The Strait of Hormuz

To lose or not to lose? This was a question I had been debating for long.

No. I am not talking about losing my virginity. That is something about which there was no doubt or delay. Lost it at the first instance and never looked back.

This was something more public and a difficult decision to make.

Many a times I contemplated doing it and made the initial strides as well. Just before the swoosh, held back and went back to status quo. The fear of public shame and mockery was one big reason but even more important than that was a painful memory of the past which wrecked my mind and haunted me in daylight.

Strait of Hormuz is the narrow waterway between Iran and Oman. In human anatomy terms, it is like the small space between the nose and the lips which the dictionary calls it the philtrum.  Every time I stood before the mirror with lather on my Strait of Hormuz and the the Gulfs of Oman and Persia to the right and left, a face would emerge out of the glass. A big-eyed man with hair flying everywhere with a dark bush of a moustache shouting at the highest pitch any person could emit…

Moustache is the mirror of human soul and mind, Moochh toh man ka darpan hai.

Insaan ka character uske chehre se nahi, uske moochhon se pata chalta hai!.

Jis ka mooch nahi, uske paas niyat nahi.

The very thought that Utpal Dutt would blow my ear drums the day I took off my little moustache kept intact for close to fifty years. He would have called me…

Moochh munda kahin ka… one who has shaved himself clean.

Golmaal was released in 1979 when I was sixteen and since then these abuses, which were a shade lesser than what some heads of states write on their social media handles, have deterred me from shaving them off.

The moustache in the initial years had its advantages. My sister who was elder to me by close to three years was denied entry into a theatre hall for an ‘A’ certified English movie while I watched it with my friend the very next day. For once, my scores in class tests did not matter, the slight growth of hair on my face made me feel superior to her.

I still vividly remember how on a cold December morning in Delhi, I first went to the homes of two of my friends in South Extension from where we took the Mudrika DTC bus on Ring Road route to go to a remote cinema hall beyond Delhi University to watch the ‘Spanish Fly’ which was the highest X rated movie to hit the movie theatres in those days. All three of us had added on those initial growth we had, a couple of coats of eye brow pencil that I had flicked from my mom’s handbag at home. The high point then was to celebrate the end of class ten ICSE Board exams by watching Padmini Kohlapure in Insaaf ka Tarazoo at Odeon. We made so much noise that day, it would appear to the other people in the hall as if we had secured the highest six-point grades in the just concluded examinations. The faint lines of moochh had once again got us the entry that day with no questions asked at the gate about our age to watch an adult movie.

Since then, the moochh, however, small, shapeless and non-descript has never left my side. It is there in all my photographs from college to work, my wedding to daughter’s wedding and beyond. I was not particularly proud of it but could never think of removing it as well. I would envy my friends who had thick bushy moustaches, some even had the curvy ones which make them look macho when young and in later years it gave them gravitas and personality that I missed.

Post-retirement phase of life is the best time with no pretty face to impress or feel shy of any awkward looks by colleagues and clients. The time is ripe to check box some of the bucket list items.  This long-standing one seemed doable at the date and time of my convenience. Easier said than done. These important decisions for the ‘family man’ cannot be unilateral. The serious matter of moochh was placed before the Honourable Internal Court of Justice at Home. All matters of importance have to be decided unanimously here since, apart from the appellant, the court bench consists of only two judges. A split verdict would mean the defeat of the motion for the appellant has no casting vote here. A very fair judicial system was in place at Lilium, Mahindra Gardens.

The senior and older of the two judges was of the opinion that she has been reminding the appellant that with his moustache turning from black to grey to white, he looks extremely bad in in the selfies and group photographs that are shared on the family WA chat. She said that had the moochh been thick like a handlebar, it would have looked impressive. She was strongly for the motion and banged the gavel shouting… Just Do It and Do it Now!

The younger judge vehemently opposed the motion. She said, I have seen this thing grow no bigger or shorter since the time I was born. I picture my father forever in my heart and mind as one with the moochh and he should never remove it. My dad does not look one bit old for his age even with the moustache going all salty. He will look funny without it.

Having failed to get any decision on the opening or closing of the Hormuz Strait on earthly courts, I had to go to a higher level of judiciary. Only the divine intervention could decide the fate of my moustache. The problem with us Sanatanis is that we have too many gods and goddesses. Who could be the arbitrator for this most important decision was the bigger question? Who-so-ever gods I met, he would pass in on to another saying he was busy or did not have jurisdiction over the matter. This was quite similar to the great nation’s Attorney General who said that courts did not have right to decide the fate of religious matters. Similarly, the heavenly gods refused to intervene in a human matter that was of utmost importance to just one individual on one of the zillions of lives in the billions of planets they were managing.

With none of the gods adjudicating, I started thinking deeply on the subject. Except Brahma, is there any other Hindu god who bears a moustache? My research yielded zero results but surely in the huge pantheon we have, there still might be one or two. This was a divine clue for me… if gods do not keep moustaches and only the evil forces they fight to save the world inevitably have thick and bold ones stretching from ear to ear, my answer was for the taking. No matter what Utpal Babu said and shouted, I needed to open the f**king Strait or live in Hell and allow unobstructed traffic from east to west. After all, gods had spoken to me.

And so, on the All Fools’ Day, when my working-class brethren were doing their madness and mockery in their respective worlds, this retiree took a new blade… one that was as sharp as a finest Katana moulded by the best swordsmith and befitting the hands of the fiercest Samurai. Then with one clean stroke, cleaned off one side and then followed up on the other side. I washed my face and lifted my head to see my face in the mirror… Utpal Sir had vanished and what remained was my head with a small growth of hair still there on my balding head but the dreaded Strait of Hormuz had been opened up. The Strait now looked clean and smooth…

As I stepped out of the bathroom and faced the senior lady judge at home, I was surprised to hear her say… you’re looking young and good!  Quickly did FaceTime with the younger judge living afar who, too, now approved of my new look.

