Ambrosia

High above the sky lies a celestial palace, the size of which is far bigger than the planet we, the people, ever inhabited. This place is also very populous. After all, the people here have to manage all the bodies in the universe and beyond, people of different religions, shapes and sizes. The good part is that even though the so-called living creatures they look after may be at each other’s throats, there exists a very secular atmosphere up here. In fact, you can also call it the highest form of socialism where everyone is an equal, the gods and goddesses, the saints and prophets, all live in harmony, and every day come together once to break bread in a huge hall. As I walked into this hall, I was completely bedazzled with the beauty of the place. For those of us who believed that Vatican Museum and the St. Peter’s Basilica are the most beautifully decorated and magnificent structures on planet earth, this hall is about a hundred times its size. I could see the great masters, hanging in air, painting the unending walls with their palates and brushes and sculpting with chisels and hammers. There was Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Botticelli and Raphael at work, all making much more beautiful, ornate and sharper paintings and statues than what they had created five hundred years ago. Every day in this dining hall, cuisine of one type is made and gets repeated after all other known varieties have been served. This place is also very democratic, for the times the food variety is laid out here is directly proportional to the number of gods and goddesses of a particular religion. In short, the Indian food gets repeated more than any other variety for reasons known to all…there are more gods worshipped there than the number of people! I had won a bumper lottery ticket in the netherworld which entitled me to one meal in this heavenly place. Having beaten a lot many crooks and fraudsters, I was looking forward to enjoying the meal here and I sure was in luck to be treated to Indian food after ages.

School of Athens by Rafael 

As I walked into the hall, I could hear lovely music being played. My happiness knew no bounds when I heard old Hindi film songs once again…all immortal classics of Mohammad Rafi, Kishore Kumar, Lata Mangeshkar, Mukesh… They even had a radio jockey here, for after every song he would announce in his smooth yet husky voice….Behno aur Bhaiyon yeh agla geet…. One of the high priests sitting there said, while swaying to the lilting sound of Lata, “Good that this new RJ is here. The earlier one was not half as good. He makes the atmosphere of the dining room more serene and food more enjoyable.” Even the Popes and Mullahs agreed and said that they should ask him to play more often even if the Indian food was not being served. I sneaked to the corner where the RJ’s box was and knocked his door. He smiled and opened the door….”Arrey Ameen Sayani ji…. I shouted… since our childhood we have heard you on the radio doing the Binaca Geetmala and our parents had enjoyed tuning into Radio Ceylon for the same. One thing has always intrigued me, why were you doing the Hindi songs from Radio Ceylon and not Aakashvani?”

Ameen smiled and spoke gently, “It was in the early fifties when India had just got its independence. The then Information and Broadcasting Minister B.V.Keskar banned Hindi film music and promoted only classical Indian music. The film producers and record companies who wanted to promote film songs were upset. Using a powerful short-wave transmitter left behind by the Americans in Ceylon, Radio Ceylon started airing programmes to India. Better sense prevailed after a few years and I was back on Aakashvani and Vividh Bharati. Apart from the Geetmala, I enjoyed doing the Bournvita Quiz Contest. The youngsters I encountered there were really bright and I was lucky to have the answers given to me by the programme managers without which I would not have been able to answer even a single question. Now I am happy here. There is no choking of the media here… complete freedom. I now present Prabhuji Geetmala at the real Aakashvani Radio Station where I not only play songs from Hindi films but also classical songs and on special occasions the new age rap and digital music.”

The feast was now about to start and I quickly seated myself near the entrance where I expected to get the first servings of warm and delightful food meant for gods…ambrosia. But I was shocked to see the technological advancement at this place. Food just flew in from all over and settled before each individual. There was no separate section or queue for veg or non-veg, vegan or non-garlic. Here food was termed food and was same for all. There was so much of goodness in every bite and all I had to was just think of a second helping in my mind and my plate and bowls would get replenished on their own without anyone coming with a dirty bucket and an equally greasy ladle to pour you the broth as it was in the world below. Once all the courses were done, everyone stood up and broke into an applause that lasted for more than ten long minutes. It was quite deafening but also a way to express the complete appreciation and acknowledgement that everyone was more than pleased with the food served here that day. I could not agree with them more…. it was like the food I had tasted once in a while in my mumma’s kitchen when I roamed the planet earth. A loud announcement was made, “Let the chefs come and accept our heartfelt congratulations for preparing such a wonderful Indian meal. We also would like them to tell us what they had served and what made these dishes so special.”

Five men gently walked into the hall. One by one, they started talking.

“Sir ji, myself Radheyshyam Misra from Gorakhpur. I made the starters called Gobi Manchurian.”

“Oh, then Misraji, this dish is not actually from India. This must have its origin in the Gobi Desert of Mongolia which is very close to Manchuria in China. It must be the local cuisine of that region.”

