Travel Another India - Newsletter March 2014

No Looking Back – A Review

I met Shivani Gupta in 2010 when Travel Another India wanted an access audit done for itineraries in Ladakh. At that time, I was just starting out in the bad world of business after having spent about 18 years in the good world of social development. I was very cynical of the world I was coming from and that cynicism tinted everything that I took in the world I was entering. Shivani’s attitude and audit report helped to blow apart the clouds of cynicism long enough for me to see that there were people out there who really made a difference.

I have met Shivani off and on since then to talk about Ladakh but also because I draw from her positivity each time I met her. She is one of those rare persons who is totally pragmatic – she looks at what is possible; not just on all that could go wrong or have gone wrong. Given how critical I am of everything and everyone, this is a refreshing attitude for me. I have been practising ever since, but miles to go before I get there.

I have often wanted to ask her about her life, but have held back out of politeness. So when Shivani posted on Facebook that her book was to be released, I ordered 3 copies right away. When I got them, I read it in one sitting. I enjoyed reading the book – cried and laughed in equal measure. And inspired by the end of it to try and make a difference.

I cannot think of a better way to commemorate the strength of women than to share the review of “No Looking Back” by Shivani Gupta.

The book is about two decades of her life from an accident at the start of her career to now. Along the way she describes how she finds herself, family, love, death and herself all over again. Shivani has written this book from her heart – in a simple narrative that is easy to read. The lack of hyperbole and exclamation marks serves to highlight her life. I am sure it was not an easy book to write – to showcase your life, warts and all, to the world is tough.

I like the way that Shivani has explored the many identities of a person. Too often when we see a person in a wheelchair, her entire identity is reduced to that. It is difficult to think of her with dreams, wants, desires. In her gentle style, Shivani lays bare all the facets that go into making her the person that she is.

When she had the first accident that affected her spine, she was in her early twenties – a time when we all sow our wild oats. Becoming physically immobile does not change her need for all the other things that we do at that age, especially the risks we are willing to take. And why should it? That to me is the highlight of the book – the way in which her many identities keep asserting themselves even though everyone around her tries to focus on only one aspect, simply because it is the most evident.

As a woman from a middle class Indian family in Delhi, she wants what her peers want – to dress up, have male admirers, get married, be accepted by her husband’s family. It is touching to read about the “regular” side of her innermost thoughts. Becoming an icon in the Disability Rights movement doesn’t change who she is fundamentally. And I appreciate the ability to share that.

And as a woman from a middle class Indian family she also knows the need to be financially independent. She describes her attempts to earn an income - in those few words you can see the struggles of so many people. They dont want charity for their disability; they want to use their abilities to earn an honest income just like so many of us. And yet, the unthinking majority that the non-disabled are put up barriers, whether they mean to or not. 

The second highlight of the book for me is her constant positivity. She ascribes a lot of her strength to her sister, her father and to her husband, Vikas. I am sure they bolstered it, but it is her own attitude and strength that has brought her this far and will take her further. In her usual direct manner, she paints portraits of her family as normal human beings – strengths and weaknesses equally. She looks at society, “the system”, the State et al with that same impassion. She gives the benefit of doubt to every one of these actors. Maybe they don’t mean to be nasty, maybe they just don't know. So let’s work on making sure they know! I think many of us in social development need to borrow this attitude. It is just so much easier to get into the mode of thinking other actors to be good or bad (mostly bad), that we don’t make the effort to see any of the zillion shades of grey in between.

An inspiring, honest book that is not preachy – do read and share it around. You can order it on Flipkart – the print version or the e-version. http://ow.ly/un43b

Or if you send me your postal address, I will order it for you.

If you would like to share this review with your friends, on your blog, or in your newspaper or magazine, please do so.

Update on Travel Another India

On behalf of Travel Another India, I would like to thank Meenakshi Chhabra for all the time and inputs she gave us. She has moved to Singapore to a new job. Meenakshi came to us after the Cartier Women’s Initiative Award as a Mentor. She was soon roped in to join the Advisory Board. Her contribution has been her keen business sense, marketing acumen and attention to detail. She was available for over three years regardless of her already busy schedule with her work and helping other start-ups. She gave us of her vast repertoire of skills but never pushed knowing that a start-up is a total juggling act. Meenakshi was truly an unexpected prize for TAI from CWIA!

