My gardening genes

Entrance of my house (Jan2009)- nasturtiums,calendulas and Sweetpeas

My favorite memory of my father- the way I often see him in my dreams , is he looking after his favorite flower beds on a summer evening. It was a daily ritual as long as I remember that my father will step out of his car- tired from a usual day in a office and would head straight to check out on his plants, roses, shrubs and creepers. His weekend activities necesarily included pruning and cutting, planting and maintaining his garden. Even with two or three full time gardeners - he believed in Kipling's saying that Gardens are not made by singing “Oh how beautiful” and sitting in the shade. So he would get down to work himself. 
Visits to nurseries and to flower shows  are very important childhood memories to me. Papa devoted himself almost full time after his retirement , in looking after his garden. In my family, I inherited the gardening-genes from both sides. The love for gardening is so much ingrained that even now my mom would remember a particular house they lived in , by remembering the trees, the hedges ,size of the lawns , the flowers and the fruits. She can go on for hours telling you about the guawas we had in our Allahabad house and the Litchis trees at Pantnagar. Despite shifting homes every 3-4 years , my parents never lost their love for ‘ farming’ . Both of them , by the way , had no farming genes, as they came from urban backgrounds and  yet loved gardening so much. In fact a lot of my gardening trivia came from my father’s extensive reading e.g. he taught me names of different variety of roses and dahlias , the stories of famous gardens and gardeners and the tips on growing best plants.I use to take pride in knowing names of plants in three or four languages but like most others in north India, we  normally used urdu/hindustani names of plants . I have already mentioned in this blog how my parents used to shift on transfers with their favorite plants in tow .

Within days of landing up in a new place , my father would start planting banana and papaya trees. Within a year or so the fruits were ready for the family and neighbours. His another favorite activity was growing vegetables like bottle gourd (lauki), bitter gourd and ridge gourd(taroi). If the space was available, he will experiment with other fancy vegetables like beans, carrots and cauliflowers too , but these three were staple. God…how much we kids hated eating these on a regular basis . But the pride with which these were presented was unparalleled . Even comparing notes with neighbours on size of rose or vegetables was part of the gardening tradition of the family- sometimes to the embarrassment of us kids.This vegetable growing was improved further when Papa  went for deputation to Pantanagar Agriculture University ( a very appropriate choice for him!!) Mom was no less. She would find a particular flowering shurb in somebody's house and would immediately ask for a branch and next day mali would be ordered to find it out in nurseries . Once she developed a fad for all colours of Canna and hibiscus(gulhad) and within days our backside garden was full of these two in most unusal colours. Even in my mom’s parental house at Agra, gardening is a passion, a topic of discussion on dining table and a skill much valued . My uncle is a proud gardener with a ‘ vision’. He will design his garden in one way and would get bored with it after a while and believe it or not , overnight the garden would be ‘shifted’ to another design ….with hedges and shrubs and all -intact ! How he ensured that none of the plants die in this shifting is a mystery to me but he did it with such skill that it looked like magic .

Many of these plants travelled with us from one house to another and some others , we left flowering for the new occupants . No wonder,when my parents built their own house one of the pre-condition was existence of a lawn and place to grow vegetables. They did not mind settling down slightly far away from the city,as this requirement was non negotiable. It was difficult not to learn something about gardens and plants in a family like mine. Though the most talented of us sisters is my elder sis, I too realized off late that I cannot live without some plants and flowers to look after . It was however  difficult for me to find a niche area to specialize in the family. Father was all for flowers and specially roses , mom experimented with what she called useful plants – tulsi, chillies, mint leaves, coriander, tomatoes and the like . My sis loved the decorative greens - crotons and ferns, African grass and money plants .Now thanks to her efforts, our Lucknow house looks like all green - with creepers and climbers covering the front .

For some reason I was always partial for the scents . With the help of our gardeners,I carefully planted scents like harsingar(shefali), ratrani, kamini, malti, juhi, chameli and my most favorite - bela . Those who are familiar with these can imagine how fragrant the house would be when all of these are on bloom(usually around rainy season). In the early winters and again in summers , collecting the delicate and fragrant flowers below the tree was my favorite morning activity

Anyways , I was struggling with my gardening genes for past few weeks. I shifted to a new house last January and left my ground floor house with garden full of winter blooms for the next occupant. Now this new house on the first floor , has limitations for gardening . Still, I managed to gather about 40 potted plants .