“Nahin Sir ji. It is very much Indian. Original Chinese food is bland and lacks any colour. Our dish is different with many spices and looks dark. It is said that in the Cricket Club of India in the 1970s, there was a Chef called Nelson Wang. When a customer requested him to create a new dish from what was available in the kitchen, Wang used chopped garlic, ginger and green chillies and instead of adding garam masala, he put soy sauce and corn starch with the chicken. This became quite a hit everywhere but you must remember a large part of India is vegetarian. So some of us started using the same recipe and in place of the chicken, we put in gobi or cauliflower and to make it even more exotic some added mushroom. We also use MSG or mono-sodium- glutamate and spice was according to the customer’s demand from mild to very hot. Gobi Manchurian is a great starter and at road side eateries, this dish increases the sale of country liquor and beer.

Misra ji the Gobi Manchurian today was excellent but you seem to be a young man. How come you have come to these gates so early?

Sir ji, my food joint was in North Goa in a place called Mapusa. The local civic body there has recently taken a strange call to ban Gobi Manchurian. They say, we are using synthetic colours, sauces of dubious quality and some are also using detergents in the making of this dish. Sir ji, I had a good business at Mapusa but after they enforced the ban, I had no work. I jumped into the sea and came floating here. But I am sad now. I have my wife and three small children in my village in UP. Don’t know how they will manage in my absence.

That is so sad. Don’t worry Radheshyam. We will look into this soon…. Next! Two people walked into the hall, both named Kundal Lal.

“Please don’t be confused. We are not identical twins but our lives then and, even now after our arrival here, are quite intertwined”, said one of them. “Sir, we are Kundan Lal Gujral and Kundan Lal Jaggi and we made for you today, our signature and original dishes of butter chicken and dal makhani.”

KL Gujaral spoke first. “Sir, I had a restaurant in Peshawar, now in Pakistan, where I often faced a typical problem of my barbequed chicken drying out. I started searching for a sauce which could rehydrate them. I, finally, found the solution in ‘makhani’ or ‘butter sauce’. This led to the creation of butter chicken which was made from bits of tandoori chicken and loads of butter sauce.  This became an instant hit with my customers. When I moved to Delhi after partition, my restaurant, called Moti Mahal, was where Indian and global dignitaries would come to and enjoy the food, and butter chicken in particular. Recently, this man, Kundan Lal Jaggi’s grandson, opened a restaurant, once again in Delhi called Daryagunj, and is claiming that his grand-father was the first person to cook butter chicken in his old hotel in the city.”

“Sir, this man is not speaking the truth. I owned a hotel where Gujral and another friend were partners. It was in my hotel that butter chicken and dal makhani were first created and served to customers. I, too, had high and mighty kings and queens and ministers coming to my hotel for food and to them butter chicken meant the food cooked at my place and not at Gujral’s. Now our descendants are locked in a court battle to find the truth.”

“Dear Kundans, firstly, we wish to thank you for serving us such wonderful dishes today. Meanwhile, keeping in view the dispute the two of you are having plus Misra ji’s sad state, I would request our latest luminary guest to step forward and take up these two matters for finding some amicable settlements up here, for we know how long the Indian courts down below will take.”

An old man in suit stood up in the hall and waved to all the attendees. “My Lords, I am Fali Sam Nariman. I was an Indian jurist who held many posts including Additional Solicitor General of India from 1972 but resigned when the Government of India declared a state of Emergency in 1975. I also had the dubious distinction of representing Union Carbide in the infamous Bhopal gas tragedy. Later in life, I was a senior advocate in the Supreme Court of India with specialization in constitutional matters. My son, Rohinton, went on to become a judge in the Supreme Court.”

“Dear Fali, we are indeed very fortunate to have you amongst us. You will be quite busy up here, I can promise you that. Troubles of the planet earth are most pressing and they never seem to agree to anything but we try and find solutions to those unfinished cases here.”

“Next Chef, please!”

“Aadab Meherbaan. I am Imtiaz Qureshi and I cooked the Dum Pukht Biriyani and Dal Bukhara along with Kakori Kebab and Warqi Parantha.”

“You were the toast of the day, Imtiaz Mian. Please do tell us about your dishes a little more and please feel free to make them more often.”

“Huzoor, I started my culinary journey with my uncle at a tender age of nine when he was cooking for a British regiment in colonial India. Later, I joined a catering company which served Indian soldiers during the Indo-China War of 1962. Here I got a chance to serve the then Prime Minister of India, Jawaharlal Nehru, who was so impressed with the food that he recommended me to the Ashok Hotel that was opening at Delhi. Later, after stints at many big hotels in the capital city, I became part of ITC Hotels and ended my career as the Master Chef of their group of hotels. Two restaurants there have been named after my signature dishes, Dum Pukht and Bukhara.”

“Sir, I continued the Awadhi cooking tradition of my family. Dum Pukht, which translates to ‘choking off the steam’ was a method of slow cooking. Meat and vegetables are partially cooked and placed in a cauldron and sealed with a ring of atta (flour). The food then cooks in its own juices and steam, retaining the flavor of the ingredients. Simultaneously, burning coal is placed on the lid, allowing the food to be heated from the top and bottom. All my life, I have not used any measuring instruments. I have always relied on my andaaz (instinct) and measured ingredients by my palm.”

“Subhaanallah Imtiaz Mian. You are a great addition to his family and a jewel in our kitchen. Now can we have the last man who made the sweet dish.”