This victory was relatively easy and now I decided to take a walk outside and see how the known people in the building and the market place react. In order to reveal my new look gradually, I acted like SRK in Om Shanti Om… the Manoj Kumar look with my fingers covering the area around my mouth… leaving just enough gaps between the fingers for the curious folks to peep through. The walk was uneventful and surprisingly no one even noticed my moochh-munda look. I passed the test of public scrutiny with ease and now my ghosts could rest in peace. From now, no more worries about trimming, no more mistakes of ensuring the two parts on either side remain of the same size… it is now just chop... chop...chop… and swoosh every day!

The blockade of the Strait had been removed for good. And peace reigned in the world.

SS

On Her Majesty's Secret Service

On 17^th of October 2017, Google decided to put up a doodle to honour Nain Singh Rawat on his 187th Birthday. Who was this man of whom I knew not? I started looking into the various articles on the internet, wrote a piece then but never went on post. Fast forward to early 2026, post returning from a wonderful experience at Sikkim, got to hear a podcast (Books and Us) done by a close friend, Ranjit Monga, where during the conversation with Pema Wankchuk, the author of Khangchendzonga- Sacred Summit, he broached the topic of the pundits. This got me reading on the subject once again and was amazed at the revelations which connected me back to the work done eight years ago.

The Background

In the late 1700s, the British East India Company undertook a series of surveys in undivided India to obtain precise geographical knowledge about the territories it would rule. The series of surveys collectively undertaken was known as the Great Trigonometric Survey of India. It was credited with having been the first real effort to plot the vastness of the subcontinent from the north to the south and measured the heights of many Himalayan peaks including Everest, K2, and Kanchenjunga. By the 1850s, the British East India Company’s sway over India was near completion, they feared the Russian expansion from the North. The Tibetan region stood between the two powers. The British needed intelligence information on the region. However, Tibet forbade the entry of foreigners; it closed all its political borders and trade routes including the trade roads through Nepal via India to safeguard their gold fields.  So, the office of the Great Trigonometric Survey of India, Dehradun, devised an ingenious plan to recruit a few local school teachers, who were referred to as pundits to survey the trade routes running from Nepal to the Tibetan region. These pundits disguised as lamas, traders and merchants, could venture deep into Tibet and Central Asia without arousing suspicion.

At the Survey’s Dehradun headquarters, the pundits were trained to use the sextant; they were taught celestial navigation and to gauge altitude by measuring the temperature of boiling water. They were trained to measure distances, storing data and concealing instruments in the most ingenious ways. The pundits, with a poetic bent, often turned their observations into poems and recited them during their travels. Here are some tales of the heroic pundits who risked their lives on foreign soil in the most difficult terrain and yet achieved great success. This was also the time when Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, was on the British throne and ruled the waves.

Nain Singh

Nain Singh was the man from the Kumaon Hills. In 1863, post his selection, he went to the Great Trigonometrical Survey office in Dehradun to undergo training for two years. In 1865, Nain crossed into Tibet from Nepal along with a party of traders. As luck would have it, one night the traders slipped away with his money for the trip and he was left stranded in an unknown land. Fortunately, he still had his box of instruments that were concealed in a box with a false bottom. The instruments included a sextant, a thermometer, a chronometer and a compass plus he had a rosary which had hundred beads instead of the usual hundred and eight. Nain would slip one bead for every hundred steps he took and, in a prayer-wheel, slipped pieces of paper in which he recorded compass bearings and distances.

Nain Singh begged his way across the terrain and in January 1866 he entered the Forbidden City of Lhasa where he even visited Dalai Lama briefly. He would quietly go to the roof of the inn where he stayed to use his sextant to determine the latitude by measuring the angular altitude of the stars. He used his thermometer to record the boiling point of water and, using his scientific calculations, was able to estimate that Lhasa was at an altitude of 3420 metres which was just a hundred metres lower than the more recent measurement. After some time, Nain left Lhasa and headed west for 800 kms along River Tsangpo. After two months, he slipped back into India in October 1867 via a sacred Mansarovar Lake.

While on his second voyage, Nain explored western Tibet where he stumbled across the gold mines of Thok Jalung.  In the summer of 1874 Nain Singh was sent to survey a route from Leh to Lhasa by a much more northerly path than the one he had taken in 1865. This was Nain’s third and final clandestine penetration into Tibet. Nain Singh's route now took him on to new places including the great lacustrine plain of central Tibet that were virtually unknown to the world till then. Although he retired from exploration, he continued to serve the Indian government with the training of younger explorers.

Nain Singh was awarded a gold medal from the Royal Geographical Society. Colonel Yule, addressing the Royal Geographic Society at the time of its presentation of the medal, said of Nain Singh, " His observations have added a larger amount of important knowledge to the map of Asia than those of any other living man." In 2004, the Government of India released a stamp in honour of Nain Singh.

Kinthup

When the British were surveying the Himalayas, they were sceptical about the origin of the Brahmaputra. Some said it was the same as the Tsangpo river from Tibet, and some claimed that both the rivers are different. The British surveyors in 1880 hired a Chinese lama and a pundit called Kinthup, a Sikkimese Lepcha, to figure out the truth. Both of them were supposed to be on a pilgrimage in Tibet. The plan was Kinthup had to throw 500 specially marked wooden logs into the Tsangpo. Men appointed by Survey Official, Captain Harman, were going to keep a watch in the Brahmaputra for the logs. If the marked logs reached India, both rivers could be declared one and the same.

