Little Tibet: Stories from the valley and beyond

"A house for Ladakhi and Tibetan Curios and Curiosities"

I think it was the word curiosities, which spiked mine up. I wanted to go into the little unassuming shop with the dusty board and the hazy display showcasing odd silvery objects, studded with jade and other precious stones I could never hope to name. A half-meter silvery pipe, slender and graceful, with a minute cup, about the size of half a walnut, upfront, proudly adorned the central glass shelf. We stepped in and it seemed we stepped through a portal of time and space into a room which belonged to the silver age probably. Brightly painted and embroidered banners and wall flaps adorned half a wall. Rest of the walls were stacked up to the ceiling with a million other 'curios and curiosities'. A bit like Diagon Alley where at the first glance you wanted to watch everything but had to keep your eyes fixed in one direction, feeling the for about eight more eyes!

I was at a blessed heaven on earth, Leh, where it seems God forgot to put the very human tendencies of rudeness, unfriendliness and plain boorishness into the hearts of the people. 475 km from Manali is this place, still untouched by the excesses of modern tourism, which incidentally has wasted Manali. Maybe its just the grueling journey, maybe the prohibitive cost of air travel, fact is, Leh still has that old world feeling that many other 'hill stations' have totally lost.

It was at this hermit kingdom that we spotted Little Tibet, the aforementioned charming little place. I remember it vividly. Indeed full of curiosities. Animal shaped locks with the tail as the key and the tongue as the latch. A multitude of Tibetan praying wheels, called 'Maaney', in various types, wooden, and metal and ivory, hand held and those meant to adorn table tops. Flaps with intricately beautiful embroidery, depicting various religious Tibetan symbols. And paintings. Small and Large and Medium with natural colours and delicate shadings, devoted to the Lord Buddha and various stages of his life. Oh and Uncle. An ordinary old chap, with patchy skin and sandy hair, complete with the spectacles and smiles to match an Uncle character right out of a Wodehouse story.

I guess the first thought that flits through the mind of an antique shop owner on seeing a bunch of early twenty somethings is "Typical window shoppers who will look around feigning interest and in the end buy a cheap pendant or ring or maybe even a bracelet. Not much prospect and certainly not worth wasting an hour delivering my whole anecdotes collection on them". Well Ashraf Uncle was different from your ordinary antique dealer in the sense that he really loved his 'Little Tibet' and each of its lovingly polished curiosities, all of which came with a story that he inevitably knew..

For instance the European guy who offered to buy the pipe displayed in the window for a King’s ransom. Or Uncle’s friend, the painter, who only depicted the life of Buddha in his work and the fascinating colors he used from flowers and ground stone. It took him about a week for the larger paintings. Then there were stories about buying the antiquities for a basket of potatoes and onions at the time when food was scarce in the valley. And of course stories of the region. We were respectfully silent as he described the ancient charmed monasteries. We felt the breathtakingly scenic Nubra valley and the cool wind from the gigantic Pangong lake, part of which was in Chinese territory.

We didn't end up buying much of course. A half inch exquisitely crafted jade Buddha pendant was my most cherished curiosity though. Mine the moment I set eyes on it. A curio from the valley of memories.
The thing is that the charm of Leh never fades. Be it the first visit or the fifteenth. In part due to the harmonious valley sights and sounds. The harsh desert, so eerily beautiful in its white silence. Maybe due to the charming little anecdotes and the mementoes one digs up after the sands of time have settled on the memories. One remembers the minute details, the way the stars seem like massive silver coins on a clear night in Sarchhu and how the grass smells at the first ray of light. Most of all, one remembers the people. The chai walla who warmed your bones with some soupy maggi and a steaming cup of tea. The next door restaurant whose owner didn’t mind you sitting there watching tennis. And the old man from an era bygone who was easy with the tales. The little things are what make this hermit kingdom a dream destination.

PS: I did it! :)

A Mid-Summer(?) Night's musing

The Sun has come up finally. It's a bit wierd seeing the sky lighten before my very eyes. Usually it is dark when you sleep and bright when you wake up. After a long time I have seen dawn. I am sure many of my friends would claim the same (if they manage to wake up in the wee hours just once that is!) Not sleeping when everyone is, seems to be a very lonely and sad experiment. I'm sure many have endured night-outs. Preparing for IIT, the mid-sems, the end-semesters, etc, etc. Today is nothing special. I got no test tomorrow for which I need to stay up to complete the syllabus. It was just another run-of-the-mill, ordinary day. Still I have stayed awake for so long. Doing nothing. Sometimes dreaming. Gazing at the stars and the moon. Wondering about everything. Climbing to the topmost point in the hostel to be the nearer to the moon than anyone. There is a peculiar serenity about stars. I know they are really hot balls of a multitude of gases with some sort of omnipresent turbulence. But from here they look just fine. There is nothing hot or bothered about them. When I reach the top, I lie down and they seem closer than most. I vividly remember the galaxy Orion. It has a dark beauty about it. It represents a warrior. But oh such a peaceful warrior. I have no real important stuff on my mind then. Just run of the mill, little stuff. But suddenly they become larger than life. Just because they are there..