“I am Bhim Chandra Nag from Kolkata. Sir, the dish I prepared today is called Ledikeni. The sweet had its origin when I made it to commemorate the arrival of Lady Canning, the wife of the then Governor General of India, Lord Charles Canning to Kolkata sometime around the 1850s. Lady canning grew very fond of this sweet and would often call for it on all special occasions held at the palace. Soon the dessert became popular with the local population who started referring to it as Ledikeni.”

“The dish tasted fantastic but looked quite funny.”

“Sir, do not go by the look. In Bengal, we have many varieties of sweets. I shall make one a day and never repeat any of the sweets. Actually, I wanted to make the famous Rosogolla but then much water has flown down the Hooghly and Mahanadi rivers over its origin and then Nariman ji here is already very busy with so many food cases that I decided not to add to his work. There is no controversy over the origin of the sweet dish I made today. Lady Canning is happy and so are the Lords here today.”

“Thank you Nag Babu. Good to have you here as well. The best part is that the ailment, called diabetes, arising from Bengali sweets is something we do not have to ever worry about here. So, you are most welcome to feed us with your choicest sweet dishes at any time.”

I could not believe my eyes and luck. First it was Ameen Sayani and then the makers of butter chicken, dal makhani, dum pukht biryani, ledikeni and also Fali Nariman, a man who was awarded Padma Bhushan and Padma Vibhushan by the Government of India. I will definitely ask Fali Sir to fight my wrongful confinement to the hell below. My case was not heard properly and I shall ask him to file a plaint for reopening my case. I belong here… this is my rightful place. It will be one hell of a case and Fali will not Fail me.

Picture courtesy: Internet

SS

 

Bom Bahai Dairies-1

“Now that you have time and little responsibilities, you should go and see the world.” This was one of the most common friendly advice by friends and colleagues as I relinquished my regular office duties after thirty-six years. I often replied that I am yet to see this land of ours so my aim would be to see India in all its beauty and splendour. Others nodded in agreement. But then there was Vicky who had other plans for me.

Meet Vicky, my dear friend of long, initially as a part of my office team and then became an integral part of my family. Vicky came to this city from the North Eastern part of the country in the last decade of twentieth century. He studied in a boarding school at Panchgani and then did his college from St. Xavier’s College in the city. Since then he has been around the old part of the town and has traversed all nooks and corners of this city. He was one person waiting for me to hang up my boots and promptly called, “Sir, let’s do it now.” I remembered him planning to visit the heritage Mumbai- its old eating places, colonial structures, cinema halls and anything interesting around the old part of the town. From travelling to different parts of the world, I had narrowed down my expeditions to exploring the country and now here I was with Vicky waiting to experience my city first. We decided to find one day every month to go and explore the old town and eat at some wonderful places, ones we had heard of but never got the chance to sit and enjoy. So with Vicky on the camera, D with her eye for details and me, the vagabond, will do our monthly rounds and share the stories.

On our first walking tour, we were to meet Vicky outside Regal Cinema at Colaba but since we had reached the place quite early, we decided to take a look at the CSVS. When we had visited the museum around twenty years ago, the number of exhibits were less and sad looking and we did not spend much time inside. But now, the place has been completely overhauled and art from all across the globe is being exhibited here be it the Egyptian mummy or the Roman statues or the Harappan bricks. This museum was originally named Prince of Wales Museum of Western India to commemorate the visit of the future King George V in 1904. In 1998, it was renamed as Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalaya, (CSMVS). The building is built in the Indo-Saracenic style of architecture, incorporating elements of other styles of architecture like the Mughal, Maratha and Jain. CSVS has approximately 50,000 exhibits of ancient Indian history as well as objects from foreign lands, categorised primarily into three sections: Art, Archaeology and Natural History. The museum houses Indus Valley civilization artefacts, and other relics from ancient India from the time of the Guptas, Mauryas, Chalukyas and Rashtrakuta. The museum was formally opened in 1922 and recently completed its centenary and while the Prince of Wales still stands basking in the sun and rains outside in the garden, Chatrapati Shivaji Maharaj’s portrait adorns the entrance walls…. that’s quite like made in India!

We then walked across the street to Regal Cinema located at Colaba causeway and looked around. Did you know that this cinema theatre was built by Framji Sidhwa and the first film to be aired at the Regal in 1933 was Laurel and Hardy. Regal was designed by Charles Stevens and its interiors, with extensive mirror-work, were designed by the Czech artist Karl Schara. Its interiors were designed to create an impression of airiness, coolness and size in harmony with the modern simplicity of the exteriors. Record books state that Regal was the first air conditioned theatre of India. In a world where huge multiplexes rule, Regal is holding its head high and is still quite a landmark and a preferred place for a good movie time.

Vicky, finally, arrived and we were all very hungry so made our way to New Martin’s Hotel for some delicious Goan food. Here we met Anand Pereira, 44, who has worked at Martin’s Hotel for 25 years and remembers all the regular customers and their usual orders, regardless of how often they frequent the restaurant. Anand knew Vicky for reasons other than his choice of food… it seems Vicky in all his visits to the hotel as a student had never ever given any tip to Anand or to his deputy, Lopez. The hotel which started over seventy years ago is owned by a Goan, Baptiste D’Souza, who lives in Malad and has not been coming for many years due to his advanced years. Anand manages the place on his behalf. For the menu, you will have to look at a board on which everything that is available is written in chalk and you can order straight away. Mind it, if you arrive late in the afternoon, the most preferred items might be completely sold out and you may have to order from the left behinds. We had Goan style vindaloo with pav and super tasty steaks. There were these other fine things like the famous Sorpotel and custard jelly on the wall menu but decided to defer them for another visit. We left the hotel with our tummies full, our hearts happy and for once Vicky left a handsome tip for Anand and his deputy.