Travel Another India experimented with offering customised itineraries based around themes - crafts, history, a river - last year. The fabulous response makes me offer it to all of you. If you want to interact with craftspersons directly, delve into our varied history, simply follow a river or any of your travel dreams, call or write to me. 

Here are some of the itineraries and the feedback from guests.

“Anne and I are very grateful to you for making our vacation a great success. We appreciate your kind and thoughtful attention to our needs and reassurances on arrangements for travel, lodging, and tours. For sure, I will recommend your group very highly to our friends and colleagues interested in "alternate India" experience.”

“Thank you so much for arranging hotels, visits to the Taj and other beautiful sites- and for arranging visits to the heritage walks to see other sides of India. Thanks for taking care us at each step of the way. I enjoyed taking the trains and it was interesting to experience and not just read about 1st and 2nd class train travel.”

Hassan Virji and Anne Weinberg

Itinerary – Delhi, Agra, Jaipur

February 2014

“...fantastic choice of locations - suiting interests of all four of us PLUS was away from the maddening crowds, yet giving our kids a great flavor of India.. EXACTLY what we wanted.. thanks a lot once again.”

M G Ram

Itinerary – Exploring Chambal River over two weeks with a stopover at Agra

December 2013 and January 2014

“We had a really great time traveling with you too! Honestly it was one of my favorite trips we have been on and it was so special to see all the amazing craft people you connected us with.”

Katy Tanis

Itinerary – Exploring craft in Eastern India, Jaipur and Delhi

September 2013

“Thanks again so much for helping us arrange our amazing vacation in Goa.  It was also wonderful to meet you in person.  We would recommend you, Olaulim Backyards, or Arco Iris to anyone in a heartbeat.”

James Pickett

Itinerary – Exploring Goa

August 2013

Thank you all for helping me show off another India to you...

As always, do write back to me with news of your travels - photos, doodles, travelogues, video - anything goes...

Gouthami
gou@travelanotherindia.com

A winter day in Binsar

As the warmth of the Diwali lamps fades and the smoke from the crackers disperses winter creeps in the hills of Uttarakhand ushering in the cold freezing chill from the belly of the great Himalayas. Woollen   garments, which have been gathering dust, are fished from the depths of steel trunks and dried in the harsh afternoon sun. People hurry through their morning chores and gather in their courtyards to soak in the sun and engage in discussions ranging from politics to light-hearted gossip. Local delicacies like Sana hua Nimbu (made from curd, cannabis seeds and big lemon) are prepared with jovial revelry even as the snow covered peaks stand aloof in the distance. Unlike the haughty haze during the summer months and the relentless fog during the monsoons, winter offers the most unadulterated views of the majestic peaks. The allure of the silk draped mountains, which stretch for hundreds of kilometers, rising to embrace the crystal blue skies hypnotizes the onlooker. And it is in Binsar nestled in the heavily wooded hills of the Kumaon Himalayas that these peaks bare themselves with unrestrained pride and tease the wild spirit dormant in all humans summoning them to relish this spectacle of nature.

Beyond the hill station of Almora, on the motor able road to Kafadkhan, is located the entrance to the Binsar Wildlife Reserve. A narrow tarred path straddled by thick forests of oak and pine climbs in serpentine hair-pin bends leaving behind the banalities of civilization. Ultimately it escapes from the grip of the jungle and rides on lofty ridges to culminate at the Kumaon Mandal Vikas Nigam guest house. Rows of mountains stretch to the horizon playing hide and seek with bluish green rivers which flow stoically along sandy valleys looking up to the towering bastions of rock and snow. Green terraced fields ornament the mountain slopes, dotted by traditional hill houses, where bored cows and goats graze. As the afternoon sun beats down on the landscape one can take a leisurely stroll along the jungle trail to Jhandi Dhar. The silence here is enchanting – the birds sing in the forest complimenting the crunching of dry leaves as one walks deep into the jungle. The call of a barking deer whistles through trees intoxicated by the nectar of nature. Time, abandoning its hasty pursuits, relaxes in the shade of the oak trees relishing the playful games of langurs. 