PS: Don't remember at what point in college I wrote this. Might have seemed a bad idea at the time, but I see I don't need to work on it. Qualifies as a musing, which is the point of this blog anyways.. :)

A Number Ubiquitous..

Ask an engineering student that what's the one thing that identifies him the most and in all probability he/she will wryly say 'CGPA'. It is seemingly a necessary evil. The question a professor mostly asks when you get up to ask an uncomfortable question is, "What is your CGPA?" As if it is the thing that defines who you are. Are we really so naive to believe that a person, an identity, an entity, a living breathing soul can be represented by a number? Can you really reduce a person to a number?
Its not only professors, the equivalence thing actually goes up to the highest echelons. The companies want CGPA. Simple. It doesn't matter whether you can kick ass when it comes to matters of the mind. It doesn't matter if you can speak for yourself. They come with a rigid mind, a fixed 'criteria' and that criteria unsurprisingly is CGPA. I mean don't they trust themselves to be able to differentiate between a good and a bad prospect on the basis of the test that they designed and interviews they will conduct? Apparently not.
Something happened recently. In an unfortunate accident, we lost a friend, a lovely person and the world lost a promising young man. Always greeted me with a cheeky grin and a "hello sir!". I vividly remember him arguing a case against a wrong judgement meted out to them just because they were freshers. It was hard to come to terms with the loss of such a wonderful person in such an unfortunate manner. I hope he is at peace now.
We had a little ceremony in the college. Many people gathered in the auditorium. The director asked us to observe silence for two minutes for Tarunvir Khurana, 2010 batch CGPA 6.25. Everyone did and the ceremony was over. The sad part of the proceeding is that even at such an unfortunate hour, for the institute, he was 6.25. I'm sorry Sir. He wasn't a number and no human can be just a number. Everyone is a wonderful being. Not knowing everyone doesn't mean we can know about them through a number. He was Tarunvir Khurana, Tarun to everyone. Not 6.25. And its a grave insult to his memory to remember him as just that.

Something about Happy Recovery..

Q: Your friend wishes an ailing soul happy recovery. Later shares his faux pas with you. And you draw a blank look and say: "Happy recovery? Wait. I've heard of Parallel Recovery, Safe Mode Recovery and a hell lot of Database Recovery Concepts but never of Happy Recovery!". The friend begins laughing. Now my question is quite simply: Tell the time?

A: Placement Time in the College

PS: Yes its that time of the stay in college when you got to cover everything sidelined during three years of fun 'n' games. The above Q&A was a half-hearted stab at humour, just to keep the blog going really.. I'm not sure really how many can find anything remotely funny about it (Except maybe the friend in question. Then again, maybe..)
PS 2: (a la Arnie in Terminator) I'll Be Back!

Woh?

Just another irrelevant musing.. Master sounds like a domineering person, a person in control of himself and his surroundings.. But then why does a gender change to Mistress make it sound suddenly vampish? The वो of पती, पतनी और वो ..?

PS: Wow this Hindi thingie works!

Hope beats eternal..

(Well a post script would have done just as well really but this is so special that it deserves its own space!)

Remember Hanging On..? (don't embarrass me if you don't, refer the post below..) Well apparently the english tendencies were rewarded late that Sunday evening when after a marathon final, an englishman Jamie Murray (Yup. Brother of Murray Mountain wala Andy) along with Jelena Jankovic actually lifted the Wimbledon Mixed Doubles Title! Wow! A big jolt to my under-achievers theory, but whatever, love such happy endings!

P.S: Apparently Mr. J M has asked Ms. J J over for Christmas.. Something's brewing? Ah.. As I said, love happpy endings (OK, beginnings)!

Hanging on in quiet desperation..