The journey started in August, 1880 and soon the lama and Kinthup reached Lhasa. Lama being a fun-loving man, was not too happy about  walking so much and facing the rugged terrain of Tibet which was covered in snow most of their journey. Soon, at a place called Thun Tsung, the lama fell in love with the wife of his host. The husband of the woman found out about this misadventure, and as compensation, the lama and Kinthup were made to pay everything they had to save their lives. In the next town, the lama sold Kinthup as a slave and rode off on a horse with all the instruments they had for survey.

For seven months, Kinthup had to work as a slave in Tibet. He used to cut grass and sew clothes for most of the time and, one day, he escaped. Unfortunately, his master found him but before he could harm Kinthup, the poor pundit ran into a monastery nearby, flung himself at the head lama’s feet and begged for mercy. The head lama purchased him from his Tibetan master for fifty rupees. Kinthup lived in this monastery for five months before he was given a temporary leave to make a pilgrimage. However, instead of the pilgrimage he promised to do, he made his way once again down the Tsangpo. At one isolated part of river, he began cutting down wooden logs of specific size and marked them. He hid these logs in a cave beside the river, and then he returned to the monastery once again.

It was long past the decided time for events of his mission and, therefore, he was worried if Captain Harman’s watch for the logs had been called off. He had to send a message to India that they should watch for the logs. Trudging through heavy snow for two months, he reached Lhasa as only the capital of Tibet was connected to India. At Lhasa he met a man from Sikkim to whom he gave a letter which was addressed to the Surveyor-General informing him of the plan to throw fifty logs a day for ten days in the tenth Tibetan month of the year. He again went back to his monastery and patiently waited for the tenth month when his master, the head lama of monastery, set him free for his good behaviour after nine months. He could now freely carry forward his mission.

In the tenth month, at a place called Bipung, he threw 500 logs in ten days into the Tsangpo. He worked one more month in Tibet to earn money for his return to India and, finally,  reached India in September, 1884. That was his five long years of journey for one mission. After his return, Kinthup found that his letter to the Surveyor-General had never been delivered. No watch had been kept for his logs and, perhaps, they just drifted away without anyone noticing them. For the worst, Captain Harman had also died, and nobody believed in the adventure of Kinthup. He was a just a man with stories, and only after about thirty years, the British equipped with better technology could find that everything Kinthup told them was nothing but the truth.By this time Kinthup was nowhere to be found. Sometime later in early 1900, he was traced to Simla where he was presented with a thousand rupees as a mark of recognition and reward by the British for his services.

Sarat Chandra Das

On the fringe of Darjeeling town, where the Hill Cart Road winds into a thick urban sprawl, is a neighbourhood known as Lhasa Villa. It is an old derelict cottage where a century ago, a spy once lived. He was Sarat Chandra Das. Born in 1849 in a middle-class Bengali family in the Chittagong district of East Bengal, Sarat Chandra Das studied civil engineering in Calcutta. Even before he had obtained the degree, he was appointed the headmaster of Bhutia Boarding School in Darjeeling. Coming from the Gangetic plains, young Sarat Chandra was captivated by the beauty of the mountains. He explored the hills around the town and made a trip to the neighbouring kingdom of Sikkim.

Ugyen Gyatso was an assistant teacher in the school. He was a lama from the Rinchenpong monastery in Sikkim that was affiliated to another monastery in eastern Tibet. Ugyen procured a passport for Sarat and accompanied him to Tibet. For the secret mission, Sarat Chandra’s salary was raised from one hundred and fifty rupees to three hundred rupees a month. Sarat Chandra went to Tibet twice; first in 1879, for four months, and then in 1881, for an extended stay of fourteen months. Sarat published a book, in 1902, Journey to Lhasa- The Diary of a Spy. For the book, he had used much of the classified materials to prepare two reports for the intelligence and survey departments.

In Tibet, Sarat befriended, Lama Sengchen Dorjechen who had an avid interest in Western science.  Through Sarat Chandra, the lama procured many small things like smallpox vaccine, a photographic camera, magic lanterns and even a complete lithographic press. While Sarat Chandra studied Buddhist literature in the lamasery’s library, Sengchen took a sabbatical from his ministerial duties to learn arithmetic and English from him. He had even begun to write a handbook on photography in the Tibetan language.

Sarat Chandra was taken by the Tibetans as one among the long line of scholars who had brought new knowledge and wisdom from India, the land of the Buddha. He, too, had seen Tibet as a high and dry repository of priceless ancient texts and belief systems. The fascination and respect were mutual and he returned with two yak-loads of rare books and manuscripts, splendidly pulling off a mission fraught with great hardship and danger. He was feted by the British government for this, was sent to China as part of a diplomatic mission and he became quite a name in the Himalayan explorers’ circuit.

But there was a dark aftermath. Soon after Sarat Chandra returned to India, his true identity and the purpose of his mission came to light in Tibet. The people who had hosted him and assisted him inadvertently during his stay were charged with sedition. They were arrested, mutilated and thrown into dungeons. Sengchen Dorjechen was drowned alive in the river Tsangpo.

This lucidity and precision in describing a little-known land helped the British in what was known as the Francis Younghusband expedition there in 1903. The British forces easily defeated the poorly armed Tibetans with Dalai Lama escaping to China. This also drew a curtain on a fascinating chapter of espionage that had continued for most of the nineteenth century. Overnight, men like Sarat Chandra became redundant, forgotten, a relic from the past. Some say the it was Sarat Chandra Das on whom Rudyard Kipling based the caricature of an English-educated Bengali spy in the figure of Hurree Chunder Mukherjee in his novel, Kim.