Pride of my last year's winter bloom. My biggest Dahlia in a pot

Now with the winter approaching, I almost ache for the familiar sights of pansies, dahlias, cinerarias, sweet peas and marigolds. I told myself to resist this urge this year . I mean I hardly get time these days to pick up my gardening trowel and Pruning shears to look after my plants. But the funny part about genes is- you can’t resist them for long. So here I was this afternoon , standing in a nursery missing my lunch , picking up plants and fertilizers for the winter flowers . Now that I am again ready with my gardening tools ,let’s see how my winter 2011 collection goes. After all, the best thing about gardening is the anticipation and hope it provides to a person.

Msafiri at Masaai Mara

Can emptiness be pretty? Can lack of anything interesting be interesting ? I asked this question first time when I visited spiti valley in Himanchal. After reaching that height – in that unusually empty cold desert it’s the lack of everything-vegetation, birds, sounds, smells and even humans that results in beauty. A place where even a sigh is heard so clearly…where the blue-ness of sky is overwhelming and where eyes search for an object to rest on for a while . Such austere , stark and yet stunning beauty. So incomparable in its components. I got a similar feeling while travelling towards masaai mara. I am not so much of a wildlife enthusiastic but Masaai Mara has a snob value. It is one of those places where I would have liked to go before I die …A kind of place one reads about in Travel magazines and sees in adventure movies ….so I agreed to Fred’s proposal of visiting it in Kenya . Me and Fred were much relieved as this trip started after completion of our rather hectic official work at Uganda . We were in vacation mood. Even the terribly inefficient Nairobi airport could not dampen our spirits .
The moment we were out of Nairobi , it was a different world …..the great rift valley was open in front of us . It is vast in its expanse and suddenly reminds you about a chapter in your geography text book on fossils and the east African rift . If one word defines our journey from here it is –Bare . After a while even the road was over. It was just a pair of tyre marks in dusty way what we were following . But we were not alone .There were many cars like ours. For miles, there was nothing more than an occasional bush or tree here and there. O yes, before I forget there was a cathedral – built by prisoners of war from Italy in 1944. A small yet beautiful slice of Italy in Kenya . Later on I found that even America has many such cathedrals and chapels built by POW. I was so tired that even the heat or the bumps from the road could keep me awake. Next time I open my eyes , we were already passing through masaai villages. Masaai- is perhaps world’s most famous tribe , may be because of their distinct dress, height or may be location of their residence near the safari parks .While it was heartening to find some children in school dresses- it was very apparent that poverty and age old customs mark everyday life in this part of the world. They love their colourful dresses and have continued to wear their dresses but it would to assume that the influence of outer world has not reached them. Try clicking one picture and they shout “ dollar ! dollar!” with a strange smile . They too understand the cost of their exotic looks .

Its difficult not to get moved by Masaai mara. You see so many animals and birds that it thrills you . They are totally at home in this place. It is very visibly their home and you remain a visitor. They continue with their business uncaring of human eyes and camera shutters. Sometimes I got a feeling that some of them specially the lions even enjoy their celebrity status- they pose sometimes and sometimes they stubbornly hide while the cars full of eager tourist wait for their glimpse. I somehow did not like the way we humans track them . To my eyes it was almost breach of privacy ….but still we followed the drill . The great fun started next morning . We had debated about it for many days and finally decided to go for it. The expensive but very alluring hot air balloon safari – was something we were really looking forward. The day started early for this. By 5 we were already at our ‘launchpad” the balloon was getting inflated. We were accompanied by an elderly Japanese gentleman and a Kenyan family . The pilot and his girlfriend – a wildlife photographer completed the crew. In minutes our beautiful balloon was ready to fly. What an experience it was !!! Watching animals from up there. We saw so many of them. The reverse migration of wildebeests was still on….and we saw hundreds of them. The migrations of animals and birds are fascinating stuff. It makes you believe in the intricacies of plot written by the Great Scriptwriter for this world. They travel all over the globe- every year …and they rarely lose track. These wildebeests were of course going back to Serengeti , following the rain . It was an amazing sight , the way they follow in long lines of ‘immigration ‘ to Tanzania . The view from the balloon was superb. It was a majestic view of the animal kingdom and we saw zebras, cheetahs , elephants and giraffes. Then followed the wonderful breakfast right there in the middle of the forest. It was unbelievable and very exciting . The river mara was flowing behind us quietly .
Back home yesterday I happened to meet a senior in my office who is an Africa veteran and is working with UN for past many years .When I told him about my journey through Uganda and Kenya he gave a very knowing smile and said: “Wealth is not always in money – this is what you learn in that continent .Isn’t it ?” Well, I couldn’t agree more.

