Hindol 31st Issue October 2016

w
Special Issue : Travel

M ...
...
e

~
1346 [ - 1355]
- &5
The elephant has no hair...Armies of Hindustan have several elephants in every

unit...The rhinoceros is also a large animal... and, unlike an elephant, cannot be
tamed...There are many of them in the forests around Peshawar...
The crocodile...is like a lizard. It is in all the rivers of Hindustan...
Another is the dolphin. It too is found in all the rivers of Hindustan...
Baburnama
Muhammad Babur Padishah
1536 AD
Translator : Wheeler M.Thackston

8, 3
G .
, S ,
L M, &5
Hindol
Year 8, No. 3
M, 1423
Editorial Team :
Malabika Majumdar, Maitrayee Sen,
Ajanta Dutt, Nandan Dasgupta
October, 2016
E-46, Greater Kailash-I,

New Delhi-110048
ohetuk.sabha@gmail.com
ISSN 0976-0989
S
^ S
-630, M? , ~-110019
92131344879891689053
Artists:
Chittaranjan Pakrashi
Jyotirmoy Ray
Photo Credits:
Debasish Bhattacharya
Dipanjan Dey
Front & Back Inside Covers:
Nilanjana Mukherjee
Back Cover:
Lalit Mohan Sen
S
4
6
10
15
16
18
|X -
Editorial
S / Letters to Editors
- S A

-

[4]
- w
24
38
46
51
56
69
78
80
85

A

qw S
A
?
S
S
S
94
103
108
110
112
117
Amiya Prosad Sen

Subhadra Sengupta
Sagarika Gupta
Kritika Kirty
Smita Chaudhuri
Nilanjana Mukherjee
~
L Z `
q
S
Allaha
x

Special Issue Travel

My Days in Heidelberg (and Nights too)
A Megh Malhaar to the Rains
A Long Weekend from Delhi: Badrinath
Fragments of Allahabad
Those Were The Days
Where the Grass meets the Sky :
Maasai Land
The Last Word

130 - Sree Sengupta
Read : http://www.scribd.com/collections/3537598/Hindol
Give : Make your cheques to Ohetuk Sabha
Call : 98110-24547
14.01.1926 28.07.2016
M, 1423
e
... , =
...

L , ,
, i 26, 26,
M
-
- g
26
, / ,
/...
,
,
U,
, S S ,
3 26
,

1 1800
|

,
M, 1423
Rooted in the proto-Hominids need to migrate in pursuit

of food and survival, the basic human instinct for travel later
found expression in explorations for pasturable and arable
land, then for trade and wealth, and eventually the seeking out
of food for the mind and the soul, for satiation of other basic
urges curiosity, creativity, community. In 1719 it occurred
to a True Born Englishman to write a fictional story much
of which involved a traveler marooned alone on an island. The
story of a man sent back to his origins, at the mercy of the
vagaries of nature appealed instantly to the readers instincts.
The protagonist later does come across other members of his
species, yet the best parts of the story are those of his solitude
and struggle for survival. The story exhibited the failings as
well as the fortitude of the individual when living outside the
cocooned comfort of a community. The story was disputably
based on a true event; more importantly, it was a runaway
success, launching a genre that has remained popular ever
since, one very recent narration being the Oscar-winning
motion picture Martian.
Bibhutibhushan Bandopadhyays Bengali novel for children
Chander Pahar is also a kind of Robinsonade, perhaps
accounting for its sustained popularity across generations.
Thousands of readers, young and old, have over decades
conjured up visions of the cloud-decked cliffs, crags, crevices
and caves of the Richtersveldt mountains (The description in
M, 1423
7
the book is said to fit the forested Ruwenzori range in Uganda
more than the arid and barren Richtersveldt of South Africa).
The stupefied Shankar shining a torchlight into a mesmerized
mambas eyes, the terrified Shankar in the wet, cold and pitchdark diamond caves inhabited by the monster Bunip, and the
lost, injured, dehydrated Shankar among the vultures and wild
dogs of the flaming Kalahari will knot the stomachs of many
a boy yet. And earlier, in India too Shankar was alone, alone in
his family, alone in the crowd, alone with his dreams and
aspirations.
The thrill of a confining island is less in the escape or
rescue and more in the tale of human tenacity in solitary
confinement. This theme was exploited repeatedly with
diverse variations and nuances, and by natural extension, there
evolved varying types of stories of islands of the mind, of
psychological marooning and isolation. In Bangla, there is,
among others, Srikanto (Saratchandra Chattopadhyay), and
existentialist works such as Dibaratrir Kabya (Manik
Bandopadhyay) and Shesh Pandulipi (Buddhadeb Bosu).
Another genre that dealt with the diversity and caprice of
human nature while telling a travel-adventure story threw up
gems like The Three Musketeers, The Pickwick Papers and
Huckleberry Finn. Yet another popular genre is fantasy, which
too never seems to lose its grip over young or old. Combine
that with travel and you have classics too numerous to name.
Long before the Lord of the Rings, in Bengal there were the
generic stories of the triumvirate - the young Rajputro (kings
son) and his friends the Montriputro (ministers son) and the
Sodagorputro (traders son) travelling across seven seas and
thirteen rivers to battle a gaggle of demons, witches and diverse
unknown fears with the help of goblins, fairies and other
mythical creatures. This genre has now died out, to be replaced
M, 1423
8
by the ubiquitous detective, for hire or as a hobbyist. The three
young champions in the mystical world of imps and fairies
were motivated by the glory of victory over evil (as also the
fair maidens hand); the detective does it for the same reason
(mostly without the winsome prize).
Making travel based stories engaging is a tough job. The
trick seems to be not to tell them as travelogues but as humaninterest stories, as was done in say, the Bangla Ghonada
series, which perhaps has never been classified under Travels,
like the famous Romyani Bikhyo series by Subodh Kumar
Chakrabarty. Yet, each Ghonada story was at a different
foreign location with the author Premendra Mitra taking
particular care to ensure that all geographical, historical,
scientific and anthropological data in these tall tales were
factually correct - only the action sequences were fiction.
Moving from fiction to experience, many travelers have
left fascinating accounts of their travels. Some best known
travelers were discoverers. One of the places discovered was
India. In the 7th century AD, there were religion tourists like
the Buddhist monk Xuanzang from China, from whose writings
we pick up fascinating nuggets like how the people of the Rarh
region of Bengal set their dogs upon him, in spite of his being
escorted by Harshvardhans soldiers. Later there were
professional travelers like the Uzbek Abu Raihan Alberuni,
the Moroccan Ibn Batutah, the Italian Niccolao Manucci or
the Frenchmen Jean-Baptiste Tavernier and Francois Bernier.
With equal lan they told likely and unlikely tales of the
corridors, courtyards and courtesans of the Muslim rulers of
Hindustan. There were the Emperor chroniclers like the queer
fruit-loving poet Babur Padishah and his successors who (at
times through ghost-writers) philosophized like Marcus
Aurelius while fighting bloody battles and inking incredulous
M, 1423
9
accounts of exotic experiences during their sojourns in strange
lands. In a relatively recent 1869, there was the amateur but
ardent Bholanauth Chunder (of the Black Hole fame - he
tried to prove it to be a colonial exaggeration), alumni of the
Presidency College at Calcutta, hammering out his mammoth
The Travels of a Hindoo to various parts of Bengal and
Upper India. And of course we have the travels of Vivekananda
and Tagore.
What about true stories with a pinch or two of the spice
of embellishment? Many Bengalis would immediately think
of Benoy Mukherjees Drishtipat, partly perhaps because the
authors nom de plume Jajabor means wanderer. However,
the most popular and well-known Bangla writer of this genre
is arguably teacher and journalist Syed Mujtaba Ali of the
Deshe-Bideshe, Chachakahini fame. It is difficult to classify
his literature. Biography, philosophy, adventure, history,
culture, psychology, humour, satire, tragedy, travel or just plain
old-fashioned wisdom? After all, the greatest stories are those
that have some or all of these ingredients in some measure.
Readers and critics put stories in separate compartments; good
travel writing can never be slotted. And perhaps the best among
them can barely be spotted as travel writing.
(Nandan Dasgupta)
Opinions expressed in Hindol, as always, are those of the authors.
M, 1423
10
SLetters to Editors
G,
, + S
S e
L ,
S S ,
U,
X ~ ,
, ~
,
- M
q26