 

Jhandi Dhar

Another rewarding endeavour is a walk to the Forest Rest House and beholding the sun disappear behind the rolling hills bidding adieu to the day. In the courtyard of a quaint colonial building, one can sit with a steaming tumbler of sweetened tea and witness the sky change colours from blue to orange to red to bright pink. As the sun slips behind the distant mountains, the wind returns with its icy breath even as the nuthatches create a ruckus in the adjoining woods. These woods mother and nurture some of the most important animals and birds of the Himalayan ecosystem like the Himalayan Monal, leopard, goral, musk deer, chital and barking deer. For those in the quest of an adventure, Binsar offers a trekking trail - 22kms in distance - to the revered shrine of Vridhya Jageshwar and the temple town of Jageshwar which has Shiva temples dating from the 7^th to 18^th century. The trail passes through dense sections of the Binsar Wildlife Reserve with splendid views of the Himalayas and a glimpse into the beauty of its lower reaches where one can find solace far from the maddening bustle of the cities.

 

Forest Rest House

However the final act of this overwhelming spectacle of raw power of nature in Binsar is ironically the sunrise. At pre-dawn, a pall of shadow looms on the gigantic bulwarks of the Indian Himalayas; Nanda Ghunti, Trisul, Panwali Dwar, Nanda Devi, Maiktoli and Panchachuli, all rising above 7000m, grace the canvas as the first rays of sun break free from the grip of the dark night and illuminate the landscape. Its fire ignites the summits like the wicks of the Diwali lamps fighting the winter winds to spread the light. The hundreds of kilometers of Himalayas glow in the energy of the exuberant morning heralding a new day full of hope and dreams. Suddenly the frostiness infecting the air is burnt in the blaze of the sun which provides warmth and comfort to numb feet and hands. The trepidations of a modern life which trap the imagination of the mind fade away even as the heart appreciates this unsullied camaraderie with nature. And it rejoices as the shackles of servitude are broken and it transcends a mundane existence to bask in the shadow of the great mountains – if only for this fleeting forgotten moment far far away from the prying eyes of civilization!

Deeptangan Pant

December 2013

Of trains, rains and the Ghats

The railway track disappears in the darkness of the menacing tunnel carved into the heart of the sordid mountain. Tiny streams garland the rugged opening threading their way through green grass, moss and lichen. The vibrant colours of the day are swallowed by the seemingly endless void of black in the tunnel as the eyes strain to ascertain the next step. Water trickles from the indifferent black ceiling as a trekker ambles on the cold steel of the railway track barely visible in the light of a torch. The blast of a horn drowns the sound of water gushing in the drains alongside the track. The deafening roar echoes as the rails rattle signaling an impatient train rushing to be embraced by the tunnel. The trekker swiftly clears the track and braces against the slippery walls as the darkness wrestles with the light of the howling engine. Spitting smoke and fire and screaming the engine roars past the pinned trekker hauling the rusty compartments of a goods train. The clattering of the rails become insufferable as the train slithers through the tunnel searching for the light; and then as the train’s rear fades in the distance the darkness returns complimented with a deathly silence. The trekker wipes the grime off his face and resumes his walk, fighting the grasp of the darkness, towards the light.

Castle Rock is a tiny hamlet nestled in the Western Ghats on the border of Karnataka and Goa. In the monsoon it is battered by incessant rains and is wrapped in a cocoon of green fog. Abandoned buildings covered in moss and lichen dot the landscape around the railway station, a reminder of the days when Castle Rock served as the frontier between Portuguese Goa and British India and was milling with travelers going through custom and document checks. And it is from here a beautiful trek commences to one of the highest waterfalls in India, the Dudhsagar Falls. Clinging to the railway track it snakes through mountains laden with dense forests which flirt with the fickle wind courting the hurrying streams eager to reach the wide expanse of the plains. Along the way the track plays sheepishly with the contours of the land – sometimes it curves behind playful hills, sometimes it teases perilous drops, sometimes it hides in the shadow of the tunnels and sometimes it runs unabated for miles. Like a cherub it rejoices in the freedom offered by nature, running wild with excitement and joy.