We went for a short walk to the sea front to give ourselves some much needed exercise after such a heavy and sumptuous meal. This was one end of Apollo Bunder where the kolis or fisher folk had their tiny wooden fishing boats tied and, in the horizon, we could see the magnificent bay full of smart yachts of Indian oligarchs with their sails unfurled in the gentle winter winds. Vicky suggested we go to see the Afghan Church in Navy Nagar. We were wondering why was a Christian Church so named…. Could it be that the Christians of Afghanistan had built it or the Kabulis had built it for the Christians of Mumbai?. On reaching the place, we came to know that the Afghan Church was built by the British between 1847 to 1858 to commemorate the dead soldiers of Bombay Army from the disastrous First Afghan War of 1842.

In the chancel a marble inscription reads: "This church was built in memory of the officers whose names are written on the walls of the chancel and of the non-commissioned officers and private soldiers, too many to be so recorded who fell, mindful of their duty, by sickness or by sword in the campaigns of Sind and Afghanistan, A.D. 1838-1843."

This Gothic church, made by the renowned architect William Butterfield and designed by Henry Conybeare, took nearly 10 years to erect. The steeple, whose spire served as a landmark for incoming ships, and portico were added over a period of time. The Church was made with local stones but most woodwork is done in Burma teak and rosewood. You can find a lot of stained glasses in the church. These stained glasses were known as the poor man's Bible back then because most people could not read the Bible. Each stained glass has Biblical narratives from the Bible and the life of Christ. Currently, the Afghan Church is undergoing a complete renovation and we are dying to go inside this majestic and historic monument once done. We did go to the other historic church further down the Navy Nagar, the RC Church, but the same was not open for us to admire fully but the poster on the wall of the naval hospital Ashwini did catch our attention…Tacking to Blue Waters!

We felt quite tired already, so we took a cab to take us to our next and final stop… of course a food joint near Metro Cinema… but we stopped midway at an old, dilapidated building with iron claddings all around undergoing another round of major renovation. This was the Imperial Mansion which belonged to the Indian Railways. This place has great memories for D who lived in this sea- facing house as a school girl between 1973-1977 when her father, who was a senior official in the railways, opted to stay in this historic building rather than in the modern flats of Budhwar Park. At that time, it was a majestic stone building located at the junction of Cuffe Parade and Wodehouse Road. Later, this building was converted into a transit accommodation for probationary officers.

Imperial Mansion is a historical building located at the Y-junction, as seen in the old photos of Colaba Railway Station (1873 - 1931). The old railway yard, where Budhwar Park came up later, was located to South East of this building. D remembered every single detail of her house … the huge arched mahogany doors, her play room, the long, covered verandah which had glass windows opening out to the sea, an attic inside the house with a small wooden staircase leading up to it and the massive hall with intricate mosaic work on the floor. The stone exterior is plastered today, the huge wooden staircase is replaced by granite steps and the verandahs have merged with the interiors. The sea-view from the house, which was pristine and unobstructed in those days, is now replaced with that of a huge fishermen’s colony which came up in the last five decades. This was the landing point of the terrorists who caused mayhem in 2008. In searching for the history of the city, we found some history of our own embedded in its walls and roads.

On the left is the old railway yard and the Imperial Mansion is at the Y crossing.
Picture courtesy: Internet

We now headed for the old Parsi eating place Kyani & Co. But before we crossed the street to have another belly full of goodies, something unique caught our attention. It was the The People’s Free Reading Room and Library, earlier known as the Bombay Native General Library established in 1845, and now run in collaboration with the N M Wadia Trust. We walked in to see that this is a place with good seating arrangements where students come to do their studies paying a nominal fee. It is very peaceful inside and so different from the humdrum of the city outside. That some souls could think of this concept, almost two centuries ago, when the native students could find a place with desks and chairs and, possibly, some peace and quiet, all of which were not available in their homes, is so wonderful and thoughtful.

Enough of thoughtfulness for it was once again food time. Not that any one of us was hungry but we wanted to relish some yummy evening snacks and so we ordered the usual Irani Chai, bun maska and the legendary mawa cakes…. The buns are so fresh and soft and the cakes so yum that we ate it slowly, enjoying every bite of it. Vicky told us that we needed to still eat the famous sali boti, akuri and keema pav with the Raspberry soda to top it all but the two oldies for once said…bus aaj ab aur nahin…The interiors are quite basic with worn-out wooden chairs and tables, wooden counters, huge glass jars with cookies and beautiful vintage pictures of old British Bombay hung on the walls. Mumbai still has some of these Parsi food joints and Kyani’s, that was founded in 1904, was our first such stop…After eating here, the trio became even more determined to eat at each and every one of them in their coming walking tours.