1162016
, 24 , (e
Dear Sirs,
Possibly the finest activist-writer of the country, perhaps of the
world, 30-year old Mahasweta Bhattacharya (nee Ghatak) travelled
through Bundelkhand collecting material for her first novel Jhansir Rani
(The Queen of Jhansi). Much later, she would live with tribals in various
parts of eastern India to motivate them and to organize them into pressure
groups. She would document their story and take it to the urban reader
through her fiction, which should therefore be as much called historical
fiction as her first novel. Though widely known for her seminal novel
Hajar Churasir Ma (The Mother of Corpse No. 1084) written during
her English don years, her other works on oppression, atrocities and
State-sponsored terrorism were no less important in establishing her as
a committed activist and a litterateur par excellence. Although heavily
awarded, Mahasweta Devi did not get the kind of recognition from
Bengalis as one would have expected for someone who, after
M, 1423
SLetters to Editors
Rabindranath Tagore, put them on the Indian and European literary

map through innumerable translations of her works. Ohetuk Addas
response in holding an adda on 18th September on this doyen is a
welcome step.
Rasiklal Gupta
September 6, 2016
New Delhi
Dear Editors,
I would like to express my appreciation of Mr. Jayanta Sens essay
on the DNA (Hindol, July 2016).
I shall be interested in knowing who were the original people that
came to India, particularly to the eastern side. The Caucasian people
probably entered the Indian sub-continent around 2 or 3 thousand years
BC. What happened to the Australoid people that passed through India
all the way to New Zealand around 50,000 BC? Do we or could we
know who the people were who lived in the Indus Valley and what
happened to their descendents? I am just curious and was glad to know
that so much work is being done on the subject. It has baffled me that if
human beings originated in Africa and a branch made their way all the
way to Australia & New Zealand then they must have passed through
the area we now call Bengal. Is there no trace of them in me?
Trilokesh Mukherjee
Oxford, United Kingdom
By e-mail
Jayanta Sens response:
The Caucasian and Australoid ideas are based on archeology,

linguistics, and other disciplines that lack accuracy. Both categories
should now be discarded given the DNA evidence. Scientific studies
can measure the DNA profiles of the modern populations. From these
measurements we can perform the reverse process and deduce what
mixtures of populations had occurred in ancient times to give rise to the
modern populations.
Let me explain how this works. Suppose 20,000 years ago there
were 5 populations in the world: U (Old European), V (Sub-Saharan
African), W (Dravidian), X (Chinese), Y (Semetic) and Z (IndoEuropean).
M, 1423
11
12
SLetters to Editors
Suppose the Y-chromosome (patrilineal) DNA profile of these

populations were:
U: 100% y-G, V: 100% y-B, W: 100% y-H
X: 100% y-O, Y: 100% y-J, Z: 100% y-R
Suppose the mtDNA (matrilineal) profile of these populations were:
U: 100% m-N, V: 100% m-L, W: 100% m-M, X: 100% m-M,
Y: 60% m-M and 40% m-N, Z: 50% m-M and 50% m-N
Now suppose you form a new modern population with: Females
60% from W, 25% from Z, 10% from X, and 5% from Y, Males 45%
from W, 40% from Z, 10% from Y and 5% from X.
Then you will end up with a modern population with:
Y-chromosome : 45% y-R, 40% y-H, 10% y-J and 5% y-O
mtDNA : m-N = 25% x 50% + 10% x 40% = 14% and m-M = 86%
The above is approximately the profile of the modern Indian
population.
Moving from the entire Indian population to the different Indian
communities, we find that both upper castes and lower castes have
Indo-European and Dravidian ancestries. Upper castes and North
Indians tend to have more Indo-European ancestry. However this is
only approximate, it appears there has been a lot of mixture over time.
For example, the Southern Indian lower caste tribe Chenchus have
26% y-R1a whereas Southern Indian upper castes have 15% y-R1a.
As for traces of native Australians, it is difficult to say without
further studies. One scenario could be that they did exist in Bengal
when the descendants of the F haplogroup (Chinese, Dravidians and
Indo Europeans) arrived. If they were conquered there likely was male
displacement in the population, that is, the conquerors mated with the
native women and the native men went childless. In that situation there
will be common ancestry for Bengalis and native Australians through
the native women. However there will be no shared Y-chromosome
(passed on from father to son). There will however be shared mtDNA
(passed on from mother to daughter and son).
Jayanta Sen
By e-mail
USA
P.S. You may like to refer to my original article to understand this better.
M, 1423
13
L, ij, i

/
e
, / ,
, , , , /
i } =
q
* g ij
S
L g g
, , KI |n :
*, , , d, /
, Zd, , L
/
= - - --,
& L
e q L ,
L ,
, ,

...
[]

This issue of
HINDOL
is sponsored by
KALPANA KIRTY
ANTARA CHAUDHURI
SUDHANGSU CHAKRABORTY
&
ARJUN DASGUPTA
We are grateful to our Donors
M, 1423
14
OHETUK SABHA
Mail :
E 46, Greater Kailash, New Delhi-110048
Email : ohetuk.sabha@gmail.com
Yes, I would like to take / gift a subscription. Enclosed please find

cash / cheque no. ................................ dated ..................................
on .....................................................................................................
for Rs. 500/- in favour of Ohetuk Sabha towards a One Year
subscription for Hindol for being sent to (all in capitals please):
Name: ............................................................................................
Postal address: ...............................................................................
.......................................................................................................
Please add this email in your mailing list (optional):
.......................................................................................................
(in capitals please)
(Subscriptions will start from April 2016)
Date: .........................
Ajanta Dutt
Maitrayee Sen
Malabika Majumdar
Nandan Dasgupta
:
:
:
:
Sign here
Please send to:

E 42, Greater Kailash I (First Floor), New Delhi-110048
C 77, Greater Kailash I (First Floor), New Delhi-110048
B 215, Chittaranjan Park (First Floor), New Delhi-110019
E 46, Greater Kailash I, New Delhi-110048
M, 1423
Tear here
HINDOL IS NOW ACCEPTING SUBSCRIPTIONS!
15
[S A]
M, 1423
16