(find my other photos from Kenya here )

Uganda: First impressions

Its difficult to miss India in Uganda. Rows of familiar tress – mango, jackfruit, banana and a very similar climate ensures that you feel at home. I realized this after almost a week in Kampala . There are infact many things about Kampala which one realizes only after some days. The simmering tensions beneath the peaceful city – the complex equations between people and the politics to list a few . But I was lucky that I could afford to remain unaware with these difficult truths of east Africa. Being a foreigner has its own advantages. You can appear ignorant on many things – but then, Indians are not considered foreigners in Uganda. Even common people know them. The Indian Community has a presence in the city . Indians and Chinese are vying for the market of this distant nation for past many decades. In a reception at India House( Indian High Commissioner’s beautifully located house) I got to meet many such rich and elite Ugandan-Indians – people who have made fortune over here. People who own tea estates here or those who are personal physicians to the presidents. Bankers and businessmen , social workers and socialites ….Indians do have a presence here and thankfully after Idi Amin , they too have changed. If you believe the tales, it appears that my countrymen tried to rule over here in the same inhuman way the British ruled over us. No wonder that the local people do not like most of them. They feel uncomfortable with the shrewdness and cunningness of Indians who came here for business….but still they associate India with Mahatma Gandhi. Its surprising , how even the younger generation knows about him and his life . Somewhere it humbles you- tells you that in the end only pure things survive and are appreciated .
Every day while going for work , I list things typical of Uganda. I found you can’t miss three features of Kampala- Bikers- ready to sail you through the terrible traffic jams, the mobile company ads- which are literally painting the town pink, yellow, blue and orange and of course, the bananas. Then you can't miss the huge marabou storks. Now, anyone who has travelled in Uganda, particularly in Kampala, knows about the marabous. They are simply EVERYWHERE. They are scavengers of note. They are huge. They are semi-ugly, semi-pathetic- looking in the same way as very old men do - virutally bald reddish heads. In Kampala they sit on virtually all the trees; on the corners of buildings, on lampposts, in empty lots. They have a menacing feel about them, with their necks hunched into their wings like the boney shoulders of a creepy old man , almost ready to pounce. Other than these , whatever the Lonely planet guide tells you about the country and the city is right . Yes, people are extremely polite and friendly and the city is largely clean and welcoming . But you cannot miss acute poverty while you are here- as much as you can’t help noticing the simplicity of the people . It touches you very deep somewhere. The country runs on the funds of “development Partners” – Its their money that shows even in the remote parts . A young Japanese girl- here to manage one such fund , accompanied me to Queen Elizabeth National Park. We wondered her courage to come and work here – living alone, far off from home and in such different environment. But there are many like her- everybody here knows the Donors. They call shots and dictate terms . It’s ironic that same people who once tortured them as colonizers and rulers, today come back to them as consultants and businessmen – the equations of exploitation remain unchanged despite modern nomenclature.
As for local people they have a sad acceptance of fate- of bad systems – of unequal fight with disease and poverty. It almost breaks my heart when a well travelled , well off young man at AG office here informs me about the death of his 32 year old sister. It’s almost without emotion. She died after an unsuccessful cesarean- he tells me flatly. It was suppose to be her third child . People die of malaria, of AIDS and of childbirth all the time. Death and disease have been associated for so long that they have become part of life . And yet these people found things to celebrate, to dance and sing about. In the historical Makerere University Campus , where I am staying, it is difficult not to find groups of young collegegoers singing, dancing playing football and tennis. A gold medal at Commonwealth games is as much a cause of celebration as is winning a inter university match . Students in this campus look very simple, keen and pure .I know there are difficulties in their young lives- of drugs, of sexual abuse or HIV but it does not become apparent in the first meeting. Most of them come across as just shy youngsters happy and happening – curious about world and things around them .

Life’s little eccentricities

“A civilized society is one which tolerates eccentricity to the point of doubtful sanity.”