Now it was time to start for home but Vicky avoided the straight road to Marine Lines Station and made us walk into the small by-lanes of Dhobi Talao which literally translates to Washermen’s Tank. This used to be the place during the colonial times where the dhobis used to wash the clothes of British soldiers. Now the place has no signs of washermen’s activities. A majority of the residents in this area are Christians, many of whom were local kolis who had been converted to Christianity by the Portuguese in the sixteenth century. If you are wondering what the Portuguese were doing in Bombay, then here’s a quick reminder. From the time Vasco da Gama landed on Indian soil at Calicut in 1498, they spread northwards to Goa and then further north up the coast. From 1535, Bombay was part of Portuguese India till, in 1661, it was gifted to the British when Catherine de Breganza was married to Charles II of England. Incidentally, the name Bombay was derived from the what the Portuguese would call the place then…Bom Bahai or safe harbour.

If you wish to see the real art of community washing at a dhobi talao, then you need to go to Mahalakshmi, where the dhobis or washermen are fully operational, and you can also get to see their activities from a platform created for tourists who wish to see the ‘real India…the poor India’. The Mahalakshmi Dhobi Talao was built 125 years ago and it holds the Guinness Book of World records for the entry ‘most people hand washing clothes in a single location.’ On an average one hundred thousand clothes are washed each day with over seven thousand dhobis at work anywhere between 18 to 20 hours a day.

As we were exiting Dhobi Talao of South Mumbai, Vicky showed us an old mansion called Nhava House. He said he used to live here during his college days. The owners were Nawabs of Mumbai and owned huge tracts of land and in the olden days even had elephants in their gardens. Vicky went to meet one of the guards who recognised our man well. Vicky has many a tale to tell, for instance, the place was haunted. The guards said that they had to remain awake the whole night for if they caught a wink, someone unseen would slap them. This was also the place where Vicky’s lady friends from college would find refuge at nights after party time, of course, by paying token money to the wide-awake guards at the entrance.

I tried to search for the names of the Nawab of Mumbai but came up with only one possible name…Mohamed Yusuf. Born in 1876, Yusuf was an early 20^th century businessman, owner of Bombay Steam Navigation Company and philanthropist. Mohamed Yusuf obtained the lease of Nhava island and many other estates in Jogeshwari for 999 years. It is said that the Yusuf family at one time was one of the largest private landowners in Bombay. Yusuf was knighted in 1914 and he also played a part in the Swadeshi Movement, was a patron of Gandharva Mahavidyalaya, established a nautical college (Training Ship Rahaman), opened many schools for children and orphans of seafarers and Yusuf Ismail College. As a marine insurance man all my life, I now realised the land where the biggest port in India is located, Nhava Sheva, was once owned by Sir Yusuf’s family and donated to the nation.

We finally boarded our trains home from the historic Churchgate Station that we planned to visit soon and many other heritage sites this Bom Bahai has so safely preserved in its harbour.

SS 

Tales Told in Stone and Water

As our car meandered its way on undulating roads through lush forests, we rolled down our windows to take in the cool, fresh air. For us, coming from a city where all you get to see are buildings and more buildings, it was truly refreshing and exhilarating. It felt so pure and soul soothing. All around were thick forests of sal, teak, arjun, saja (Indian laurel), interspersed with oak, banyan, peepal (sacred fig), and sycamore. The more recognizable ones for us were the bamboo clumps, gulmohars, mangoes, and amla (gooseberry). And who could miss those flaming red African tulips or rudra palash as they raised their heads proudly from among the bottle green leaves? In the higher reaches, the flora changed to the more temperate vegetation of pines, ferns, spruce and poplars.

We were on our way to Amarkanatak, the meeting point of the Vindhya and the Satpura ranges, the fulcrum being the Maikal range. It is on this plateau that the two mighty rivers of Narmada and Son or Sone originate. Another river, Johila, a tributary of Son also originates here. Narmada Udgam Sthal, where the Narmada Kund is located, is considered very sacred and a temple is dedicated to goddess Narmada. Similarly, the origin of the river Son is marked as the Son Udgam Sthal.

Narmada Udgam Sthal

Legends and myths abound and you can read about them in books, the world wide web but hearing it from the locals is more interesting. Narmada has many names- Narmade (mentioned by Ptolemy in 2^nd CE as per Encyclopedia Britannica), Namoddos, Narbudde, Rewa (mentioned in the Puranas), Shivangini, Shankari. Mythology says that Narmada was born of Shiva’s perspiration during intense penance and hence she is his daughter or Shankari. It is said that the pebbles on its riverbed are sacred as they are shaped like shivlings and called banalingams. As she cascades down the Maikal hills in a steep fall at Kapildhara and a smaller fall at Dudhdhara, she flows west from Chhattisgarh, through Madhya Pradesh (at Shahastradhara and the Dhuadhar falls at Marble Rocks) to Gujarat and thereon into the Arabian Sea, near Bharuch. In another mythological story it is said that Narmada and Son came down as Two teardrops from Brahma’s eyes. A parikrama around the entire course of the Narmada is considered sacred and soul purifying.