In the autumn of his life Sarat Chandra Das was a bitter man, recounting in his autobiography the raw deal he had been given by the British government. Sarat Chandra embraced Buddhism with zeal, wrote abundantly on spiritualism and founded the Buddhist Texts Society. A year before his death, he visited Japan accompanied with Ekai Kawaguchi, a Japanese monk and a Tibetologist like him. Sarat Chandra’s home in Darjeeling, named Lhasa Villa, was a most sought-after address for the scholars of the world who had anything to do with Tibet and Tibetan Buddhism.

Last Word: Wishful thinking of my friend Ranjit who remarked, someone should make a movie on these ‘pundits’ whose life is no less remarkable than the spies glorified in movies. I thought over the suggestion and realised that there will be no one attempting to make the biopics for these real-life heroes and spies who mostly worked silently behind the scenes and never went berserk with the killings and bombings of the reel-life heroes. They will never be glorified as the Bonds of yesterday and the Dhurandhars of today. But for me, just getting to know about these pundits, and being able to share their stories with you, makes me feel honoured.

SS

References:  Various articles and pictures from the internet and podcast by Ranjit Monga- BOOKS AND US- Khangchendzonga- Sacred Summit- S3 Ep1 with Pema Wangchuk https://open.spotify.com/episode/47U9W2gwMaXvnrgrR6mHxL?si=l7E7MzYJQayGp_cluhfCAA

Masterclass in the Hills of Sikkim

The Man

Chest up and with a twinkle in his eyes

Smiled and said to himself

I am big and mighty

All bow down to me

My requests are a command to many

On a vacation to Sikkim

Opened the window of his grand hotel

HE stood before the Man

As a tall and mighty mountain

High, as high the eye could see

With snow-capped peaks

Mightier than any man could ever be

The Man hung his head down and moved on. 

The Man

Driving through the circuitous hilly roads

He smiled and said to himself

My vision has always been so impeccable

I plan in advance, foresee the times ahead

No wonder, they call me a visionary

He peered through the front windscreen of the car

HE came down the clouds

As an envelope of endless dense fog

Visibility came down to almost zero

The Man slowed his vehicle to a stop

Then slowly inched his way forward

Feet by feet, watching every curve and bump

The Man realised the limits of his vision

Wiped the windscreen and slowly moved on.

The Man

With a life’s bag full of success and glory

Smiled again and said with an air of arrogance

I get, what I desire

My goals once set are conquered one by one

Nothing can ever stop me from achieving my success

Today, I shall conquer the peak.

HE came down as a landslide

Blocking the path

Wiping away the road

With boulders big and small

For once the goal seemed distant and lost

The Man looked at the seat behind

His wife and daughter were safe

Life’s true goals and wealth were still with him

What more goals and glory were there for him to seek?

The Man

Sat down on the floor of the monastery

In all humility, gently chanted  

Om Mane Padme Hum

Jewel in the Lotus

Repeated the same chant many times over

The fog that hung low

Slowly lifted

HE showed himself seated on a lotus

With peace and calmness surrounding him

 The Man

Put his hands together

Prayed for his loved ones

Prayed for peace and happiness to all

For his family, friends and beyond

Spoke one last time to himself

I mistook my vision, goals and success

HE showed me the right path

In his own simple way

The Man

Slept well that night

Free from ego, arrogance and pride

It was the last night before he returned to the plains

It had been pouring incessantly the previous days

With no light peeping through the dark clouds

The Man and his people had lost all hope

But deep inside they all longed 

Of getting one small glimpse

Of the elusive Guardian Deity of the Hills

Representing the Five Treasures of Snow:

Gold, Silver, Gems, Grains and Holy Book

HE smiled and showered his grace

HE opened up the sky with splendid light

Pushing the dark clouds away

The Man and his people

Saw HIM in all his glory

Mount Kanchendzonga

Glory, Glory, Glory to the Lord.

SS

Dreams

Shaheen, the class teacher, announced… You are here in school today as you are seniors and have your major examination coming up soon. The younger ones have been given off due to the impending war like situation. Your safety is our main concern and if you get to hear the siren, immediately leave everything and rush to the basement. Our school is in the vicinity of the naval office which may be a target of the state’s enemies. While no one will bomb the school but collateral damages can happen. Moreover, our army, navy and air force are all on full alert to repel any enemy intrusion into our territory. These are difficult times and we all have to make sacrifices for our beloved country.

The students all shouted… Yes teacher… in unison. While the teacher started reading from a new chapter in Persian history, four girls in the last row looked at each other and smiled. One of them quietly opened her desk and passed on a magazine to the friend sitting next to her. The one who got the magazine, placed the magazine on the inside of the history text book and gently flipped through the pages, all the while with an impish smile on her face. Having reached the end of the magazine, she took a look at the teacher who was teaching with great nationalistic fervour about the glorious past, and attempted to pass the same to the extended arm on the adjoining desk where the other two friends were seated. Despite having done the routine many times as the trained relay runners do in athletics, the baton sometimes falls… the magazine slipped and fell on the floor with a sound that everyone heard.

What is that? The teacher exclaimed and got up immediately from her seat and saw the magazine lying on the floor between two desks. She walked to the place and picked up the magazine and returned to her desk where she flipped through the first few pages. She covered her mouth in disgust; her eyes had a look of disbelief and dismay as she was taken to a world of blasphemy printed in the finest of art paper. 

Who brought this magazine into the classroom? I want the culprit to step forward. Otherwise, I will punish the entire class.

There was a pin drop silence in the class room and all the girls put up their hands together as if admitting that all were part of this misdemeanour.