If that’s the benchmark, then we’re not just civilized—we’re practically saints in lab coats. We don’t just tolerate eccentricities; we give them Wi-Fi, offer them tea, and occasionally nominate them for housing society committees. We discuss them, celebrate them, poke fun at them, and most importantly, never show them the door. At worst, we assign them nicknames. At best, we write essays about them (like this one).

This epiphany struck me one evening while I was reading a P.G. Wodehouse novel—which, as we all know, is less a book and more a mildly intoxicated stroll through the English countryside of human quirks. Wodehouse characters are a parade of endearing lunacy: one steals pigs (as one does), another pretends to be a psychiatrist (presumably for the free therapy), and my personal favourite—someone who paints moustaches on statues because, well, “they look more distinguished that way.” And you know what? They never feel absurd. They feel like that one uncle we all have who insists on adding raisins to everything—including biryani.

And this isn’t just a Wodehouse-exclusive phenomenon. If you’ve watched Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amélie Poulain (or if you're too cool, just "Amélie"), you’ll recall that everyone in that Parisian pocket of whimsy has their own signature tick. One collects torn-up photos from photobooths, another is convinced he’s terminally ill unless proven otherwise, someone else loathes the phrase “fruits of thy womb” with religious zeal, and there's even a bubble-wrap enthusiast conducting amateur espionage. Oh, and let’s not forget the emotionally-invested cat who eavesdrops on bedtime stories—clearly the most sophisticated in the bunch.

So no, eccentricity isn’t madness—it’s art. It’s identity. It's possibly a coping mechanism in disguise wearing a feather boa. In fact, I’d argue it’s not even all that "eccentric" anymore. It’s just... Tuesday.

Geniuses and aristocrats are often called eccentric, mostly because they just don’t care what the rest of us think—and perhaps because they can afford not to. But make no mistake, eccentricity is no elitist privilege. It cuts across ages, income brackets, and genders like a butter knife through slightly melted cheesecake.

I’ve been generously blessed with an entire ecosystem of eccentric souls around me. So much so, that I sometimes wonder—do I attract them? Am I the eccentric magnet? Either way, thank heavens for them. They’re the spice rack of my life, and without them, things would taste rather bland.I keep telling them: everyone’s given a little spark of madness—don't let it go out. These obsessive hobbies, these strange little fixations, they’re not just quirks. They’re lifelines. They make people more human, more lovable… and often, excellent dinner-table material.

Take, for instance, my ex-colleague. His life revolved around three things: dogs, desserts, and Indian classical music. It never occurred to him that those interests had nothing to do with each other, or anything else, really. At parties, he’d alternate between singing sad patriotic songs and discussing pudding recipes—unless he was mid-conversation with his dogs (who, frankly, seemed more responsive than some people I know).

Then there was a friend who compulsively bought books—and then compulsively didn’t read them. My mother rearranges the fridge racks like it’s a competitive sport. My secretary beams his brightest smile precisely when being scolded. A colleague cannot start a sentence without saying, “No, no—yes, yes… okay, okay.” And a female colleague has turned losing her belongings in my room into a kind of full-time hobby.

My husband knew someone in college who simply couldn’t respond to a question unless he first repeated it. You ask, “What’s your name?” He’d say, “What’s my name? Oh yes—Ramesh.” It was like having a live echo.

But my favorite category of eccentrics? Professors. Glorious, irreplaceable professors. One would bargain on everything—rickshaw fares, socks, even brinjals—always "on principle." He usually ended up paying more than the asking price, but hey, principles are priceless.

Once, a very senior bureaucrat told us that most people in the service are “I-specialists”—they can’t stop talking about themselves. Everyone laughed. Then he spent 45 minutes explaining, “But I am not like that. I always... I never... I think… I feel…” The irony was so dense, it needed a fork and knife.

And Kolkata! That beautiful, eccentric city. There I met an accountant who was also a practicing tantric. Another had a PhD in Latin so he could read Paradise Lost in the original (because why not?). One boss rolled his own cigarettes to save money, and another genuinely believed he was a reincarnated German soldier from WWII.

But the award for most creative use of time goes to my ex-boss, who edited my drafts by changing certain words with their synonyms. Every. Single. Time. After five or six rounds of this, the final version usually had my original word restored. The boss would then look at it with the satisfaction of a man who just invented the wheel. Again.