I don't think Pink Floyd have written a truer more appropriate line than this one from one of my favourite tracks, Time, a part of arguably their best album, Dark Side of The Moon.
"Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way.."
Many-a-stories come to mind when I think about it that corroborate the band's visionary, almost prophetic words.
Take English football for example. It has been years since an English national side progressed beyond the quarter-finals of a major tournament. The way they are going about it, it may be many years before they do. But the nameless faceless English fan is always there sporting the Cross of St. George , holding on to a tall beer, egging on his heroes, at the start of each tournament. With their FA not helping matters by choosing the stupidest coach possible who will play players out of position, axe those not toeing the line and may even carry excess baggage in the form of favourites, its hard to see how the fan finds the tenacity to 'hang on'!
Another relevant tale, a folklore no less would be about an enigma, even an oddity today. Tim Henman has carried the hopes of the English contingent on his unique serve-and-volley shoulders for almost a decade now. And year in year out, has managed to dash them to high hell and beyond; spectacularly no less! He is 32 now, fast approaching his use by date. He hasn't won Wimbledon. His best result is still the semi finals. 'Henman Hill' has already acquired a new title, 'Murray Mountain'. I don't know how long can he go on. There will always be English prospects at Wimbledon; wildcards assure that (albeit dubiously!). And there will be Tim. For couple of years at least. I do know this, as long as Tim keeps turning up in the final week of June, Center Court will always be welcoming. His rankings may dip but he will get a wildcard if he wants, at least at the hallowed turf of Wimbledon. For maybe a few years more, there will be afternoons in the first week at least, when 'Henman Hill' will be 'Henman Hill'.

PS: Overheard during a Venus Williams - Maria Sharapova quarter final this year(Tim was knocked out in the second round) in a break between points.. First voice: 'Go Venus!'
Second voice: 'Go Maria!'
Third voice: 'Go Tim!'
I rest my case.. :)
PS 2: About Dark Side.. being the best album, well probably third best is more apt, after Wish You Were Here and Meddle. (Opinions, opinions!)

A Long Overdue Introduction(!?#@%)

It's 4.45 am. I have an exam scheduled for 2 pm tomorrow. But all I can think for the past few days is my undernourished, under-visited and 1-year old blog. Have posted just six times in the last year. Makes it one article per 2 months. And that's a poor turnout by any standards! Considering I am not too regular an, um, 'article-writer' (for want of a better word), this statistic is not really an eyesore but is a bit troubling 'cos I AM more regular than that! So today I'll write something that has been due(long overdue now) ever since I started this blog. An Introduction! Ta Da!
Well, as the name suggests, its gonna be my musings. Just a little part(which I'm actually able to sit and type) of what I think, what I contemplate during the day or week or month or as it turns out, on current form, two months :) Written without a pause may not be entirely accurate though. I take long pauses (a la Vajpayee Ji!) while writing the littlest of a couplet. But I guess you can't really write poetry without a pause can you? But 'without a pause' is not a complete figment of my imagination too! That's only true for the musings while travelling. Travelling currently is currently from Patiala to Amritsar and back to Patiala. I prefer travelling by train. Always the window seat (get all cranky if I don't get it). Just like to sit by the window, stare out and pen down my musings. This is kind of reflected in the things I write and the way I go about it, I think.
I like using a pen and paper more than a computer. I find it more inspiring and comfortable to fill up the page rather than typing away on a million bits and bytes thingie (not suitable lingo for a comp engineer huh? Oh well..). I like humorous writing too and do try to infuse humor into my writing (Do tell me if its not working/falling flat). You'll find a lot of smileys here. Along with a lot of ".."(not "..."!) highlighting the fact that I am not much clear about how much I want to convey to you..
I like to read, (a lot, I thought some days ago, but now that notion has been dispelled!) sometimes anyways. Maybe I'll write about it in a further post.
I have been unable to write anything that would really be ever considered revolutionary. Am not much of a revolutionary. But if somebody chuckles-softly/ ponders-thoughtfully/ smiles-quietly/ gazes-at-the-computer-screen-for-a-second-longer-than-required after reading my blog I would like to think I am on the right path.

PS: What's green, squashy and says 'I'm a frog!'? Duh.. A Talking Frog! :D
PS2: OK, plagiarized from Frank Jr Jr, a triplet Phoebe gives birth to...
PS3: Yes, I'd like that.. Early festive season anyone?
PS4: Got to Stop!

A Travelogue (Don't really expect you to read this completely..!)