Oh… so now you girls are trying to protect your friends thinking that by collectively owning the blame, you will all be saved. No… that will not happen. I want to give the real culprit, who is a coward and hiding somewhere in the class, one last chance to admit and step forward. If she does not do it, I will report the matter to the principal and this matter will go to the holy council whose retribution is something I need not have to explain. So, if you want all your friends to face the whips and stones, you can stay quiet or else, step forward and admit. Save your friends, O you coward and begetter of pestilence of the lowest order into the holy precincts of the madrasa, may you and your family rot in hell.

Suddenly, all the eyes in the class room moved to the rear as four girls stood up. They were the inseparable quartet of Rabia, Arzoo, Roshan and Fatima who spoke up….

It was us, teacher, who got the Vogue magazine to school. The others are all innocent so please spare them the punishment. We admit that having possession of this magazine and bringing the same to the school was completely wrong on our part. We are sorry for the incident and would request you to pardon us this one time. This shall not be repeated and we are ready to do penance that may be required under the law. 

Penance... you think this blasphemy merits your merely doing public service. No way. This is too severe a sin and if I were to let you get away lightly, the matter will surely reach the higher ups and I will have to suffer the consequences. They will not even spare my family. I am sorry girls but I have to report you to the school principal and the education board who alone can deliver their judgement. It is way beyond me to take law into my own hands.

The teacher led the girls to the principal’s room from where the other children and staff could distinctly overhear the shouting of the lady whose temper and adherence to religious laws were known to all. She did not spare any opportunity to demonstrate to the students and her higher ups her strictness, something which had paid her rich dividends. She had already been recommended for promotion to the education board and would soon be moving into her new role. This was another opportunity to show her mettle.

Take these infidels and lock them up in the cattle shed for now. I will be sending the letter to the education board and authority for religious matters asking them to step in and take a decision on the level of punishment these four girls ought to get. Shaheen, you call up the parents of these girls and say that they will not be returning home till the judgement is passed and they have served their punishment.

The girls were all in tears and no amount of apology worked with the principal. Shaheen teacher walked the four girls to the cattle shed that was a little distance away from the main school building and locked them from outside. There were a few animals kept in the shed and no one ever cleaned up the place. The stench there was unbearable and the girls felt that they would meet with their creator even before the religious police could punish them. They quietly sat in one corner hoping that someone would open the gates to at least allow some fresh air inside.

Rabia shouted at her friends… I got the book to school. Why did you all take the blame? Only one would have faced the stones and the whips, why should you three suffer?

Arzoo quickly cut Rabia… Who paid you to buy the magazine in the black market? We paid which means we are as guilty as you. We swim or sink together, today and tomorrow. So, no more talk on this subject.

Fatima smiled approvingly and said... It is so hot and suffocating inside here. Let us take off our hijabs and we will feel somewhat better. If they are anyway planning to hang us, they might as well add this crime to our devil’s scorecard.

All laughed and took off their hijabs and once again sat facing each other. Roshan spoke in a calm voice… Now that our death is certain, and not too far, let us speak of our dreams. Like, what will we do if we survive this day?

For me, it is an easy decision, said Rabia. The country now appears more like this shed. It is dirty, enclosed and suffocating. I will go off to Paris where my aunt lives and will become a fashion model. Someday, you girls will see me on the cover of Vogue and tell your boyfriends and husbands… that’s my friend! I have been practising my moves as well. Do you want to see?

Yes, others agreed. Rabia acted as if she were wearing high heels and a beautiful evening gown. She walked up and down the small and smelling enclosure with the other three cheering her all the way…. Rabia, you’re the best and you will set the Seine aflame once you land there.

I want to be a teacher, not like the mean Shaheen or the dreaded Princi, a good one, said Roshan. A teacher who the students love and respect. I will go to college and do my Masters in literature and history. While I would love to go to Oxford or Cambridge in the UK but that may not be possible. I will make the best of the opportunity this country has to offer.

Fatima announced… I will go to college here and work with the other student leaders to bring about change in the way the country is being managed. My focus would be to lead women to seek their freedom and respect. If it means, facing immense odds and making sacrifices, I will be willing to do it. I will not be cowed down by anyone till the dream is achieved. I will make sure the country we leave behind for our children is a better one.

Noble thoughts Fatima and I wish you all the best in making this dream come true, said Arzoo. I dream of going to India and working in the movies. I have been seeing their films and am in love with the way they make their movies with songs, dance and so much of romance. It’s a world of dreams. They are much better than the Hollywood ones which are dark, gory and boring. I also have the talent to make it to Bollywood… I can act, sing and also dance.

Oh, you dance as well. Show us some moves.

Here you go… Arzoo put her one hand on her chin as if acting coy and with her other hand started moving it in jerky manner as if it were raining and began singing…

Bijlee girane, main toh aayi
Kehte hain mujhko, hawa hawai
Hawa hawai, Hawa hawai

Super Arzoo… you have passed the screen test and we are offering you a movie with Ranveer Singh…. Shouted the three girls who just could not stop laughing at Arzoo’s act.

In the midst of all the happiness, the dreaded siren blew three times… the enemy was attacking but they had no place to rush and hide. They were stuck in the dilapidated shed which seemed to shake with the sound of the explosions that the girls could hear. The girls held each other’s hands and sat down in a huddle. The sounds of the explosions grew louder and closer to where they were and then they heard the biggest explosion and the roof came crashing down. Everything went blank and dark thereafter.