, 24
(e
& ,
26 ,
, KI
C ,
S KC
S ^ : ,
, C ,
C ,
KI
, 26 , &
, , k ,

L , (
,
, q
, C
! e
,
, ,
(
M, 1423
,
,

- 26, ,

26,

A &, &
, M
& , ^
Q
k , &

k , &
,
26 , ,

^
U q , C ,
C C U , U
S C , U
k C ,
26 C. C
, 26

2, , , ,
KI , k

M, 1423
17
18
[4]

g
- &
, , , , , ^ ?
-! ? ", |, C, ,
, , &
,
-

? ,
, , k q ,
, , , , -?- U

M ,
/
g

M, 1423
M, 1423
19
20
M, 1423
M, 1423
21
22
M, 1423
g
-
M, 1423
23
24

~
26
e S
: KI KI ,
,
/
, , /
S,
, e
, s
/ v
~ f
, L L S
, - f S -
,
- , i,
k v k
v
d g ij k v
~ M= ~
f U '
M, 1423
~ S `
8 e
+, / , g
, , , ,
,
c

,
26 ,
/
L , G /
'
d G ,

F ,
L-, M S f
L : G
26 26, c e
L
- - |
...
/ C 26
C
C F
L
L g |
S c
& , q
R ,

g - =, S
M, 1423
25
26
U = =
26 -- S

M
,

c
S, M,
KI , ,
- - -
/ - , c

, 673 ,
~ & ,
~
|
M
( Zd

~ ,
, L a-, --q, XS
- - c
= ~ S,
5
| M g
M S -
, M - - C ,
, , , C
M, 1423
,

1983 G
~
/ `
w L
w
G " `
-C--S-S
26 , M k
,
KI S M k
, i , G, M
,
/ e
e
S ,
( Z X
G S M ( ,
X e e G
(
L g
U (Humbold)
La
- c
( =
( [Autobahn]
L L
S S ( L,
( L, L
L S , M
M, 1423
27
28
` U

,
c =
,
e L
L S
g
g C , -
--, g
, e ,
, g
L
g L

5 L ,
Brandenburg tor- KI G
(Unter den Linden) ` (

, 1996
S f
X

:
S F Caputh ~ =
~ e
, -Z-,

, X , G
= X G ,
C X
M, 1423
G U- M S
(Auschwitz Treblinka) S
26, X
, ,
M C ,

S f

/
, , ,

,
, 26 sony ,
e
: e : ,
, , &
(L
C
L U -

C
[Baltic] C C
? ^
C
,
^ ,
S( G , L

w c N w
S 1979 , G k
Z 83 ,
M, 1423
29
30
~
150 ,
, G, ,
S G Kensall Green S k Z
S U S 5
: ,

,
k Z
y 1846
, , , "
:
k
,
"Prince Dwarka Nath Tagore" -
, f , f
, q

e G G
k ,
S e M
:, Arno's Vale e,
,

...
^ ,
M, 1423

` S

g k Z
e , Stepleton Grove
, Elm
k Z Arno's Vale
Stepleton Grove 26
e & e,
L 26
26 Stepleton
Grove Stepleton Grove &

, c
, ~ e
g X / ~
X X
~ ~ X
x, ,
f X
- ~ ,
, ,
y ,
, ,
, ,
, G
X X c
X ? ?
-
-
M, 1423
31
32
- , ,
- , ,
, , ,
~ L
- ,
X - - ,
L -/
, k c S X
X , ,
/
,
D ~
? I
,
U , G
, , ,
26,
26 & (
took them in our stride
, ML ,
S -KI g g
X X
, X ,
~ ,
, ? , ` 9

La v
,
f e
S S L
M, 1423
q
L | ,

+
[]

+

--
, , e ,
KI KI KI
A e
^
26
, e 26

, L e L
, ?
2 5 - e ~
MF , wL
,

, c X
S
S q
Q
- S
M, 1423
33
34

M
^

v ,
L
v , i v 26
f L A ,
L S
g , q |
f = SS
f
? S f
c S
y ZiZ Z e
SS G A
A A
, E SS
A
M S, y
A e E
G A ,
, v e
, SS e
e G
, I ,
, ,

, /
L
M, 1423
S v g + ij,
, c SS ,
v , v
g , v g `
q,
, e
v
e
, e e `
` S - ' , , e,
L, L
~
f , , M,
, L, L =7, ~
Z -
M = ,
,
S ,
f
e e f
L , , L
+

e
, , ,
e
e =
--M-,
e f +L
f S
, L ( ,
M, 1423
35
36
S , X f ,
f M Q ,
, La Q
La ,
L

S -

~ fe S , :g
q26 ~
, ~
f &5
, , q26
~ ,
+
f, f |
f
SS d
Q G :
& f La

' , "
f -
f e SS e
f /
" &5 ~
P e
&
~ f
S , &
g G + ZM
M, 1423
L g
~ , X

,
" ,
, / /
, "
w "
"
, ,

f 26,
/
,
f
e L
, g ,
Lecture demonstration
: e

M (
/
/

Artist : Chittaranjan Pakrashi
M, 1423
37
38
A
~
L Z G
X e ^ 2008
Z k
S , XX

Z
5 X e

g
,
v
S ,
_
M L S Z
L ....L Z
~ G
, , 1200 s
q Q
M U s @ Z L S
MS f L
M, 1423
L Z G
250 210-
X | M

Z
X L 70
5L KC -KC k
205
c
^ A
&
L S

e
V q26 g
KI KC k
c L KC
k -

e
=
, = 2,
, , ,

,
c k-
y
M
11 L
,
f X L
M, 1423
39
40
L Z G
&Q X
, & 5 ~
G M
PN i
1884-86 KI&
E , M
L P L
X
, MX |X 26 UU ,
s d... X 26....
La ^ ^
&
ij d KI
* L
X d
+
P

q= N

,
e
t
L

X ,
M, 1423
L Z G
, , ,
, &
*
X e , ,
10 PN N
e

q L d
M
G ,

= ,
PN

-
P ,

900 600 &
M, S,

, M M (

=
S
M ,
M, 1423
41
42
L Z G
L
G V, KC k G
L
G w d q
26
,
26,
L M
X L L
L
2
, V

, G

KI L, *...

, g
*
KI e KC
k e

26
,
,
g 26 e
iS
, e, , , , ,
,
V q
,
M, 1423
L Z G
26 { ,

e
`
X M
, -
26 G G C
e A
G C |
G
f&

G G
, , c
,
,
X |
V f
L ' ,
G

G g G

, q , ,
,

q q R ZiZX, qR
S , & , ;L
X

e s& , c q
M, 1423
43
44
L Z G
L &
e L,
g
, G C
26 G
SU 1357
1374 A
Q Q X
G
X L , Q

r c
L
c
L ^
Q ~
G
L G X M
- S
M
^
Z
G L
, qw
e 26
S , M

MG
KI

M, 1423
L Z G

, Z X
L
, !! , > s ,
q KI a G
X 26, e
La2
, L
, L X L
q X
e &
L M
G
301 328 s
L ,
G L , ,
G
Q
1988 G
c
L ,

X S

200
, ?