In the Mussoorie academy, we had a professor who began every economics lecture with: “Suppose this guy has 100 Pepsi bottles...” Another one’s favorite adjective was “atrocious.” Everything was atrocious—food, policies, sometimes even the weather.And then there's a senior in my husband’s office who often begins with, “I don’t like to blow my own trumpet” followed immediately by “I’m an artist by nature.” This is usually followed by a story that clearly suggests he’s been playing both trumpet and harmonium in full volume.

Of course, I’m no saint either. I’m told I have my own “quirks.” My cousin once called me a “bathing freak” because I used to bathe four to five times a day in summer. My husband claims I’m a control freak, and my mother insists I go into a cleaning frenzy whenever I see too much clutter. So yes, the keyword here is “freak.” But if society still accepts me with my hygiene hobbies and bin-clearing tendencies, then I think it’s safe to say we are a civilized society.

On the matter of genetics, I agree with Queen Elizabeth: “In my family, as in all the best families, there are eccentricities.” Ours has its share of impetuous youngsters, delightfully senile elders, and, of course, the ever-popular family disagreements.

My granduncle, age ninety-two, gives appointments to everyone. The maid. The milkman. The postman. Me. He has a weekly phone call with me that must end with a Santa-Banta joke. It’s non-negotiable.My aunts passionately watch weepy soap operas, discuss them with the gravity of war strategy, and then dismiss them as "silly nonsense"—until the next episode.The younger generation, I’m happy to report, is holding the family banner high. My elder sister visits malls only to reject everything. She gives every store a fair chance—then walks out, judging their collections with royal disdain.

My brother-in-law hates curd but loves dahi vada. He can’t stand mangoes but downs mango drinks like nectar. And his elder brother—my dear husband—swears that potatoes cut in round shapes taste entirely different from fries. (He’s yet to convince the potatoes.)Sometimes these habits irritate me. But if everyone behaved the same, what a monochrome mess life would be.

Because in the end, if you spend all your time trying to be like everybody else, you lose your chance of discovering something delightfully different—like a perfectly sane person who prefers their statues with moustaches.

Bursting in a song

My husband says I am a film addict. More than that he concludes that I can and love to watch same movies again and again and well, almost always on TV . I have to admit that he is right ...almost. I love 'my kind of cinema' and I do not enjoy watching movies in cinema hall generally. Somehow, the comfort of my home is important for me to watch a movie . It always seems to amaze me how films(and sometimes television ) are my answer no matter what life might throw my way. There is always a movie to fit my mood and console my feelings. Its difficult to worry about problems and mess in the office when a TCM musical is going on. Similarly, I am unable to feel angry or frustrated for long from my real life if a funny / romantic movie is going on. So its typical for me to come home and collapse wondering what a busy day was all about and then almost like a magic the Tv screen starts telling me tales - some known (but I do not mind hearing them again like a greedy child) and some unknown, which make me dream endlessly about places and people I know not. But my favorites are musicals . They never fail to pep up my spirits .
Do you ever get the urge of bursting in a song while you are in middle of a conversation- a serious one ? Well, I do. When I was a schoolgirl, a favorite cousin very wisely told me that we like the bollywood songs so much because somewhere in our mind we picturise them with us in it . I thought it was a joke at that time. Now I believe in it . No wonder I think musicals are very real cinema. I feel disappointed that we , in India experimented with musicals (the Broadway kind) in very few projects . I can recall Amol Palekar’s Thoda sa Roomani Ho Jaye and some of Sai paranjape’s movies say Katha . But other than that though songs were part of most movies, they were not musicals in the Broadway style. I mean in Indian movies, characters do not burst in the songs while doing normal chores. Songs do not replace dialogues mostly ….they are carefully woven in the storyline. Occasions are created for them .The main function of musical numbers in Bollywood films remains to express emotion. Broadway musical numbers, on the other hand, primarily drive the plot. While Broadway musical numbers are integrated into the narrative, Bollywood musical numbers usually are not. Rather, they’re metaphors, removed from the plot, that show how a character feels, not what the character is actually doing.
But what I miss is movies like My fair Lady , Singing in the Rain ,more recent ones like Mamma Mia, Chicago, Moulin rouge, and Enchanted ………..and many many more . The 1950s and 1960s Hollywood musicals are my all time favorite. However it is heartening to find that the trend of making musicals has not stopped since then. Most of Disney's movies including animations are musicals. The recent High school Musical series was fabulous and I adore Glee on Star world .
India we did not experiment with this genre much.Some Devanand and Gurudutt movies came pretty close to be categorized with these but mostly mainstream cinema in India remained non Broadway musical that is with music- dance sequences only. Such a shame , if you ask me.
It seems perfectly normal to me that people at times may like to sing and dance while going through their normal daily life. I also feel at times the words of a song describe our feelings much more aptly than any length of prose. No wonder at times I find people humming a particular song in a particular mood. There are songs which remind us of some event or someone and there are songs which remind us of ourselves in a particular mood. We all have songs associated with college days , school days, birthdays , our friend circle and many other such milestones of life. But still most of us , even those who love songs and movies, would be shocked to find someone singing publicly . Almost how the guy in Enchanted was embarrassed when Princess Giselle burst into her song in the Central park, NY .
My friend Rani tries hard, not to start singing loud while in office or with her hubby . Her husband like many others feel that bursting in a song is unreal . I too resist my urge to sing --- mostly . But I do sing loud with the radio, when I am alone in the car and of course, I am an experienced bathroom singer. But even on other occasions it is difficult not to imagine a song in my mind. Try this, it is very de-stressing to imagine a song with you in its picturisation while you are in between a boring meeting /conference. Or still better, give lines to each of the persons sitting with you( of course in your mind). This game is so hilarious that at times I find myself smiling or giggling while others give me puzzled look. But take it from me that this is just a poor substitute of the joy you can feel rushing into you while singing out loud. Uncaring of your creaking voice, unaware of the frowns from others and ignoring the astonished look of people walking with you. Its most liberating feeling that dawn on you when you unbind yourself from what others will say. It is almost magical. So take my advice and next time you find Julie Andrews declaring hills to be alive with the sound of music, do not hesitate in joining her in her declaration. …and remember to do it aloud . Musicals , I repeat , are manifestations of how things should be - alive , happy and moving .