In some time, the ambulances rushed to the school. All the rescue workers tried entering the main school premises which had been completely flattened. Drills were used and the rescuers tried finding some evidence of remaining life, but there was none. All the teachers and students who had gone to the basement had been crushed beneath the big structure above and the destructive power of the missile had sucked out life from the area.  All seemed lost when a dog started barking where the shed lay broken down. A few rescuers now went towards the shed and started removing the rubble. In no time they saw some girls lying there with some semblance of life left in them and realised that a miracle had happened. Other people were called over and quickly the place was cleared and the girls were put in ambulances and sent to a nearby hospital. After a couple of days, four mothers were waiting by the bed side of their respective girls who were bandaged all over. The hospital bulletin showed that one of them needed an amputation of one leg, the second was on life support system, the third had lost an arm and the fourth, her sight.

“War does not determine who is right, only who is left,” and what is left in the boulevard of broken dreams. 

Dil hai chota sa, chhoti si aasha
Masti bhare mann ki, bholi si aasha
Chaand taaron ko, chhoone ki aasha
Aasmanon mein, udhne ki aasha…

SS

PS. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and events are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Game On

I am not going anywhere.

Biren, why don’t you understand, things are really bad. We need to go to Uncle Angamba’s village where our people are in majority. Father is calling us again and again.

Sonam, this is where I was born and have lived all my life. This is where I have all my friends since childhood. This is where I played football for the first time and this is where I truly belong.

You are right but the current situation is not conducive. Brothers are turning against each other. There is loot, arson, killings… people are getting slaughtered. Once things normalise, we can come back, but today we must leave.

Your brother Sonam is right. Biren, there is no time to waste. Just take a few essentials and come. Others from the village are also leaving and moving together will provide for protection. Do not carry any sharp objects. We will go in peace and will not get aggressive at anyone…a soft but stern voice from another end of the room.

It was Laishram, Biren’s father, and the son did not have the heart to argue with him. He picked up a few things from the cupboard and packed them in this kit bag containing his football shoe and jersey. For him, there was nothing more precious than his football kit. He then went out where he found about twenty of the neighbours were waiting, all looking sad and had fear in their eyes. For all had heard the gory stories of mayhem that was happening on the hills and in the valleys of Manipur.

In the cover of darkness, the fearful twenty moved slowly but steadily. They had to go about fifteen odd kilometres. Like in war times of old, it seemed the rioters were also following a standard play time for their war games. They would be playing blood sport from sunrise to sunset. In the late evenings and night, they usually allowed people to cross over to buy essentials and move from one place to another. This was also the time when the police and armed forces took to patrolling.

The group would have done about five odd kilometres when the eerie silence of the night was broken by a huge war cry and a bunch of people with swords and machetes ran out towards the escaping people who turned around to flee to safety. Just when they turned, another wave of shouting people with arms raised rushed towards them from the other side. This looked like a perfect ambush. The refugees now froze and waited for the onrushing killers from both the sides. Some raised their hands pleading to the killers to spare them and others started praying to their god to save them. Gods must have been sleeping at night and killers had their own reasons to complete the task. Who knows, they too, may have lost some of their loved ones to people from the other side similarly? One man with a sword rushed at Biren who fell down on his knees as the sharp edge cut through his left arm and blood oozed out. Biren knew that the next strike would be his last. Just then his killer looked at his victim and shouted… Are you Biren Singh?

Yes, he said.

The killer called his other folks… Arrey, Biren, the football player is here!

The frenzied mob who had picked on the other escapees as their targets, stopped in their acts and all moved towards him. Biren did not understand the reason for this strange behaviour. He could not remember having hurt so many people in life who would want to retaliate en masse.

One of the killers with a machete in hand from which blood was dripping shouted… Prove it that you are Biren!

A profusely bleeding Biren pointed towards his bag which fallen near the place where he stood. The other man picked up the bag, unzipped it and turned it upside down. Out came a few clothes, a set of football shoes, a folder and a tin box that opened up as it hit the ground. A few medals fell out of the box which the man had picked up. Another person picked up the folder and opened the same to find newspaper clippings and photographs that all had Biren’s face prominently displayed with the trophies and medals.

This man is definitely Biren, the captain of the state’s football team.  Take him to safety immediately…. No one will attack him now.

A couple of men caught Biren’s injured arm and tied a cloth tightly to stop any further bleeding. They then pushed him gently towards a house nearby but Biren resisted their initiative. He shouted… I will not go alone. What am I without my family?

Which of these people are part of your family?

All of these people are part of my extended family… Biren spoke and looked around him. Now only ten of the twenty were standing… all badly injured but alive. He saw that his younger brother Sonam was still around but could not see his father, mother or Anuobi, his loving sister. A man who appeared to be the leader of the killer pack shouted with full authority…Ok. No more of these people are to be killed. Take all those alive to safety and give them medical aid. Make sure someone keeps constant guard. Captain Biren has to be protected at all costs. He is our hero and state's treasure and no harm can ever come on to him.

All the injured and alive folks were taken to a school premise where they were given first aid, water and biscuits. The survivors sat around Biren and looked at him as their saviour. Not a word was spoken. The people stayed there for three days and nights when the news trickled in that peace had been restored in the city. They had also physically recovered to some degree but were mentally completely devastated. Each of the families had lost someone or another… a brother, a sister, a mother, a father or a child. They had not even got the opportunity to give them a burial. All had been cleared from the places where they had fallen by the local authorities, just the way they do to daily waste.

Biren and his people started a long walk back to their homes. When they reached there, they were in for a shock. Their homes had been reduced to ashes. They just stood there for a while and then walked closer to their homes to see if they could pick anything that could be salvaged. Sadly, nothing remained. The other people in the vicinity remained in the safety of their homes and did not care to offer shelter, food or water to the people who had long been their extended families. Today, they were complete strangers. The despondent people, with nowhere to go, decided to once again undertake the journey to their uncle’s village where they still had relatives living.

