one can have in a garden and however big is the garden - it is always a dilemma to choose the best place for each variety . I am sure I have about 20 kinds of flowers blooming right now in the garden. 

 So let me try to list them – Impatiens, Salvia, Petunia,Begonia,English daisies, Buttercups, Primroses, Mimulus , Kalanchoes, Gazania, Dahlias Pentas , Nasturtiums, Geraniums, Verbena, Pansy, Dianthus, Larkspur, Cosmos, Marigold, Calendula and  Roses . Next in line are Cineraria and Sweet peas.

Pretty buttercups

But the thing with gardening is that there is always so much to do. Chrysanthemums are almost over and need to be saved for next year. There is always need to cut worn out blooms and clean the flowerbeds. With dozens of squirrels around (who love to eat my French marigolds), there is always so much action in the garden. They chase the birds and cut out all leaves and wires.

Sitting in my garden during weekends, I cannot help feeling grateful. It is such a marvel that nature expresses itself in so many colours and patterns. Just to give an example of Larkspurs, the tall and graceful flowers – they stand out because of their blue-purple colour and their graceful waving in the wind. Then there is verbena, tiny small groups of flowers, they come in all possible colours and can melt even the most stoic hearts. Not only flowers, the variety of birds I see daily in my garden is pretty amazing too.

Some birds sighted in Bharatpur

Talking of birds, in late last month I went to Kaleodeo Birds Sanctuary at Bharatpur. I will be honest; I had never seen so many birds at one places ever before. Gosh! What variety of birds it was! From tiny Siberian blue throat to huge painted storks, from owls to vultures, from kingfishers to greater pelicans   - it was an actual carnival of birds.  Even the place where we stayed (Bagh Resort) was full of ducks, peacocks and all kinds of birds.

 Every spring

I hear the thrush singing

in the glowing woods

he is only passing through.

His voice is deep,

then he lifts it until it seems

to fall from the sky.

I am thrilled.

I am grateful.

― Mary Oliver

Back home, our spotted owlets’ family continue to sunbath in the mornings, two young peacocks knock the glass doors very often in afternoons and groups of jungle babblers, magpie robins and brahminy starlings hop around the garden. As for noise, no one can beat the parakeets who make it their business to make their presence felt.  A pair of koels are nesting in a neem tree in my house and I often spot grey hornbills on the same tree as well.

By the way, the honeybees deserted the other beehive also soon after I wrote my last post. While I see plenty of honeybees collecting honey from cosmos and marigolds, I have no idea where their new hive is located. I would like to have more butterflies around and I do hope they will get lured by the flowers.

  Amidst all this, like an anxious gardener I am dealing with the dilemma of whether I should start planning for Zinnias, sunflowers and Mexican cosmos right now or wait for few more days. Learning from my experience at the beginning of winter, I think I will wait for some more time. Though it is true that spring won't last very long and even before we know, the days will start burning and the summer will arrive .  I have always felt grateful that I live in a country where each season is so beautiful and the change of seasons is full of so much anticipation and excitement . It is inevitable that the seasons will change and the flowers will wither , but as for now, let me soak in the beauty of  my February flowers.

Larkspurs 

                                           “We need beauty because it makes us ache to be worthy of it.”

                                                                                 ― Mary Oliver

In the Land of Apsaras

Cambodia for me is a country of light and darkness- both metaphorically and literally. Years back when I first read about the temples of Angkor in history books, I assumed that the history of these sites is fully known and documented. Well, it is not. There are gaps in our understanding of why these marvelous places were built and abandoned. In my imagination, the scale of these temple was also far smaller than I actually found them. World’s largest religious sites of Angkorwat temples is spectacular in its scale, design and motifs. It was enlightenment at its peak- before nature engulfed it in its roots- literally.

Earlier this month, standing in the Phnom Penh Genocide museum, I felt a chill down my spine. The audio guide in my ears was narrating one horror after the other inflicted by Khmer Rouge, and my mind was struggling to accept that the people whose ancestors in 12^th century achieved such unconceivable engineering feat at Angkorwat , can go so foolish in their attempt to turn the clock back, to carry out such inhuman atrocities on their fellow men and women. And then for two decades there was darkness. And now again, the country is raising a toast to its heritage as well as its future. A zigzag of light and darkness- very much like the Indian myths.