X
L
; 2 X
26, 26, 26
M, 1423
45
46

~
L ~
, C"
G

q -
1953 Council
of Scientific and Industrial Research (CSIR) N Central
Electronics Engineering Research Institute (CEERI)

S
M
&, , ,
, P , , ,
, , , - 26
KI KI

-

M, 1423

y : L
L i
M M - G
q
i UP

S X , , 8
- e
-
= - V ; ,
, q
-
e 26 -
ij f S ^n
26 - * i
& -

X -
-

~ ,
c

,

S e
M, 1423
47
48
-
, c
-

L
ij L ~

&& e
M
-

- La
e &
s
&
-
!
,
c - S
: g ~ , S
, : -
q -
q
L -
~ -
X
S 5th century B.C.
2003 g ~

M, 1423
X

U U 26 , ,
26
` - S E
Z
,
26
1891 KI S

S gQ +L -
N
L, S L
S L
^ -
-M q q ^
- | 2
v , &
S
L S L

S
5

---
-
-

M, 1423
49
50
i q - 26
&
,
+ i
i Q p - t
- q
& i +L
-

26
S U M
-

-
S q -

~ e

8 V ,
263
-
c - -
- s
L - - - -,

--
e -

M, 1423
51
qw S
~
S S, Z
&Q, - (Bronze Age Civilization)
S Z,
(Corfu) R My Family
and other Animals 10 ,
[1935-1939] , k e
Z q, -e

k
k
- , X , City-states O-
S ~ Early
Social Formation
- &Q 26 M
S , ij
(Mycaenean) S mythological
(Minos) (Minoan Civilization)
S , v (Heraklion) v (Iraklion)
^ (Chania)
S (Knossos)
v KI
M, 1423
52
S { -
S
S 'myth'-
(Zeus)

S
ij S ^
qw G []
S (Cretan Bull)

P (Pasiphae)
S L , (Minotaur)
X X
g e k
(Theseus)
S q
2000 (B.C.) U O
, (Phaistos) (Malia) O
&Q
(Frescos) v
P
- -
S -

M
- (Code of Laws)

+ 2000 1600
x ^
S 5 ^ , [
], g , 'vase'
M, 1423
- (wine),
e ee
I, ,
=, e

S (Pictorial writing) , Linear A
Linear A X y
, Linear B , Linear B S

S q
^
Z ^

, , , ,
S ^
& - (resort), (Yatch)

(inn)
,

w water-sport
beach resort& S
, ,
A ,
v

= &Q ij 1904
k (Sir Arthur Evans)
= archaeological site
|
e X
M, 1423
53
54
,
(vase)
Site-
S v
e L 2 S
[ Knossos- Site- ]
v (Cycladic period),
(Neolithic period), - (pre-palatial period),
(palatial period), (post-palatial)
^
M
, ,
P
(
(Cretan bull)

`KI
U
k National Archaeological
museum-
vL 5
g S
, ,
, , ,
prosciutto with melon [ ]
- , cretan salad
X ,
e (sesame seed bread)
(feta cheese) []
tiropita / (cheese pastries) spanakopita [ ]
(Retsina wine) (Ouzo wine)
M, 1423
& e
S
, [] , C (citron) 26
- -
,
v (Chania) ^
^ ,
, - 26
-
T-Shirt- S - , I,

g S S
e La + 26
(lyre) k (lute) La
(violin) S
S
q La& (Boulgari)
, (askomantoura),
, (thiampioli) (daouli)
E - e + - *
S (traditional)
- - ,
-S 26
g 26

- v ^ Z,
S & - , ,
26i
26
M, 1423
55
56
A

Allaha
[ ]
S/ g
M S
- L X , c
Q L
, 75
` - -, -+
- ,
L 643 X i

U
e- e X ~
L - -, - -
c y ~ ,
e- e
p V [ :]
/ ,
y

, V-

M, 1423
Allaha
M,
e- e-,
- , (
(
- , - -
-
e , -

e- ---
- ( (

, e ,
- e
-
U U
- -
/ S RU
, /
(mangrove wetlands)
& 26 aerial roots , --- - G ,
,
~
X ,
, M
c Q,
-, - - ~
-
R
e
R X
M, 1423
57
58
Allaha
1831 - ` 65
- , KI 26
w-ML Fanny
Parkes 1831 - , -- p
-

, ,

e g
,
-
[1253-1325] ~

M q, , V
-- (goat-bearded)
M
p - 26
S S -N p
M p

e |n
S --
| -- Z
|

: : :
, - -
e boatman c
e
e
M, 1423
Allaha
-
e , ,
|X S-
26
& G
26 , , e
= ,
, -A /
: : :
plastic can e -

M ,
---
--
-
X
--
, e q

, [ ] -
,
- -
- -
-~ -
-
AL

q ,

M, 1423
59
60
Allaha
[ ]
- ~ ,
, ,

,
--- (Universal peace as a prelude to universal
love) , (Faylasuf)
y M -
e -
-~ ,

: : :
e 13
~ - 2 [1759-1806]
g - ,
~ Q
q ~
2 ~ -
~ -
X
-- | ~
2 |
X 22
" 1768 s e '-
- G-
2
- , v
-S v
& - M
[ 1765]
M, 1423
Allaha
2 M- v
, Benjamin
West
Wales- Powis Castle
2 ,
- - ,
v & 26
-- , M

G G
, v v

, ,

: : :
q -
- c
- , - c

e - - c
~, -L V /

, /
M g
U &
U- & ~ 26
- R- -
M U
c
a

M, 1423
61
62
Allaha
R ,
-

e

, ,
e X SL
- ,

!-? c N
-
, /
1606 15 - |X

L, Z

50
e
, - |
&
-
, &
,
M G X
, : , q
La
,
U
g
M, 1423
Allaha
- & 26
q ~
ML, g
L
L5

L
s S e
q , --
-
L - e
- , e,
q (
,
: : :
L i ML
-V

i
e , -
, g
26 ,
c
26,
, 26
, ...
q , ...
~
...
c
q
M, 1423
63
64
Allaha

, G G
- ,
, --
e --
-
--
c 26
, g
|X , 5 -
, U -

g
M
e SL
X M
g
Pietro Della Valle ML

q
c M -
[
]
Q M e
L
c , e
, -
( t
g R
M, 1423
Allaha
:
g ,
e
- , +
i g

: : :

[ ] &
c

-

~

, ~--
--

: --
? U
, - /
: , c
, -
: , ...
5 g
.. ...
26, 26... ...
- -
,
- , ,

M, 1423
65
66
Allaha
, ... e
...
...
,
... ...
... ... &
....
, , ...
... , ...
... g
, ...
, ...
? c M
-
- , L
e q
y

:
c s ,
,

L L
N
e
, 'At this time a report came from Khurram that Khusrau...
had died of the disease of colic pains (qulanj), and gone to the mercy
of God' -5 ,
y g
28 , 1622 M
g
M, 1423
Allaha
qS colic , c

U , -

q
U
,
~ ,
R L
q L

y
& -
|X , (Pieter
van den Broecke, cloth merchant, Manager of Dutch VOC at Surat)
, e
U - e
: : :
- ,
26 - -
- ?
, civil lines ,
- e
?- , SL 12
sh
M C
,
g C , C
-- g
M, 1423
67
68
Allaha
rewind-play-rewind &
e g- g-

[ '- ]
[
N, ] c
- q
, -n
- e =
S
,
q ,
- , ~
,
Allaha ~ Allaha
, :
L ,
M
-
M, 1423
69
?
,
(e
x S
L x ij, S,

X a S
p x
L
S2
p Z 26
, x
x x
(e = L
e S
1
G
S
g
S S S
M S
M [27] L
2
[26] S
M
[52]
M, 1423
70