It is raining as the train lazily draws away from the station. The drops hang from the bars on my window like a million teardrops as if she doesn't want to leave my city. The last of the platform, people running to catch up, then dilapidated houses, mounds of unused construction material, fading paint on the walls advertising 'Dr. Bengali' and little shops selling sweets at 3 for Re. 1 ; all pass. The ground is dark brown from the pouring rain, the trees a darker shade of green. The plastic refuse suddenly more vivid, vibrant. Telephone lines run parallel to the track. They go on like a wave, rising up,until they crash against the pole, then sagging before starting to rise again. The road near the track seems freshly laid; hard, slick and steely gray.
A handful of people or maybe a million, wait at a crossing. Waiting for me to pass. A handful of stories or maybe a million. Maybe all held up because i happened to spend 100 bucks on a train ticket! The tears on the bars of my window have been wiped off by nature's hands. The train has accepted her face it seems. We pass some fields. A huge brown table, stretching to the horizon and beyond, with a mossy table cloth that's torn in some places and patchy in others. Little houses and single cubicles dot the surface like many a salt and pepper shakers. There are patterns on the tablecloth, straight lines dividing it, like i used to divide the rajmah-chawal mixture when i was 10 and even now sometimes. There are neat squares and rectangles. Sometimes with two parallel lines criss-crossing their length and breadth.
Trees rise out of nowhere. They dot the horizon, placed sporadically in the fields. Some are like needles- thin, frail, nude. Many resemble lollipops, a straight trunk with a dollop of green on top. Just like we learnt to draw them in primary classes. Most remind me of faces, surprisingly. No two are alike. Some are gaunt, brown and wrinkled. Others are round, green with dense foliage. They appear to possess a character of their own. The gaunt ones are cold and forbidding. The rotund ones are welcoming. To sit with them under their shade. If they are close, they pass by swiftly. If not, I can see them for some time, gaunt and unwelcoming against a white-gray cloudy sky.
Old ladies chatter sitting next to me. A group of men standing near the door laugh rowdily at a joke. A little boy demands candies from his mother and is fiercely admonished. A baby starts crying. I can detect a hundred voices flying around. Crashing like waves one after the other against my eardrums. Harsh and soft. Young and old. Sweet and coarse. But I can listen to none. A babble of gibberish floating around my head. The rumble of the train is ever present. It increases to a fever pitch when we cross a bridge. The view outside the window is blurred by red, criss crossing iron beams. Soon they begin to subside. The blur becomes a little more distinct, a little clearer, a little more distinguished, more defined. We are approaching a station, but the train won't stop there.
We pass a pool covered by green algae. The moans of the engine drown all conversations. We cross another bridge. The river is wider due to the incessant rain. Its surface is pock marked due to the constant shower. Its colour is light brown, like the common muddy water. A flock of swans flies away, shrieking hoarsely, scattered by the approach of the maroon monstorous sea snake. Some of them try to race the train but give up soon. There are many vehicles on the road parallel to the track. The ones going in the same direction try to race us. Some do win by leading for a considerable time and then turning away. I can imagine little children sitting in the back seat of a small white maruti, pleading to daddy, egging him on to go faster and leave the train behind.
There's a building on the road which bears the board of a school. It is empty. Not currently a temple of learning. Used as a banquet hall in the night. The ground along the tracks is full of pebbles. They pass before i can even think of starting to count. Another pool passes, this time its pitch black as the night. The fields are sparse now and the road seems to be a hard river cutting the landscape. The little yellow wild flowers on the isolated green field may be minute drops from heaven. Little black birds with distinct white patches fly together in groups. They all soar away as the train approaches, bisecting the field.

PS: Just happened to have a pen and three blank sheets with me starting on my journey and nothing to do.. Originally titled 'blank pages to black pages(oh yuk)'.. Probably this was the easiest to write of all..

The Journey

A train, a girl, a dunce... The perfect recipe for disaster!

Sitting frizzled up in the train, I'm bored
So I contrive to pen this ode
Now this ain't a regular
This ain't simple
Its about a girl in pink
Sans a cute dimple [;)]
She sits facing me
Staring out the window
Other times holding her head
As if needing an aspirin dose.
I stare aimlessly in space
Fiercely debating with myself
Whether to sit and dawdle
Or to chat up with panache.
Now since panache (as you'll see) ain't a strength of mine
So I sit tryin to stir up a chat
From which she doesn't flee before time!
Putting my cell in my pocket, I lean forward
N thats when her's starts ringing
And I backtrack like a coward.
Yellow station signs pass by faster than seconds
And I continue debating with me
Writing stupid poetry
To capture this odd journey.
Finally decide to confess I'm bored
Would she like to chat
'Til reaching her abode?
I fine tune my line
('Cos it may be the only time in this train
That a girl's face was facing mine!)
Promise myself a chocolate
If she says just a precious word!
All through my dilemma, she stares out
God! Amazing tolerance to staying bored!
Swivels her cell between pink fingernails
Wipes her forehead(again!)
and continues her gaze..
Finally I blurb it out in a sigle blink
And she replies in a quicker wink
Look it up in the Oxford
Bit far from go
A single 'n' followed by an 'o'.
Does something new(!), closes her eyes to rest
But I don't and drudge up this rhyme.
I write awaiting my reward
Brow free of worry
The rest, as the wise men say,
Is History...


Pranay Khanna
27/8/2006