Rain is a constant companion during the monsoon months – sometimes it falls gently caressing the trekker with a motherly love and sometimes it pours furiously punishing the outsider who treads in her realm. Fog dances on the green mountain tops and in the belly of greener valleys, wandering at will and enveloping everything in its path. Streams along the railway track swell with foamy white water and create a ruckus drowning the sound of the birds chattering in the jungle. The railway track leaps over scary drops and skirts steep rocky ledges enticing the trekker for an adventure. En route the sleepy railway station of Caranzol cowers in the unforgiving rain; railway workers in gum boots inspect the railway tracks unmindful of the rain. Every once in a while the horn of a train reverberates in the hills and then the track comes alive shuddering with anticipation.  The drenched compartments of the train race over the icy rails beholding the magical views around them each vying for a chance to soak in this bliss. The Dudhsagar Falls, a kilometer beyond the Dudhsagar railway station, aptly mark the climax to this tryst with nature – the delicious dessert complimenting a fulfilling meal.

The conflict in nature is most evident in the graciousness of a waterfall. To behold water strive against rock for years and years and ultimately leave an impression on the seemingly stoic mountain is a humbling experience. This is a contest between two stalwarts of nature – the resilient river and the impregnable mountain. During the monsoon months the force exuded by these falls can be felt by merely attempting to cross the old railway bridge across the river – one is literally blown off his feet. To appreciate their elegance, however, one must trek another kilometer along the track to a view point from where the river can be seen descending down the face of the mountain like a spilt tumbler of pure milk. The sight of a train passing with the waterfalls in the backdrop is a treat for the observer, the train appearing to be a child’s toy in the presence of the majestic falls.

Tents dot the camping space close to the falls with huddled trekkers who desperately crave to feel this camaraderie with nature. As the day turns into night the roar of the waterfall grows fearsome occasionally punctuated with the penetrating wail of the horn of a goods train. The rhythmic sound of the wheels hugging the iron in conjunction with the pitter patter of the rain is a lullaby for tired souls. For this one night the trekker can aspire to be the courageous water rushing to the edge of the mountain and taking a leap to the depths below – unfazed by its fate and destiny riding the wings of unadulterated freedom!

Text and Photos by Deeptangan Pant

Once Upon a Summer Day

Maavichiguru tinagaanee…koyila palikenaa…”

(Soon as she eats the tender buds of mango, the koel sings...)

The famous Telugu song of yester years, stirs my soul. I lay languidly on the couch, entranced by the effect the song has on me. I drift dreamily into the idyllic days of my childhood…summertime. Coming from one of the hottest places in India, Vijayawada, I don’t have any memories of discomfort the heat had on us children. With the temperature hovering around 45 – 49 degrees, it was pretty easy to succumb to a heat stroke. Sans ACs, sans cold drinks in the refrigerator, the summer vacation passed amidst fun, frolic and two months of absolute bliss.  But thankfully my granny always had a vessel full of buttermilk and kids were encouraged to drink a lot of it. It was that part of our lives when we were living in our ancestral house, the headquarters of our family network. We would look forward with almost a painful impatience for the annual exams to get over and the vacation to start.

Watching the mango trees in our yard go through their seasonal changes was fascinating. The fragrance of the flowers in full bloom assured us that summer was ‘just round the corner’. The heady essence of the flowers in the air would leave us pining for summer holidays and with it the mangoes. The flowers finally gave way to tiny buds of green tender mangoes for which we fought with equal fervor along with the greedy parrots and the ‘innocent’ squirrels. The elders’ repeated warnings against eating the tender mangoes, seldom had any effect on our strong determination to eat them. These episodes were soon followed by sore throats and coughs and would temporarily make us ‘repent’ our arrogance. But a couple of days in bed, we were up again lazing around in the heat of the summer afternoon under the mango tree.