It is always interesting to find your childhood motifs and characters in far off lands. I was mesmerized by Bali few years back to see the sameness of culture. Now in Siem Reap, it was again the statues of Ganesh, Varun, Vishnu and Buddha that reminded me of India’s centuries old international relations. But historically, the influence came to these part not directly from India, but via Sri Lanka. But there is so many Indian tales around Angkorwat that one cannot mistake the cultural continuation. Now that the west-propagated theory of “discovery” of these temples by a lone European in the dense jungles, has been junked, one would like to believe that these monuments continued to be revered by local Khmer people always.

It is believed that the spatial dimensions of Angkor Wat Temple parallel the lengths of the four ages (Yuga) of Hindu thought. Thus the visitor to Angkor Wat who walks the causeway to the main entrance, is metaphorically travelling back to the first age of the creation of the universe. The central tower is Mount Meru, with its surrounding smaller peaks, bounded in turn by continents (the lower courtyards) and the oceans (the moat- Big Barray). The seven-headed naga (mythical serpent) becomes a symbolic rainbow bridge for humankind to reach the abode of the gods. To top it on 4 sides of the city there are bridges adorned with the statues of Devas (Gods) and Asuras (Demons) in the famous “Amrita Manthan” – Churning of sea to get the pot of nectar.

But what many people never realize till they reach Angkor is that Angkor Wat is just one of the many temples in the Angkor. Each temple is unique in its own way. I still dream of the unbelievable roots strangling the ruins of Ta Prohm and the 216 smiling, serene faces were carved onto gigantic towers at Bayon Buddhist temple. I fell in love with the smaller but uniquely built temple of Neak Pean , the entwined serpent . The entry to this temple was through A fascinating fact about all these temples is that unlike in India, existence of Buddhist statues with statues of Vishnu marks no contradiction or inconsistency in their beliefs. After all, Buddha was among the ten avataras of Vishnu.

Yes, all this was very impressive and spectacular. But even beyond temples, Siem Reap was a delightful place. Though we never managed to see the famed sunrise, the beautiful waterlilies and lotus in every pond on both sides of the road was a sight to behold. Equally charming was the Apsara (nymph) motif which was present everywhere. 

The roots of strangler fig tree were so dramatic and were adding to the romance of the place. Not to miss the unique TukTuk as our mode of transport was superb. Luckily for us, mostly during our stay it was a light drizzle or overcast. While it may have affected the dramatic pictures adversely, it was great help to me in climbing those innumerable stairs of temples and other complexes.

Garden Diaries- May (It's May, it's May, the month of great dismay)

Glorious Amaltas- the Golden Shower

              
                “Summer has set in with its usual severity.”

                                                       --Samuel Taylor

The sunshine is bright and blazing almost whole day. Even a sight of shade provides some relief to the eyes. Birds are always looking for the bowls of water to splash in and the plants get dried up however much we water them. Well, it is the desert land and you cannot expect an easy summer. This month and the next is harsh to get by for the birds. Even local newspapers appeal to put water for birds and set up birdhouses on trees. The usual chirping comes down from 9 in the morning till late evening (barring some parrots of course who continue to engage with us in a battle of wits over ownership of raw mangoes – Needless to say they win).
 

Parrots  attacking raw mangoes

Earlier this month, on a Thursday morning – the sky was pale blue with no clouds in sight, weather was getting warmer and as usual, this peacock came to our garden. It happily ate its daily staple diet of the bird feed and insects, took a stroll around flowerbeds and suddenly, it was dancing.  Oh, what a performance it was. No words can suffice to that display of colour and I guess contentment (which no doubt came from a good meal). And this is how, ordinary Thursdays turn magical in the marvelous month of May.

Dance Performance in the Garden

AA Milne wrote somewhere that “I regretted that the loveliness of May was lost for so many in the clamour of elections when the only 'issues' which really mattered were the apple and cherry blossom, the budding flowers, and the fresh pale green of birch and beech.” 