L M
M f
S L S
3
S
ij S c
ij S
-
[45] S

-
ij

4
a
M
5
(

5
S i
S & c
x
e
S
&
c
. x
e L ij e S
, | , q ,
, ,
e ij
e e S e
M, 1423
i R
S
e S ,
S e
e
26 S i , c e
qS S

e 26 x
e
6
U -
La
X

[]
; ;
L

- []
qX X
I
= []
I
=
[]
q
M, 1423
71
72
g ?

i 26

p

[]

q
[] g

e
S
L
S&5 S

5 3
[]
[]

U
i, a

i

M, 1423
] ] - |
] , ] , [] , ]
]
11 S, 1422 es, qS , , , , - 742136
, G

|
? -
e ,
=
&
e &
5 +,

U

S
x
S

X

M

U- 26
a [] []
11 S 1422, qS
La
M, 1423
73
74
&5 x
&5 x

La
&5 &
&
q, y
&5 L y ,
&5
ij &5 ,
&5
x &5 |
&5 ,
7
&5 S
+
i
i s
L
,
=
c
8

&5

+ s X
9
& X
s
1.
3.
5.
7.
&5
2.
4.
6.
8.
&5
M, 1423
9.
11.
13.
15.
17.
19.
21.
23.
25.
27.
28.
29.
31.
10.
UU
12.
14.
16.
18.
20.
22.
24.
26.
30.
32.
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
M, 1423
&5

UU

,

75
76
g

&5
g
X

&5
S
&5

d g S

&5

SL M

,
x
g

26
10 S 1422,
,
,
Q, e,
&5 g
` -x

S e e
M ,
M, 1423
S
1. S - , ,
2. `
18 .. 30-35
3. , 27 , S
, . ,
M, - , , ,
10 S 1422 . ? ,
4. , 45 ,
, , ^,
- , , , 17 S 1422 .
? ,
5. [2016, ] - (
S 30 , 1422 . [qS], 1 ,
1422 . [], 2 , 1422 . [] ? ,
e
6. , &M, 11 S 1422 . qS
7. , 52 ,
M, - ,
, , 3 S 1422 .
? ,
8. S g
, - ,
, S

[ ]
9. ] [ a], 32 , ,
| L, ^,
- , , , 11 S 1422 . qS
] [ ], 23 ,
= | L. ^,
- , , , 3 S 1422 .
] , &M, 10 S 1422 .,
? ,
M, 1423
77
78
,

65, ` ,
232
300
M w
S , ~
S ij ,
, L
V
,
- i
i, L e U
, g
Q ML
, w
: ,
M S
e e 2 ,
=, ,
g,
,

M, 1423
g P
, , -
w ,
i
i M
s - `
- &
i X
S 400 S
5 s Z Q
,
y - S
, ,
*
South Dakota Badlands q S }
, Australia Wild West g Karizini
gorge-
d South Dakota- A
Corn Palace A
A , , A
q A
S
U - M
& , &
, Australia
, roast,
S w
| w
G : , +
M, 1423
79
80

228
300

S,
w w , w
- , y w
,
i e G
w
w R
5
[] w

S V
228 , 30 S,
77 =, 800 - w
20 q
(Josephine Baker 1906-1975)
1930 ,
1930 f S (La Galerie Pigalle)
M, 1423
, Z , , S
- ~
Z S i
, C w
C ,
L
, i 26 S
S e
^ KI- ^
^ , (ATM) S
i , k, ,
` , M
, ,
, KI ,
,
g ,
, X

c , k &
, f g
L 2300 1407
s ,
q
, 1972
U ,
(96 Place Paul Painleve, Metro : Saint
Michel, 49, Rue Monge, Metro : Cardinal Lemoine), , ,
, , , , e
, 1968 S-|
= , , ,
g i 26
-
M, 1423
81
82
, , ,
,
L
i
5 26 i
(Open tour) (Les Cars
Rouges)
^ & , ,
C
[1 14, 3 7]
S

= [ 68] , C
C
5 C w
, (Hop on Hop off)
(Bateau Bus) , , i
w g
' ' ,

~
, L f , ,
, ~ (Bed &
Breakfast), e &
, (Youth Hostel), S (Cit Universitaire),

26
i

k ,
M, 1423
,
(Foie gras)
:
,
L
, i
, , , e
750 q
|

^ 5
C , , g , ,
g
^
Z s M,
[1881] M L
(Moulin Rouge), (Lido),
(Paradis Latin), S (Crazy Horse Saloon),
(Folies Bergere), 5 , , ,
~ , ~ ^
S, = ^
, , S
S 5
28 1895
S ~ ...
, La
& L (Antoine Lumiere 1840-1911)
e g
,
M, 1423
83
84
F

,
c
KI
, ...

S
, KI
- , g ,
, ,
-
, S

& (Philip Augustus, 1165-1223)
(Leoh Ming Pei) [1989]
e M
-~
M w

e

^& :
w q
L
5 g -
,
... -

M, 1423
85
S
X X |
X ,
q , M M Q
M
L V
X S
L
,

q L
X
-
,
c S

, ,
g 8 ,
S
g S
S S f
M, 1423
86

a q 1864
ij

q , 2 f
X
26
, :, g
q c / e 26
26
w
w y
G M
q
L M S
S S q L
, y y
q L
|n `
e [1885] w
- - 26
q a f
1869- M f M a
a
1871-
S c
: ij
w : S `
e-
` e q :
, g
M, 1423
5
` e-
, Z
S ,
26 I e S `

[
]

e
-
` e w
Z, G S

&Q
i - ,

c
: [ L]
` * ,
- M
i
a
` S -
G ,

X G

a X ,
N : a |
[ ]
M, 1423
87
88

? , c
g
, , ,
- [ ]
2 w
t c
Q ,
Q
, e
P ,
[ ]
L

c
a
L

` t
q U
X
La
26 a
e [ ]
+

[ ]
a- , ,
-a
M, 1423
, , - S
-a Q
- e - gQ
5 L &Q
G ^ g
-
V
7
/ ? ,
w
,
e
... i , ,

[ ]
: : :
La
, 2, MQ

, `
e - bL
M
[ ]
X
S

q ` e , S []
g g
a e f
M, 1423
89
90
S ~ S
1296 es S -S
- L X f S
M M M
e
a g
X, , &
&&
S , a , L ,
| ,
: c ,
Z
c |
26 L
X i
i + , -
&& La
g

a V
,
a : 7

L S
La X 1297
S
S, f a M g

a ,
ZiZ , S
g 1297-
M, 1423
g g R
F q
i

S i
q

... e
s S ,
a
,
M
S
...
i y
L- , MQ + t
+ M g ~
e g 1298- S
2 X La
-, -M g M
2

i
5 k
XX La
, , ,
I ,
: Q a , -
5 k
La
g M
M, 1423
91
92
q
-
a ^

X
L Z e
, ` q R
, S
& a X

^ , 2
a Q , ZiZ ,
c L
S g
L S & X
- L
q g f
1298- S - M
f
M 1298- S g
,
M XM a-
S qS XM
( a
i -L |
q , La
M
a
a S ... S ,