An interesting folklore about mighty rivers has it that she was Princess Narmada, daughter of King Maikal, supposed to marry Prince Shonbhadra. As she was waiting for her bridegroom to arrive, she sent her companion Johila or Jwala to find out how he looked since she had never seen him. As Johila did not return she grew impatient and went looking for her companion only to find Son frolicking with her. Enraged, Narmada went off in the opposite direction. Narmada never married. That is why we have Narmada flowing towards west, while Son and Johila went east together till Son flowed into the Ganga, near Patna in Bihar. Many such tragic love stories abound among the tribal communities of the Gonds and Bhils of this region. At times the river Narmada is personified as a tribal girl or a princess while in other versions she is a goddess.

The sight of the sun setting against the backdrop of a temple dedicated to the Jyotirlingas was a visual treat and if that was not enough the rising moon and the brilliance of a trillion stars was mesmerizing, as we spent a long time trying to identify the various constellations. While looking at the night sky in Amarkantak, Gulzar’s lyrics from the movie Slumdog Millionaire kept reverberating in my mind:

Aaja aaja jind-e-shamiyane ke tale
Aaja zariwale neeley aasmaan ke tale

Perhaps the cherry on the cake was watching the sunrise from the window of our guest house room against the mountain ranges. With my limited vocabulary, I will not even try to describe it. In a city, through its layers and layers of smog, where do we get to see these sights? At most, we are happy to notice a change of colour in a patch of the eastern or western sky.

Sunrise at Amarkantak

Chhattisgarh is also home to the mighty Mahanadi and many other smaller rivers which go by the names of Arpa, Hasdeo, Shivnath. If the Gods and Goddesses have joined hands with Mother Nature to bless this land with an abundance of rivers, lakes, mountains, flora and fauna, the kings of the Kalchuri and some other dynasties, who ruled in the central and western parts of India between the 6th and 13th centuries, erected marvels in stones to honour them.

Pataleshwar, Amarkatak

Just across the road from the Narmada Udgam Sthal stands a group of temples, very well maintained by the Archaeological Survey of India. The main among them being the Pataleshwar Temple, the Shiva Temple and Karan Temple. There is also a huge kund (artificial lake) called the Surya Kund. It is said that this kund was built by Adi Sankaracharya in the 8^th CE to specify the origin of Narmada. He had also installed an idol of Shiva in Pataleshwar though the temple was constructed centuries later by Kalchuri King Karna Deva in the 11^th CE. The Karan Mandir is dedicated to this king. This group of temples is definitely one of the best temple architectures of this period. The temples here have a garbhagriha (sanctum), a mandapa (pavilion) and an antaral (a pathway connecting the two). In the Pataleshwar temple the main sanctum sanctorum is few steps below the floor of the mandapa, hence the name Pataleshwar (below the earth).

Bhoramdeo Temple

Another group of temples attributed to this period (7^th to 12^th CE) is the Bhoramdeo temple, also called the Khajuraho of Chhattisgarh. The older temples in this complex are in brick and the later ones in stone. It is located in the Kabirdham district in a serene spot next to a beautiful lake and against the backdrop of the Maikal range. The main temple dedicated to Lord Shiva is a small compact temple with intricate carvings on the external walls showing all aspects of everyday life, from the bestial, to the sensual and erotic to the spiritual. Its architectural and aesthetic styles remind one of the Khajuraho and Konark temples. The Gond tribe of this region worshipped Shiva by the name Bhoramdeo. The sculpted images of the avatars of Vishnu and Shakti, Lakshmi and Ganesha can also be seen along with scenes from the Ramayana and Mahabharata. The construction of this group of temples is attributed to the Naga kings of Chakrakota. It can truly be called a marvel in miniature.

Lakshman Temple, Sirpur

On the banks of the Mahanadi is the small town of Sirpur in the Mahasammund district of Chhattisgarh which draws Hindu, Jain and Buddhist pilgrims. Excavations from 1952 to 2003, have yielded archaeological ruins of temples dedicated to Lakshman, Rama and also Jain and Buddhist monasteries. Archaeologists have excavated sculptures, idols and panels with motifs which reveal how Shaivism, Vaishnavism were intricately mingled with Jainism and Buddhism. Interestingly, the Lakshman temple was first brought to the notice of the international community by a colonial British official Alexander Cunningham who was the founder of the Archaelogical Survey of India. Sirpur or Sripur was once the capital of the Dakshin Koshala (present day Chhatisgarh, Madhya Pradesh) ruled by Sarbhapuriya dynasty (5^th -6^th CE) followed by the Panduvamshi dynasty (7^th to 8^th CE). Later this South Kosala region came under the Kalchuris and other smaller dynasties. The 7th century Lakshman brick temple, dedicated to Lord Vishnu and his avatars, is more or less intact but only the star-shaped base of the Rama temple has survived. A kilometer from the Lakshman temple is the Teevardeo Buddhist monastery, built by the Somavanshi King Teevardeo, whose ruins have yielded statues, artwork, inscriptions which show a splendid amalgamation of all faiths. Stone and bronze relics, artefacts kept in the museums on the site, inscriptions on panels have revealed that they belong to the period between 6^th and 12^th CE giving an insight into life and times of that era. Scholars have confirmed the mention of Sirpur in the memoirs of Hieun Tsang, the Chinese traveler, who had visited India in 7^th CE.