Biren and Sonam stayed back at their uncle’s house. He was treated at a hospital for the arm that had been injured in the ghastly attack on the saddest night of his life. After recovery, he started working in his uncle’s furniture workshop. Sonam returned to college where he represented the university team and the second division team. Biren never touched the ball again and he never even went to see Sonam play.

After almost six years, the brothers were delighted to hear a piece of good news. They got a letter from the government which said that all those who had lost their houses in the riots could go back to the same addresses. The houses had been rebuilt and they would be handed over to the rightful owners or their legal heirs. The brothers took some of the available papers and along with their uncle went to the designated office.  After a couple of rounds of meeting, they were able to get the ownership papers and keys. The brothers shifted to their house, named it Anuobi and put up a big picture of their parents at the entrance.

While he never forgot the tragedy, time acted as the best medicine over the cuts and bruises of the mind. The old neighbours gradually the brothers with warmth, invited them to their homes and at local festivities. The acrimony of that one phase in life had given way to peace and joy in the area and the brothers were happy in their new lives. The divisions of race, religion, caste and creed had slowly dissolved and the scars too had healed with time, protected under thick, dried scabs. Over time only a few marks remained.

One day, the man who had identified him on the fateful day came and met Biren.  

Brother, we would like you to coach our football team for a tournament happening in a month from now. It is a very prestigious tournament and teams from all over the state are expected to participate. We have some good and talented players but, somehow, they are unable to settle down as a coordinated and a winning team. We need a good coach- cum- manager and there is no one better than you to do the job. And we also want Sonam to play in the team.

Thank you for the offer but I have completely given up on football since the last six years. I will ask Sonam to play but please excuse me.

Biren da, we have boys from all races and communities in the team. Many of them are from this neighbourhood. If they play and win, it will help the boys find slots in bigger teams and their lives will change. The name of the colony will be in news and it will bring cheer to all of us here.

Biren looked up at the man whose people had taken away his parents and sister but then remembered him for having given him a second lease of life. He closed his eyes and remembered his father, the man who instilled into him his love for football. He would take him to see local matches and encourage him to keep playing. What would he have done today…he thought and soon he got his answer. He smiled back at the waiting man and nodded his head. For him football was his true love and religion and he had just been offered one more chance to get back to life… only football could be the way to have a life of happiness and peace.

Next day, Biren went to the market to buy a new set of football shoes and jersey. In the evening, he walked to the playground and shouted aloud…

Boys…run four rounds of the field in good speed and then we will do free hand exercises. 

Game on!

SS

NB. Inspired by a story I saw om Amazon Prime 

Of Temples and Myths woven in Silk

All my life I knew Kanchipuram because of the famous silk sarees the women in my home would love to buy at Nalli’s and, secondly, for the attention the Sankaracharya of Kanchi Peeth would attract by his utterances from time to time. Then one day in the December of ‘25, we happened to take a day’s trip to this wonderful city and realised how little I knew.

There are two versions of the etymology of the word Kanchipuram. According to the first one, Kanchipuram is a Tamil name formed by combining two words, "kanchi" and "puram," together meaning "the city of kaanchi flowers". The second one is more fascinating. According to it, the Sanskrit the word is split into two: ka and anchi. Ka means Brahma, anchi means worship and puram means the place. Therefore, Kanchipuram stands for the place where Varadharaja Perumal or Vishnu was worshipped by Brahma.

Kanchipuram is often referred to as the "City of Thousand Temples" dating back to the 2nd century BCE. The city served as the historic capital for the Pallavas (6th–9th centuries) and later as an important city for the Cholas, the Pandyas, the Vijayanagara and the Carnatic kingdoms before becoming a part of the British India. The Hindus, both Vaishanavites and Saivites, regard Kanchipuram to be one of the seven holiest cities in India, the Sapta Puri. The Garuda Purana says that these seven cities, including Kanchipuram are providers of moksha, that is, where a human being can achieve liberation from the cycle of birth, death and rebirth.

Our first port of call was the famous Kamakshi Amman Temple. It is said that the temple may have been founded in the 5th-8th century CE by the Pallava kings , further developed by the Cholas in the 14th century and by the  Vijayanagara dynasty in the 18^th CE.

This temple is also known as Kamakoti Nayaki Kovil and is dedicated to the goddess Kamakshi, one of the highest forms of Parvati. It is also one of the Shakti Peetham where Sati’s navel is said to have fallen. The goddess gets its name from Kama, that means Love and Akshi means Eyes. Put simply, it is the Goddess with Loving Eyes. Unlike other temples where the deity is in a standing or walking posture, Kamakshi is seated in a padmasana and is flanked by the trinity of Shiva, Vishnu, and Brahma. We had an excellent darshan of the Goddess and walked around the temple complex at leisure.

Just outside the Kamakshi Amman Temple is the Sri Kanchi Kamakoti Peetham, also called the Sri Kanchi Matham. According to the Kanchi Matha's tradition, Adi Shankaracharya (509 BCE to 477 BCE) founded the Kanchi Kamakoti Peetham in 482 BCE. There is a temple inside the matha which is said to be the final resting place of Adi Shankaracharya. We were not able to get the darshan of the current head of the Kanchi Matha as he was travelling outside. The place is very serene and walking around here is easy as compared to the push and pull you often encounter in the temple complexes.