X
M, 1423
q Q S ,
Q
a :X Q
, S M
V M

R, R F
La

g
L
ij -
S
1. , G e, 1885, 1 , ,
2. g, A , , 2004
3. , , , 1357
4. f , - , , 1822 s
5. S , , , 2005
6. f , , , 1958
7. X S, L ^, , 1998
8. L , ` e , , 1996
9. A, , , 1411
10. , a, , 1412
11. a , , , , 1296, . 606
12. a , f , , , 1297, . 36
13. , , , , 1297, . 494
M, 1423
93
94
Amiya P. Sen
Heidelberg, Germany
My Days in Heidelberg
(and Nights too)
It was sometime in mid-2014 that I was led to believe that I might,

after all, make my way to Heidelberg - a destination that had
intermittently appeared on my intellectual horizon and later settled in
my dreams. The prestigious Zimmer Chair in Indian philosophy and
intellectual history, jointly sponsored by the Indian Council of Cultural
Relations and Heidelberg University had been offered to me back in
2012-13 but it took my employers over a year to grant me leave. This
Chair is named after an eminent Indologist, Heinrich Zimmer, who was
forced to flee Germany on account of Nazi persecution. I have to admit
that this is something that Indians do well and somewhat selflessly; the
Pakistanis, by comparison appear less liberal. Here in Heidelberg the
Pakistan Studies Chair is named after Iqbal and as I recall, the Chair
that the Pakistan government had once instituted at Oxford was called
the Qaid-e-Azam Chair.
The reason why Heidelberg appeared so attractive was of course
my long-standing interest in the intellectual history of the Hindus. Over
the years I have increasingly come to realize that, somewhat contrary
to the reigning Saidian Discourse on Orientalism, an interest in the Orient
was not always founded in relationships of power and ill-concealed
imperial interests. I have come to doubt this thesis even with respect to
the British Orientalists of the late 18th century represented by figures
like Sir William Jones, Henry Colebrooke or James Princep for whom
such linkages may have been, prima facie, more easily drawn. Sir William
innately distrusted Indian pandits and generally entertained a poor opinion
M, 1423
of the Hindu character who he took to be lacking in integrity. If he later

found affinities between Latin, Greek and Sanskrit languages or found
points of comparison between Greek, Roman and Hindu gods, this was
probably not so much an honour to Indic culture itself as to its extraIndian roots. After all, in Joness time, the original homeland of the
Aryans homeland was taken to lie in the European steppes which
then made it possible for the English to view Indians as long departed
cousins who subsequently failed to match European advances in
material culture and civilization. Many educated Hindus accepted this
theory uncritically, rejoicing in the (albeit belated) reunion of the departed
cousins. Subsequently, in the wake of a growing Hindu consciousness,
they also took some pride in the fact that the ancient Greeks too, like
contemporary Hindus, were polytheists and image worshippers. On the
other hand, I never have understood how their affinities with the British
ruling class or some racial arrogance would have led Jones to translate
a work like Abhigyana Sakuntalam or Princep to decipher the Brahmi
script which revolutionised our knowledge of early India. I have since
put these down to a sense of cosmopolitanism and intense intellectual
curiosity that the European Enlightenment of the 18th century had for a
time bestowed on Europeans.
The German interest in India but more precisely, in early India, was
even more removed from concerns of Empire. German overseas
colonies came to be founded only in the closing decades of the 19th
century and that too, in central Africa and as far as I know, produced no
noticeable interest in local culture. Oddly again, it was the German Max
Muller who got the English East India Company to invest heavily in the
classic 50 Volume Sacred Books of the East project. German interest
was also instrumental in putting together the Bhandarkar Oriental Institute
at Pune. It is worth interrogating therefore, just what pecuniary interests
might have weighed with the Directors of the East India Company
(who were otherwise thorough-bred mercantilists) in commissioning
this expensive and long drawn out Sacred Books of the East project.
The Murthy Foundation that is now attempting something similar bears
little comparison to this scheme. As is only evident, the sources of funding
and inspiration in the two cases are strikingly dissimilar. The Germans
still love the word Indology as I was soon to discover at the South
Asia Institute, Heidelberg, where I was located. Here, even a course
M, 1423
95
96
on modern India languages and literatures is called Modern Indology.