The rising temperature also brought with it the most eagerly-awaited summer activity – making pickles. My fondest memory of pickle-making was watching the men and women in the family join the process with great excitement. My grandmother, the head of the family (and the keeper of the secret family pickle recipes), would make a few quick calls to the local grocer for the required spices (chili, mustard, fenugreek) and the mango vendor to check whether the raw mangoes have finally arrived in the market. While the men were involved in the more laborious activities of plucking the mangoes, washing and skillfully cutting them into surprisingly similar sizes, the women got busy with the drying, grinding, measuring and mixing of the spices with the cut mangoes and oil with precision. And finally it was time to taste. First the fresh pickle was mixed with the right amount of hot, steaming rice, with a generous amount of ghee added to it. The rice was then blended uniformly taking care that each grain of rice is well coated with the red pickle before it was ready for tasting. We would feel amused watching the adults judge each mouthful with a groan or a grunt and comical expressions of rolling up their half-open eyes or twisting their mouths 360 degrees before they proclaimed whether their effort was successful or not.

While the grown-ups were busy with the seasonal activities of making pickles, papads and desiccated vegetables, we kids would make cunning plots to steal salted mango pieces from the terrace, where they were laid out on transparent plastic sheets for drying. A couple of successful attempts would increase our greed for more and one of us would fall prey to the ire of the cook or my grandmother. But much to our delight, after a few ‘scolds’ from both the women, we would end up getting a handful of mango pieces as a double treat. Years later my grandmother confessed proudly that the joy of making pickles wouldn’t have been as memorable if there were no mischievous children hovering over you. 

Summer vacation brought home a bunch of cousins from other parts of the country. There was a silent understanding between the boys’ gang and the girls’ group to stay away from each other’s mischief. While the boys tried hard to ignore the girls, they would finally give in to our jollier and more entertaining activities that we indulged in with our constant innovative games. One popular pastime was to whip up interesting ‘recipes’ in our miniature cooking set (we had a box-full of these). We would make plans even before the start of the vacation to collect a little money and stock up on ingredients such as honey and phutana dal while sugar, rice, and dal were supplied reluctantly by our mom. And the magical ingredient to anything we whipped up was the good old baby mangoes. The boys, noticing that playing with us was more profitable, would be eager to help us and sometimes were employed to steal stuff from the kitchen for our gourmet cooking. The result of all this excitement was when we had to taste our concoction. While most times we ended up with a fabulously tasty preparation, on the rare occasions when the cooking indeed horribly went wrong, we would each try to desperately gulp down the retch that threatened to spill out.

Sleeping on the terrace was another exciting part of the vacation. With the floor of the terrace heated up during the day enough to fry an egg, we would try to cool it down with buckets of water poured on the floor. The hot ground steamed with the touch of cool water and soon, with a few bucketfuls more, the floor was ready to be used for our post-dinner activities.  Dinner at 7:00 was soon followed by setting the stage for our mini-theatre. The older kids in the gang always got to choose the themes and plots of our plays. Then they would carefully decide who would play which character. With a few last minute alterations, we were ready with our parts and so went the evening amidst squeals of laughter.

Now far far away from those times, summer still tickles me with the same eagerness and pleasure it always did. With two daughters at home, the excitement that summer vacation brings with it has not changed at all. Our pretend plays and fun times with cousins are now replaced by my kids’ summer camps, sleep overs with friends and a constant stream of summer parties. I relive the moments of my childhood with the same childish fervor.

As I gaze out of the window enjoying the cacophony of the squirrels, koels and the chattering parrots perched on a thick branch of a mango tree, I couldn’t help notice a quick mischievous wink by the koel, singing what I thought was 

“Gunnamaamidi kommameeda…”

 (On the branch of a ripe mango tree…a popular and old Telugu film song)

P. Jyoti Kiran

Lecturer in English

Goa