My University Town : A decade after

I am not surprised why I never bothered to come back to Allahabad once I passed out from the University almost 15 years back. Even now, it is compulsion of official work that brought me here. I am sure readers of my blog know what a big sucker I am ,of old memories and nostalgia. But somehow, I was never fond of this sleepy conservative town. My association with the city ended after my graduation from the university. I have already confessed in one of my earlier posts my ignorance about a lot of things associated with the history of this city . Somehow , I was so disappointed by its tardiness , lethargy and typical regressive attitude that I failed to see the beauty …even when it was in front of my eyes. Its not that I never had good times here, it was just that I missed some aspects of the town, which I would have liked otherwise in any place . But today when I go back there , I have an insuppressible urge to visit my University. Somehow, I want to be sure of what I remember about the place. I finish off my official work and almost forced my friends from Univ days to come along . Somehow sometimes even memories need company to be talked and thus sound real . So we reached the science faculty ( former Muir Central College) and once again walked through the corridors of this impressive stone building . Department of mathematics—our department, the place where we spent many years talking , teasing and at times, ignoring one another . Its so amazing that not much has changed since then. The maintenance is as poor as ever. The stone building and our favorite Vijayanagaram hall stands as tall as ever . Even the students look much like those days. But three of us visiting the place, were changed. The big world outside this town changed us. We talked incessantly about our batchmates, mimicked our professors and joked about the famous oddballs of our times. Interestingly we found ourselves talking about topics we would have not talked when we were here. Crushes, heartbreaks , complexes, fears and much more. It was so weird when my friend Prasoon pointed out that he never noticed how tall I am . And immediately he added in very matter of fact voice that anyways, it was impossible for him to measure my height by standing next to me in those days . We laughed about how some of us were terribly scared and uncomfortable in interactions with other sex. We laughed out loud about the conservative times – times when our mixed group was scolded by a professor for sitting together on stairs in front of the department . It was considered very indecent . We wondered how from that kind of life most of us went and conquered the world without much problem. It was so heartening to find that from that small group almost everybody is so well settled in life and career today.I find it amazing that most of us connect somewhere so deeply despite our professional, locational and other differences. Probably unknown to us, the city and the university taught us something that stayed and become part of us. I am not talking about the mathematical equations and statistical models , of course.
After this , I moved on alone exploring the town I hardly remember . It was kind of empowering not to belong here.I had few hours of a lovely evening and I knew no one and cared for no one this time . I started from the rivers. After all the presence of these holy rivers and their confluence is one of the biggest claim to fame for this town from past many centuries. I climbed stairs for the new Naini bridge and looked around the beauty of the river . The fort built by emperor Akbar was visible from there . Except for occasional fishermen trying their luck the ghats were almost deserted. The rivers were full with monsoon supply and the setting sun provided excellent background.
On my way back I looked for the Gora Kabristan ( The British Graveyard) at kydganj . It was difficult to resist visiting this old cemetery . But with ASI in charge , the gates were locked and no one was around except the blue board declaring it a protected monument .I cursed ASI once again . But then when have I considerred closed gates a bar for y curiosity– specially if they are gates to a such an old cemetery . So while my driver looked incredulously , I jumped the gate . In a very touching gesture, protectively, he followed suit- nodding disapprovingly all through . The place is a must go for anyone tracing history of the place . This being an old cantonment town, the graves are usually of army officers and their families. Once again like the Park street cemetery of Kolkata , the age profile of the dead is generally below 30 . Mostly the tombstones were missing . I could read one , remembering Margaret, 23, a wife and mother who succumbed to disease in 1808. It is somewhat moving that these people died on a foreign land ...so young ...so vulnerable to heat and mosquitos . From there , I went to see All Saint Cathedral – my favorite stone church and found that locked too. To my driver’s relief I did not jump anymore gates. The church compound was green and untidy with the undergrowth of weeds and grass. But somehow despite all the mess, the building is a stunner . I looked the evening light on it mesmerized . I think I had more than enough share of replenishment for my memories of this town for one evening .
I know, I still do not want to live in this town…but at least now, I do not miss the beautiful British bunglows lining the civil lines , the old trees around the cathedral and most of all , my alma mater- the university .