 If I think of the Indian Summer alternative to English apple and cherry blossoms, it would be definitely yellow Amaltas (Golden Shower tree) and red Gulmohar (Delonix regia). Yes, election talk even here overshadowed every other real issue. But for anyone keeping his/ her eyes open, it is difficult to overlook the beauty of trees turning the brightest of yellow and red. In India, it is typical to line up the streets with these trees. They flower simultaneously and make such a delightful sight in summers. For me, these flowering trees of Amaltas and Gulmohar and the cuckoo singing on the mango trees are two most endearing sights of Indian Summers. I feel lucky to have many Amaltas and Gulmohars around my house .

जियें तो अपने बग़ीचे में गुलमोहर के तले,

 मरें तो ग़ैर की गलियों में गुलमोहर के लिये

May is not a very forgiving month for flowers but then you have some brave hearts. I am specifically partial to Zinnia- which bloom from summers to monsoons with great gusto. This time we are particularly lucky with Zinnias. We have all possible colors and shades in them and they provide a delightful respite from the dearth of colour in my flowerbeds otherwise.

Colors of Zinnia

My giant sunflower plants are now much taller than me and are full of promise. Buds are already opening and I do hope to see the most beautiful shade of yellow in the garden. Meanwhile, birds are building nests all over the house – inside the hedge, behind the ACs, over the telephone box and of course, in the shrubs and on the trees. Many nests also have eggs. The family of Grey Francolins (Teetar) gleefully march with their latest generation, reminding me of the old film song (Teetar ke do aage teetar ……). In the wild mulberry tree, I have noticed a small nest built by a robin and you can see blue eggs inside. I have been warned by a birder friend not to go very near the nest, in search of a good photograph, as that might attract predators to the nest.

Two happy updates from last month- my owlet family has a new addition too. The junior is very shy and hardly steps out of the tree hole but like all kids, it is curious enough to peep now and then. The eyes are still white, unlike parents and the little one is exceptionally cute.

Baby owlet i.e. Ullu Ka Pattha

Also in my little waterlily pond, we have finally got another colour. Most adorable shade of peach pink which melts my heart every morning. I wish the pond was bigger to accommodate more of these waterlilies.

By the way, some Mangoes have survived too, despite vicious continued attacks from parrots and pigeons. Now they are big enough to be used for pickles, chutneys,panna and all such delightful recipes which taste of summer and we are taking full advantage of them.

While the city regularly faces evening thunderstorms followed by some raindrops, by the morning it is again hot. Hope June will bring some real rain showers.

New colour of Waterlily( Nilopher) 

Castles and Cold Waves of Copenhagen

If Copenhagen were a person, that person would be generous, beautiful, elderly, but with a flair. A human being that has certain propensities for quarreling, filled with imagination and with appetite for the new and with respect for the old - somebody who takes good care of things and of people.

Connie Nielsen

It appears that Ms. Nielsen was describing my Danish landlady when she said these words. At the age of 82, Eva was standing outside her Osterbro home, wearing a warm smile on that chilly morning. She was braving the cold wind to welcome me to Copenhagen on the Monday after Easter. One look at her and I felt at home. If you go from one of the most populous countries of the world to Scandinavia, you marvel about many things. To begin with, octogenarian landladies who wear red lipstick and ride bicycle, live alone, plant flowers, bake cakes and are perhaps fitter than you. The warmth, pride in Danish culture   coupled with eccentricity runs in all streams of Danish life. It reflects in their majestic castles, their cuisine and also in their quirky designs. But at some level the life is much evolved. Luckily, I got to decipher this Danish puzzle in the best season of the year – spring.

Talking of weather, April was supposed to be warm and welcoming. Then why  there  was this skin piercing cold wind which not only moved the gorgeous windmills in the sea but also quaked my bones covered with multiple layers of clothing. The trees on the road were bereft on any leaves and the green grass below was only half awake after the harsh winter. There were hardly any flowers in sight – even in the famous King’s Garden. To my Indian mind, this was no spring.

For me the first look of the city was of a deserted town. There were absolutely no signs of humans on street. First I blamed it on winds, then on extended Easter holidays. Finally on the third day,  the realization dawned that perhaps there are not many people in the city. Well, this was true till the weekend came. As Helen Derbyl writes in her guide on Denmark that the population is scant unless the weather is very sunny or the Swedes very thirsty. So it was only on the first weekend that we saw people and cycles – people on cycles and people walking on the streets…mostly to the beer  bars .