We then went to the Ekambareswarar or Ekambaranathar Temple which is dedicated to Shiva. You can see the gopuram which is 59 metres (194 ft) tall, from a long way off. The gopurams in Kanchipuram were in cream or white shades as compared to the colourful ones we saw at Madurai. However, the sculptures on them telling stories from epics and Hindu mythologies were common. The temple is one of five called Pancha Bhoota Sthalams, which represent the manifestation of the five prime elements of nature and Shiva is worshipped as Ekambareswarar representing the earth.

The temple dates back to at least 600 CE with significant contributions from Pallava, Chola, and Vijayanagara rulers. Legend has it that once Parvati, the consort of Shiva, wanted to expiate herself from sin by doing penance under a mango tree near Vegavati River. In order to test her devotion Shiva sent fire on her. Parvati prayed to the god Vishnu. Vishnu brought the Moon whose rays cooled down the tree and Parvati. Shiva again sent the River Ganga to disrupt Parvati's penance. Parvati convinced Ganga that since they were sisters, she should not harm her. Parvati worshipped a Shiva Linga out of sand to please Shiva. Ultimately, Shiva appeared before her as Ekambareswarar or "Lord of Mango Tree".

Sahasra Lingam-1008 lingams

The sanctum sanctorum contains the lingam along with the image of Shiva and Parvati sitting together. There are granite images of the 63 Nayanmars around the first precinct. The temple's inner most precinct is decorated with Shivalingams, one of which is a Sahasra Lingam with 1,008 Siva lingams sculpted on it.

We then moved to the Sri Vardharaja Perumal Kovil which is a temple dedicated to Vishnu. The name Vardharaja means bestower of boons and Vardharaja Swami bestows peace, prosperity, knowledge, health and wealth to those who seek. This temple is one of the biggest temple complexes in Tamil Nadu. There are 32 shrines, 19 vimanams (towers), 389 pillared halls and sacred tanks some of which located outside the complex. Apart from the main stone idol, the temple has the wooden image of Varadharajaswamy made of Atthi or the fig tree and preserved under water in a secret chamber. It is brought out for worship once every 40 years.

There are many legends associated with the origin of the temple. According one, Brahma, the Hindu god of creation, separated with his wife Saraswati over a misunderstanding. He performed the ashvamedha sacrifice, seeking boons from Vishnu. Vishnu, pleased by the devotion, came out from under the earth as a boar and reunited Saraswati with Brahma. Another legend states that the disciples of the sage Gautama were cursed to become lizards. They resided in the temple, and were relieved of the curse by the divine grace of Vishnu. There is a panel in the temple where the two golden lizards are depicted in the roof of the temple. This was the only place where we had to stand long in a queue and standing before us was a lady whose son was undergoing cricket trials for Tamil Nadu under 19. Having had a good darshan and been able to touch the lizards on the roof, hopefully the mother’s prayers would have had a positive impact on the child’s sporting career.

Our final visit was to the oldest temple in the city, the Kailasanathar Temple or the "Lord of Kailasa" Temple. The temple construction was done around 700 CE and the Pallava kings Narasimhavarman II and his son, Mahendravarman III, are credited for the same. This is a UNESCO monument and preserved very well.

The Kailasanathar Temple in Kancheepuram is embodiment of magnificence in stone. It is the finest examples of classical Dravidian architecture; the temple emanates unmatched charm and elegance. Dedicated to Lord Shiva, the temple is square-planned. There is a grand entrance hall, a splendid gathering hall, the sanctum sanctorum which is topped with a four-storey Vimana. There are nine shrines around the main sanctum, seven outside and two inside, with each shrine depicting different forms of Shiva. There are 58 of these smaller shrines. The innermost pathway of the temple circles the idol of Kailasanathar or Lord Shiva and signifies the entrance and exit of a person from paradise.

Having done the spiritual part of the day trip and a sumptuous lunch, we now turned our attention to the Kanjivaram sarees.  We wanted to see a loom where the famous Kanjivaram saree was being crafted and were fortunate to see one. Kanchipuram sarees, originating from Tamil Nadu over 400 years ago, are renowned for their durable mulberry silk and heavy gold zari, often featuring temple border designs. The silk trade in Kanchipuram began when King Rajaraja Chola I (985–1014) invited weavers from Saurashtra, Gujarat to migrate to Kanchi.

Navagunjara Motif consisting of 9 animals, birds and human parts

According to legend, Sage Markanda was a master weaver who was favoured by the gods and blessed with the ability to weave the most exquisite and luxurious silk sarees. As the story goes, when Sage Markanda was wandering through the forests of Kanchipuram, he saw the goddess Parvati weaving a silk saree. He was struck by the beauty and intricacy of her weaving and asked her to teach him the art of silk weaving. Parvati agreed to teach Sage Markanda the art of silk weaving, and he spent many years learning from her. With her guidance, he became a master weaver, and his silk sarees were highly sought after by royalty and nobility throughout South India. Legend has it that Sage Markanda wove a silk saree for the god Vishnu, which was made of pure gold and silk. This saree was so exquisite that it was believed to be able to withstand the test of time, and it became a symbol of wealth and prosperity in South India.

I do not know much about the royalty and the nobility of the old but we ensured we devoted enough time to visit a couple of shops selling the sarees, understanding the beauty of the wraps and were simply amazed at the intricacies of the craftsmanship. Each piece that was brought down from the racks and unfolded was unique and the salesman had a story to tell about the distinct border, pallu and the motifs woven into each of them. Wish we had more time at hand and more money to buy than what we finally ended up… handful for sure.

Why go anywhere else on the planet when you have so much more to see in Incredible India!

SS 

NB. Source regarding the myths, legends and history for this blog have been taken from various articles in the internet. Apology for any mistake that may have crept in inadvertently. The pictures used are our own.