The South Asia Institute caters to the local interest in south Asian
Studies which comprises the selective study of India, Bangladesh,
Pakistan, Nepal and Sri Lanka. Bhutan is an obvious exception. We
have a Pakistani Study group and a Sri Lanka Study group; an India
Study group is not taken seriously, possibly because Indian manifests
itself in big ways, even otherwise. From the point of view of the teacher
the wonderful thing at the Institute is that at the PG level, a teacher is
free to devise his or her own courses and students left free to choose
their courses of study. For the Indian (or more generally, the south
Asian student) the greatest relief comes from the absence of written
examinations at the end of each semester. Most courses barring those
labelled Advanced Courses, make do with a 15 minute oral examination
for each student on the basis of which he/she is then graded. Something
that is kind to both teachers and students is that a particular course has
only one class a week lasting 2 hours. This is the freedom that I most
enjoyed even when teaching multiple courses. It could of course be
alleged that a weekly class can never do justice to a PG course. There
is indeed some merit in the argument but such problems are quite
effectively met by the teacher who draws up a realistic schedule of
courses and classes.
The major problems in the system that I could perceive are two.
For subjects like Indian History there are no courses offered in the
English medium at the UG level and at the PG level, there are simply
not enough courses of the kind. Evidently, on subjects like Indian history
that I study and teach, the literature available in English is not only
abundant but far superior when compared to the German. Thus, even in
a PG class, a teacher may be reduced to explaining matters like how
the British Viceroy differed from the Governor General in administrative
or political terms. The other problem is the incredibly low strength of
the faculty. My own Department has just the Head assisted by two
research students who fill in as teachers. To a team from India which
recently visited the Institute, I did point my finger to just how Heidelberg
had the making of an embryonic, offshore SAARC University and how
the south Asian countries could well pool their resources to create a
South Asia Chair on a permanent basis. Judging by my own experiences,
I also told them how most south Asian countries now had an affluent
M, 1423
and sizeable middle class who would willingly invest in the higher
education of their sons and daughters in a western university that offer
greater professionalism and fuller international exposure.
* * *
What I came to soon regret upon arriving in Germany was first, my
inability to procure an international driving license and second, my utter
ignorance of both the German and Sanskrit languages. Germany is one
country where you begin to relate to the road more than the car you are
driving. On the highways, as I noticed, there are practically no speed
limits and the road begins to embrace the car once you are in your top
gear. The unsavoury side to this emerges only if you are doomed to be
a pedestrian as I was. For one, vehicles here are left hand driven and in
my first few days in Heidelberg, I was nearly run over by cars
approaching from an unexpected direction or else made to look stupid
when I tried entering a cab from the wrong side. The bigger menace
though is the German cyclist. Here, as in other German towns, there
are dedicated tracks for cyclists, not always distinguishable from
pedestrian paths. But even the Devil hath no greater fury than the
German cyclist forced to stop in his tracks. Cyclists here are more
possessive about their tracks than motorists are about roads. The average
German motorist is polite enough to wait and allow you to cross the
road, even at busy intersections, not so the cyclist.
My linguistic limitations, however, have probably cost me more than
I can account for. Here, at Heidelberg, I have had the opportunity of
accessing on open shelves, the rarest of Sanskrit texts with no illconcealed hostility from the clerk at the library-desk, unhappy at the
thought of having to work at all and always suspecting visitors of some
misdemeanour. In India, one suffered the disinterestedness and
discouraging remarks from the Library staff; at Heidelberg, I have come
to grow under their benign care. As I have also realized over time, the
Heidelberg library allows you to access to about as many texts online
as books available on the shelf. Back in India who would have thought
of taking down from the shelf, a book published in 1822 or staring at a
digitised copy of private collection of books belonging to a India returned
civilian! On the whole, this has been a most humbling experience and I
shall return home convinced more than ever that knowledge will always
be greater than the knower.
M, 1423
97
98
Not knowing German has probably been the greater loss for this
prevented me from returning the feminine gaze or making the most of
an encounter with some curious on-looker. Romancing in a third
language is a difficult task under any conditions but for me, that seemed
to be overly compensated by the charm of making the acquaintance of
a European woman. There was some consolation in the fact that I
share this weakness with two of my favourite figures from the history
of modern Bengal. Halfway through his American tours, Vivekananda
was heard to remark that compared to Western women, Indian women
appeared only like black owls and Bankimchandra more famously
recommended that Radha-Krishna figurines be made in Europe alone if
these were at all to be counted as objects of art. I realize how ruinous
or politically incorrect it would be to support such statements today and
yet, if the act of judging the delicateness of colour, form or features in
the woman were somehow to be temporarily freed from such measures
of propriety or correctness, my views may not be as partisan as they
seem. Personally, I have always been reluctant to believe that beauty
always lies in the beholders eyes!
* * *
Heidelberg is by and large a University town, small even by German
standards and a good part of the population is indeed made up of students.
The town takes pride in hosting the oldest university in Germany
(c. 1386). That it also has a fairly old castle does not add up to very
much since much of Germany is dotted with cathedrals and castles.
Once, on a journey from Heidelberg to Cologne situated on the Rhine, I
could see one such structure standing on practically every hill-top. And
here, there are also monuments and artefacts that date back to the
early years of the Roman occupation. This, sadly, calls to mind our
collective failure to preserve a far older and richer heritage but worse
still, to thwart the unthinking and utterly insensitive acts of defacing
monuments or structures that have somehow survived the ravages of
time and human neglect. The medieval domes and arches at Lodhi
Gardens in New Delhi bear testimony to just how eager our romancing
couples are to immortalise themselves by etching their names on stone!
Unlike Oxford or Cambridge or even our own Delhi University,
Heidelberg University is not a fraternity of colleges. It has various
faculties or departments spread all across the city. In the latter respect,
M, 1423
it resembles Oxbridge and Delhi but its institutions are spatially divided
into broadly two halves, intersected by the river Neckar, a tributary of
the Rhine. The old town generally known as Altstadt comprises the
main administrative offices and some old faculties like those of
Philosophy, Theology or History; the other half of the campus is located
at a place called Neuenheimer Feld (the field at Neuenheim). This area
now has fancy shopping malls and some of the highly valued institutions
connected with academic life at Heidelberg. There is, for instance, the
imposing Mathematikon (Mathematics) building re-built over the last
two years or so and the prestigious Cancer Research Institute, University
hospitals but not least of all, the South Asia Institute itself, the idea
behind which, I gather, was first conceived by Radhakrishnan in the
1960s. Heidelberg can boast of quite a few Nobel Laureates most of
whom belong to the fields of Chemistry and Medicine. Even in the
fields of south Asian history and cultural studies, it has produced eminent,
internationally known scholars like Dietmar Rothermund and Herman
Kulke.
Topographically, the distinguishing features of the town are the
massive hills on either side of a deep gorge carved out by the river
Neckar. These hills visibly change colour through the year, turning barren
and ice-covered during winter, to massive mounds of earth and rock
covered with thick green foliage in summer, to a rusty crimson in the
autumn. What does not change at all is the flow of the river. The Neckar
never came close to freezing even under severe conditions as I had
once watched the Thames do at Oxford. Spring is really the best time
of the year at Heidelberg; I deliberately exclude the summer since going
by personal experiences again, temperatures reached 42 degrees only
last June. The funny side to this of course is that the Germans are still
not thinking of investing in a fan, not to speak of air conditioners. In
spring, Heidelberg is a riot of colours beginning with the magnolias coming
to resplendent bloom in early April followed by fruitless Japanese cherry
trees of which there are many, finally giving away to narcissus, tulips
and button-sized flowers of motely shades that grow abundantly both in
the wild and carefully manicured kitchen gardens. This is a time when
one also meets raucous parrots, very similar to ones back home, happily
chirping away on tree tops that have just begun to grow tender foliage.
Summer also produces fruit laden trees of which there are many in my
M, 1423
99
100
neighbourhood. Like a true Indian who never lets go something available

for free, I have feasted myself on apricots, plums and pears, strewn
daily by the roadside. Did my German neighbours throw a fit? Who
cares! Baden-Wurttemberg, the state in which Heidelberg is located is
known as a wine producing state and thanks to an indulgent friend, I
have now seen vast vineyards gracing long hill-sides and walnuts and
chestnuts freely falling off trees. Wine is incredibly cheap, a bottle often
costing only as much as a bottle of aerated water. Of the bottles that I
have so far unsealed and greedily consumed, I have virtually lost count.
* * *
The Germans are on the whole, a sociable people, not as tightlipped as the English and never as insular as the French. Every postman passing by my apartment can be heard to wish you Guten Morgen
(Good Morning) or else Guten Tag (Good Day) as do most other
people you meet on the streets. However, like Bengalis, they can also
be both garrulous and somewhat culturally insensitive. A German could
be oblivious of the fact that he was continuing to converse in his language
with a fellow German in the company of non-Germans who were
increasingly turning uncomprehending and uncomfortable.
Friends here tell me that Heidelberg is an expensive town to live in,
notwithstanding its sizeable student population. There is considerable
truth in this claim as I was to discover during my trip to Berlin where a
sizable migrant population have made a substantial difference. Happily,
food remains incredibly cheap, especially when compared to what they
cost in India in relation to ones income. I may not be far off the mark in
suggesting that when mostly cooking at home, an individual spends no
more than 10% of his earnings on food and drink, wine included! By
comparison, transport is alarmingly expensive; the lowest bus-fare
between two points will fetch me my mid-day meal any day. And
speaking of meals, I would be remiss if I did not mention the unique
privilege that scholars and students at Heidelberg University enjoy eating
at the university cafeteria called Mensa. Here, as I discovered much
to my surprise, food was charged not by the item but by weight! In
effect, therefore, fish cutlets, beef steaks or barbecued chicken would
cost you only as much as a quantity of rice provided they weighed the
same! In my two year stay in Heidelberg I do not recall having ever
eaten rice at Mensa! On the whole, German cooking is better than the
M, 1423
English though it is commonplace that the Anglo-Saxons staple diet