Bhima Kichak, Malhar

Our next circuit was the Malhar-Janjgir-Champa district. The stone structures with their mind-blowing carvings had more tales to tell.  The Bhima Kichak temple of Malhar dates back to the 6^th -7^th CE and is dedicated to Lord Shiva. Only the platform and the garbhagriha survive. The carvings are very ornate with life-size statues of Ganga and Yamuna placed alongside the dwarpalikas. Scenes from epics and mythology are depicted on the elaborate carvings on the panel. One particular panel has scenes from the wedding of Shiva and Parvati engraved so intricately that no words are required to understand them. We can only bow our heads in reverence to those artists who created them giving importance to every minute detail.

Ganga, Gandharva, Kal Bhairav- Dwarpalikas

 In Malhar, too, there is a Pataleshwar temple, dedicated to Shiva. One has to go down a flight of steps to access the garbhagriha or sactum sanctorum since is at a level lower than the mandap. The kalpvriksh (tree of life) is engraved on the first step leading to the sanctum with images of Ganga and Yamuna on either side of the entrance along with Gandharva and Kal Bhairav. This is a common feature and can be seen in all the temples of this region. The temple dates backs to the 12^th CE.  In many of these temples an image or bust of the king, under whose patronage the temple was built, also finds a place. There is a huge statue of Nandi facing the main temple and beside it is another temple dedicated to Lord Hanuman.

Pataleshwar, Malhar

This deity of Hanuman carries the dagger instead of the usual club or gada. Our friend and host from Bilaspur narrated to us an interesting anecdote from Krittivasa’s Ramayana. The story goes that when Indrajeet, the son of Ravana, was killed, he was heartbroken and approached his brother Ahiravana, the king of patal lok or the netherworld, for help. He suggested that Ahiravana abduct and kill Rama and Lakshman but also warned him about how they were guarded by the mighty Hanuman. On the other side, Vibhishan apprised Rama and Lakshman about the impending danger to their lives and also warned them that Ahiravana was capable of all forms of trickery. Ahiravan, dressed as Vibhishan, was able to hoodwink Hanuman and abduct the brothers and carried them off to his underworld kingdom. Hanuman then set out to rescue the Lords armed with a dagger or bhojali since he had heard that Ahiravana had a monster called Makardhwaj to guard him. Makardhwaj was known for his physical strength and loyalty. On reaching the underworld Hanuman had to first encounter Makardhwaj who announced that no one could go past him as he was the son of Hanuman. Hanuman till this point did not know that he had sired a son. Through his special powers he learned the truth about the birth of Makardhwaj.  After setting Lanka on fire, Hanuman had washed himself in a river where a crocodile had swallowed a drop of his sweat and conceived a child. This crocodile had been caught by Ahiravana and when he had its belly cut open the half -monkey, half- crocodile child had been found whom he had raised as his own and who later guarded him with his life. In this battle between father and son, Makardhwaj was defeated and bound by Hanuman. Next Hanuman assumed the panchmukhi (five headed) form – Hanuman, Varaha, Narasimha, Garuda and Hayagriva- to blow out the five lamps in which had been kept the five lives of Ahiravana. Finally, the two brothers were released and they succeeded in killing Ravana. When Lord Rama came to know about the identity of Makardhwaj and his fierce loyalty to Ahiravana which made him fight against his own father, he was very impressed and ordered Hanuman to set him free and make him the king of the netherworld.

Vishnu Temple, Janjgir

Janjgir boasts of two Vishnu temples- one large and the other small. The smaller of the two temples looks rather bare but the larger is indeed poetry in art. The garbhagriha has survived over the centuries and stands on a lofty platform though the shikhara is missing. The locals call them the ‘nakata’ or incomplete temples. The walls of the temple are intricately carved with the various avatars of Vishnu and scenes from their lives.

The final stop was at Champa, made famous by its handloom weavers of kosa or tussar silk saris and fabrics. Kosa is the silk drawn from the cocoons of silkworms feeding on saja, sal and arjun trees which had lined the roads all along. Were the trees directing me to this place? Was that a sign for me to go ahead? Without a second thought and throwing all caution and life-lessons to the wind, I splurged to my heart’s content.

DS

  

Hangin’ Up the Boots

A young lady and a young man were talking outside an elevator door on the third floor of a complex that housed a restaurant.

Wow… so many Manchester United fans! I, too, am a Man U fan and just saw their match on the TV. But wonder why these fans are wearing the same number on their backs with something written there and that too after the match is over?

The young woman started laughing.

What’s so funny?

I know the answers to your questions but it is a slightly long story.

I am meeting you, possibly, after fourteen years when we left school. So I don’t mind waiting a wee bit longer chatting with you.

Ok, then let me do a slight flashback. A week ago, my father, who is to retire from service this month end got a WhatsApp invitation for a farewell being organized by people from his previous company. Most of them had either started their careers or had grown in stature during his time as Business Head for Mumbai between 2006 to 2012. Currently these people work in different organizations but it seems they had specifically connected to plan my father’s farewell.

The man had a look of amazement as he said, “That’s something!"