 It’s a strange capital city- a place where pedestrian set the pace not the automobile traffic. It was rather common to find in Copenhagen mothers safely parking baby carriages (or the famous Christiania bikes with a cart to carry stuff/ babies in front) outside bakeries while outdoor cafés fill with cappuccino-sippers, and super fit lanky Danes pedal to work in lanes thick with bicycle traffic.

In my 11 minute walk to workplace in Mormovej every morning , it was a sheer delight to face the crisp morning air punctuated by golden sunshine in the pedestrian streets redolent of baked bread, baskets of organic strawberries  and soap-scrubbed storefronts. If there's such a thing as a heartwarming city sight, this was it!

No wonder that when today’s glittering world metros with their high-rises and  traffic troubles , seek enlightenment, they commonly look to Copenhagen. The Danish capital regularly tops world liveability lists. This is one of the globe's greenest, cleanest, most sustainable urban centres, a place where cycling is serious transport, where buses and the metro run frequently and around the clock, and where the harbor is squeaky clean enough for a bracing dip.

But Copenhagen has always been far more complex than Denmark’s “happy nation” reputation. It had other layers to show as well- in all shades of greys , much like the designer coats I admired people wearing there  .   The gorgeous old town with splendid historic buildings stands near areas that have only recently seen a renaissance after years of gang violence, prostitution and ethnic tensions. The in-famous Freetown Christiania was just a walk away from the city centre with its cannabis selling Pusher Street. In my tour of “alternative”-Copenhagen, I saw some of these areas and was amused to find the unique “solutions” devised by the policymakers to deal with these. To quote one, the state funded designer drug consumption rooms providing a safe haven for drug addicts to inject themselves in calm surroundings may sound weird to many of us. But as the experiment shows, it has proved to be an effective method of bringing down the drug menace and making the neighborhood safe for kids.

For me the more attractive were the places associated with city’s history of witch hunts, executions, mobsters and murderers. With such morbid details of history, it is funny that the city is also reputed to be the fairy tale city. When I set out to explore the Fairy tale side of the city, I went in search of Hans Christian Anderson’s Little Mermaid and almost accidentally discovered magic of Danish weather. In the Langelinie Park, the trees which were standing bare just the other day were almost bursting into pink Cherry Blossoms. With a cute little English Church in the backdrop, combined with the imposing Gefion fountain depicting the Norse goddess Gefjun, the cherry blossoms were on a bloom leaving no doubt that the spring had finally arrived.  It, however took me another weekend to realize that there can be an even better place to admire cherry and almond blossoms – Bispebjerg Cemetery. The explosion of a pink and white flower sky was mesmerizing in sprawling space of Bispebjerg Cemetery.

While the little Mermaid surrounded by selfie clicking tourists did not impress me much- it opened my mind to the idea of discovering fairytales at oddest possible places. And then I found them – underwater bronze statues of the family of Agnete and Merman, twisted dragon tales on the old Stock Exchange (Borsen), the spiral stairs to (almost) heaven on the baroque Church of Our Saviour , snow leopards and wolves adorning the town hall building …and of course , Holger the Dane who sits asleep in the casemates of Kronborg Castle - until the day when Denmark is in real trouble and he will wake up and defend the mother country.

After a month of stay, I came to the conclusion that despite all jokes about their language and behavior, Danes definitely have their lives sorted like none of us. They do appreciate what really matters – clean air, green grass, blue waters of the sea….and perhaps a good drink to go with it. They live simple lives enjoying and not destroying nature. They peddle their cycles with great joy – without any pretensions and consciousness of wealth or class . 

In the words of  Xenophobe’s Guide to the Danes –

“For the Danes, culture is a way of shedding the modern world and retracing their roots. All Danes are inveterate nature lovers. They cultivate an almost masochistic feeling of insignificance coupled with awe at nature’s power and the forces of life. Danish literature is full of examples of characters trying to come to terms with man’s essential loneliness and unimportance.”

If you ask me that is the way to go.