(Find more pics of my visit here )

My Train Times

Today ,I am travelling by train after quite some time . Off late I have switched on to road and air travel- mostly due to time compulsions . But I always believed that I am very much a train-person. I feel totally at home in trains . This time however, I found myself bit nervous while dealing with the crowd and chaos that prevailed on the platform. I was kind of relived when I was alone in my coupe and the train left station . The familiarity of sounds and sight returned soon afterwards. While reading a wonderful book by Joanne Harris I found my mind was going back remembering – my train times . The time spent during my train journeys . I am surprised how we always felt comfortable travelling in ordinary class . The questions of security and hygiene never bothered us much in those days. Striking conversation with strangers was never difficult. The alertness , the guarded behavior or the fear of getting cheated somehow was not this much. I was remembering the heated debates on politics, cricket and all other general subjects with the co-passengers. It seems everyone was interested in talking . Today of course I find almost everyone either playing with his/her mobile, laptop, mp3 player or sleeping . I cannot complaint because I too am doing the same. People are curt and businesslike in talking with co-passengers . In my university days , it was difficult for me to catch a train from Allahabad and not to find someone or the other from the university in it. Instantly the conversation will start about comparing different departments, professors, hostels etc . Looking back I think it was quite funny . It was somehow so important to prove our point . People would not mind sharing food or magazines, Even the railways staff would at times take part in these regular train discussions. I was never a card player …so my favorite way to spent time was to look out of window . My mind can still visualize those scenes. Later while travelling to Bengal, I realized how dry and barren those fields were in comparison to the green Bengal land. Thankfully this years monsoon was very good and even in north India the fields are full of crops – green and prosperous. A happy sign to witness from the train window.
Incidentally the train experience is also never uniform. Its different while you travel in the toy train from shimla and different when you travel in Konkan railways. I cannot help remembering the happy days of my two Bharat Darshans when we had spent a lot of time(usually nights) in the trains. It is great fun to travel in a group. The continuous singing , teasing, dumb charade and chatting is unforgettable. I still remember when from my university- we were taken on a study tour. What fun we had in train journey to and fro. Of course it must be a nuisance for the fellow passengers. A bunch of noisy college goers are hardly ideal travel companions and we really behaved like brats. So much so our HOD had to get up in the night and shout at us. The giggling and pillow chats continued despite that . Travelling is always interesting, but the flood of memories most of us face while travelling by trains is incomparable . Each one of us has his/her own unforgettable train times.