This was no ordinary invitation for it was done creatively with copy writing, images of a sailing ship and a sea captain’s cap which was possibly a tribute to my father who had been their leader and was known in the insurance circles as a marine insurance person. It spoke about the date of the get- together but did not confirm the venue nor the dress code. A day before the big day, my father got an update which said that the venue would be the grounds at the Chacha Nehru Park at 6 pm, followed by dinner. He immediately called the key organizer and was told that they had arranged for a football match at the park under floodlights.

The last time my father had played was in 2019 on a day when the decorators for my marriage had come to our place for the final planning. He went out in the morning telling my Mom that he would not play but then the morning turned to afternoon and it was late evening when he returned home. He came home as happy as a school boy with a medal hanging from his neck to show Mom that he had won the trophy. However, as you can all guess, his reception at home did not go too well. Since then, he had not kicked a ball and physically, apart from aging to sixty, he was in no shape to play a football match. Naturally, he could not say no and break the hearts of these youngsters who, possibly, had been planning for long time to put together such a thematic adieu to a man they dearly loved and respected. He too loved them very much and his love for the game is such that even now he wakes up at the middle of the night to watch the Champions Trophy matches. He ticked one item off his bucket list when he got a chance to see the World Cup and Messi playing live in 2022 at Qatar.

The day of the match arrived and my parents reached the venue a little after 6 pm and saw a number of youngsters in similar looking jerseys warming up. This was exactly the same tribute they had paid when their boss had completed ten years in the erstwhile organization where the entire staff from different locations had trooped in before 8 am to beat him to work on that one day. My father, too, is fond of theatrics. He planned to use this day to show his respect to the three of the four main organizations he had worked for during his 36 years of working tenure while playing one last time in service by wearing their colours that day. But these enthusiastic colleagues had other ideas and my father had no heart to do anything except follow their directions blindly. He was given a red jersey and he changed into it immediately. He was anyway very happy to see that the jersey had the logo of his favourite team, Manchester United, on the top left corner. His happiness knew no bounds when he saw his name and number 7 printed on the back of the jersey, the number he generally wore in college, university and club football when playing in Delhi.

All the people on the field were wearing the same red jersey with the Man United logo. He asked one of the girls there, “Why is everyone wearing the same coloured jersey? How will we play like this?” The girl started laughing aloud and then asked others on the field to turn their backs towards my old man. He was completely taken aback when he saw that everyone had his name and the same number on the back of their jerseys too. He then looked again at his own shirt and saw that there were two lines of his favourite poem Invictus printed on the front side. I had not reached the playground till then but my mother said, his eyes were wet seeing the love of these youngsters who had nothing to gain from him any longer…. It was pure love and respect on display.

I am the master of my fate
I am the captain of my soul

Teams were drawn and to differentiate the two sides, blue and yellow ribbons were given to all to tie on their foreheads. My mother became the referee who tossed the coin and declared the start of the match. She then turned into an involved spectator on the field who not only was taking pictures and videos but even kicked the ball whenever it rolled towards her. My father in no time realized that he was old and rusty but the other players, too, did not have much skill and stamina except a couple of young men. They were playing like novices and were kicking the ball in all directions but their laughter showed that they were all having a good time. Only one little boy, the son of a colleague, was trying to play with all earnestness and was very disappointed with these oldies who were not really playing by the book. They had played for no more than ten minutes when my father stretched his leg to intercept the ball going past him and something at the back of his knee snapped. He limped in pain for some time and then as luck would have it the exhausted players on both sides decided to take a well-earned break. Almost all the players sat down or lay on the ground to take a breather and quenched their thirst by drinking lots of water. Two of the organizers went out somewhere and returned with a big packet full of samosas and wafers. In addition to this, my parents had brought lots of sweets for the people knowing their liking for the Bengali sandesh. The lemon break turned into a snack party for the players.

My father used this time to spray the pain killer in abundance and pulled up a knee cap to take to the field in the goal for the second half. This was equally uneventful except in one attack by the opposing team, he missed the blocking the ball and possibly had a hand in inadvertently kicking it into the net. Goaaaal…. Goaaaal… the other team shouted louder than the Brazillian commentators whose high pitch and unending stretch of the word makes the goal scoring event so much more exciting than it actually is. The Blue Ribbon team had won. This was the signal for the football match to end and the cricket match to begin. I, too, joined the fun and played as the runner for my injured father. This time the Yellow Ribbon team won the match easily.

The most fitting tribute the players gave my father was by presenting him with a football with their signatures and wishes. The last act was even more touching when all of them sat down with their backs to the camera and facing my father as he held aloft the ball presented to him. The final act was cutting a cake on which was written Captain Emeritus.

And now we have all come here for the post-match dinner. Most of the people are still wearing the same match jersey with his name and number proudly printed on their backs.

Wow… that’s something special you have witnessed today. If I remember correctly, usually in the NBA, they retire the numbers of legends like Michael Jordan and Kobe Bryan and the teams never allow anyone else ever to use the same jersey number on the playing field. Even BCCI did the same to Sachin Tendulkar’s number 10 which will never ever be worn by any Indian cricket team player. Your dad must be a legend!

I cannot comment on that but with eight farewells by different sets of people lined up in a span of ten days till his retirement, surely his cup of love has runneth over...

MS