remains the potato in all its possible forms. I have seen young students
order a dish-full of French fries with some crispy salad thrown on the
side as their main meal. And if you were wondering why they were not
all afflicted by high levels of cholesterol or worrying over extra inches
added to their waist-line, all you had to do was to watch them over
week-ends, when men and women, apparently even in their 80s, can be
found jogging by the river side in fancy shoes and slacks. Though the
south Asian presence in Heidelberg does not compare favourably to the
situation in London or Birmingham, the items that would most naturally
find their way to our kitchens are all available here. Speaking from a
purely Bengali perspective, it was a treat to gorge oneself on the best
Bangladeshi Ilish, Rahu, Tangra, Koi, Pabda and Pangas. And there is
excellent rice to match, the best of which comes from Malaysia and
Thailand. Basmati is boring by comparison. My culinary experiences,
however, do not readily admit all that is south Asian in origin. Mustard
oil from Bangladesh was a big disappointment; my neighbourhood grocer
in Delhi sells better stuff. The other problem was with locally grown
vegetables. Cabbages and carrots you could not stab even with a knife
and once cooked, cauliflowers tasted like sawdust. Such are the marvels
of GM food! German dairy products, however, are simply out of this
world as are their breads and bakeries. All the same, the Germans
appear to leave even the French behind when it comes to baking breads.
There is also something called quark which is a form of cheesy yogurt
with about 40% fat. Even though I once described this as the elixir of
life, the realistic fear of not making it back to Delhi in tolerable health
has prevented me from consuming one of these every day. In case you
did not know, the Germans are also the highest consumers of sugar
after the Americans. Notwithstanding our own penchant for post-dinner
gulab jamuns or boxes of festive mithai, the Indian really pales into
insignificance as far as such matters go.
In a somewhat perverse manner I derived some consolation form
the fact that Heidelberg too has its share of the poor, not counting refugees
from the Middle East that have now virtually swamped parts of Germany.
There are the indigenous poor too. There is a man I have long observed,
who virtually carries his home in a cart and sleeps on grassy lawns by
the day time. Yet another is habitually present beside a grocery store
M, 1423
101
102
with just a blanket and a tin mug placed before him. I have often
wondered what such homeless people do in winter. The more gifted or
enterprising among them take to musical performances,- a pan European
and American phenomena and often, truly entertaining. I once heard an
Indian friend quite cynically remark that the Europeans and Americans
had brought dignity even to the act of begging. I found that remark quite
off the mark. Much of the Western world functions on a Do it yourself
kit and founded as this is on fierce individualism, the act of begging
would not be easily acknowledged, at least not morally.
Not all Germans as I can see are happy over the governments
open border policy, the commitment to the resettlement of refugees and
the falling Euro which especially took a beating during the Greek crisis.
Some of my friends and colleagues at the Institute have complained of
how the ethnic character of German towns was visibly changing and
how shockingly rude some migrants could get. That notwithstanding, I
can reasonably say that the exodus of refugees has not deeply affected
the German economy or made worse the law and order situation in
daily life. Heidelberg itself is a perfectly safe town to travel at any time
of the day or night which, from some personal knowledge again, I would
hesitate to say of either the UK or the USA. For one, there are no
prowlers or chain snatchers on the street even though over week-ends
there is considerable fun-making and drunken revelry in the numerous
pubs that litter the old town. If anything, there are cases of suicide that
are reported occasionally, mostly on railway tracks.
I consider it quite fortunate to have been able to spend reasonably
long lengths of time in both England and Germany: two places that suit
my own intellectual interest best. These were easily the best years of
my life and I will carry fond memories of them until the time memories
fail me. Sadly, I did not have either the inclination or the opportunity of
recording my earlier experiences in England but I am happy to do so
now for the German. Perhaps this is also because there was no Hindol
then!
M, 1423
103
Subhadra Sen Gupta
Delhi
A Megh Malhaar To The Rains
Some time at the end of May, on an unbearably hot morning, a

small column of print on the front page of the newspaper always cheers
me up; as it reports in dry laconic words The Thiruvananthapuram
meteorological office said on Tuesday that the south-west monsoon is
expected to set in along the coasts of Kerala and Lakshadweep in the
next two or three days.
Then I imagine standing on a beach by the Indian Ocean somewhere
in Kerala watching the monsoon clouds come scudding across the sky
slate grey piles of cumulonimbus towering threateningly over me as
the monsoon birds wheel up in the air to welcome them. Then the still,
humid air will suddenly turn cool as a jagged silver blue streak of lightning
flashes across the sky like a dramatic overture and a roll of thunder is
like an anticipatory clash of cymbals. Finally the fat, cool drops of
moisture will hit my face and theres that amazing smell of it falling on
dry parched earth; the heavenly benediction from Lord Indra of the
skies, the magnificent deluge rain.
Say hello to Varsha, the monsoons, and get ready to travel. This is
when you pack your bag and head for the beaches of Goa, the hills of
Kasauli or even a walk on a lonely road on Delhis Ridge to get soaking
wet and gloriously happy in the most beautiful season of our land.
Through the hot summer months we wait anxiously for the rains as
the earth is baked dry, the rivers are just thin trickles and the trees turn
into leafless skeletons. Thats when you pray to Lord Indra. He is not
just the commander-in-chief of the gods, he is also the lord of thunder
and lightning and some of the most heartfelt paeans in the Rig Veda are
M, 1423
104
sung to him, he whose magic powers, from earth withhold the genial
showers. Every year at the end of summer he gets down from his
celestial throne, takes a few draughts of the intoxicating drink soma and
then rides out on his elephant Airavat to give battle to the demon of
drought Vritra. This cloud dwelling demon is holding back the rains and
so Indra uses his arsenal of vajra thunderbolts and soon, the dying
demon headlong fell, down from his cloud built tower.
Scientists feel that the monsoons began six to eight hundred million
years ago when during the great continental shift of the Deccan plateau
upwards, the Himalayan and the Tibetan plateau were created. It was
a mighty heave that also made the land rise into mountain ranges. When
this landmass heats up it creates a low pressure zone that entices the
winds in the Indian Ocean to race up the Indian subcontinent. These
winds carry the moisture filled clouds creating the monsoons, a creature
of incredible complexity and subtleness.
Its funny how in different countries the imagery of clouds and rain
vary so dramatically. For the English clouds are gloomy, threatening
and a thoroughly depressing sight. In India the monsoons are a joyous
celebration when peacocks dance, poets sing and pretty girls sway on
swings tied to the branches of mango trees. It is a time of beginnings, of
falling in love, the sensual pleasure of getting drenched in a cool shower
and watching your money plant shoot out tendrils like an octopus. Could
there be an Indian anywhere who hates the rains?
I was once wandering around the Mehrangarh Fort in Jodhpur in
the month of August when it began to rain. Around me there were a
crowd of Rajasthani villagers in their neon coloured clothes bright
yellow and pink chunaris, bottle green and indigo turbans and of course
curving moustaches and those gorgeous kohled eyes. It had been the
usual decorous rural group, the women walking sedately, the men trying
to look patriarchal and suddenly as the rain drops fell on them the scene
changed. The women were throwing back their veils and raising their
faces to the sky, the men stood looking up grinning and the children
went berserk, running up and down the courtyard and then they all just
stood there and got drenched. Rajasthan is where you go to see what
the monsoon really means to our people.
We talk of the monsoon, sing to it, write poetry, compose ragas,
paint and create special rainy day menus of khichuri and pakoras. When
M, 1423
Kalidasa composed his lyrical poems on love he named it Meghdutam

the Messenger Cloud, and wrote,
The sky on every side is shrouded by rain clouds,
Which wear the beauty of deep blue lotus petals.
Centuries later another master of lyrical poetry Rabindranath Tagore

would look up at a cloudy sky and write,
Lightning darts through the clouds ripping them
Dotting the sky with sharp crooked smiles.
The music of the monsoons begins with the birds that we say only
sing in the rainy season. The megha papeeha flock to the trees as the
first shower breaks over the land. Optimistic koels have been calling
sweetly through the summer dawns as if enticing the clouds with the
music of their seductive calls. And then the humans begin to sing with
ragas like Megh and Malhar that can darken the sky with clouds and
the lovelorn lyrics of the thumri, kajari and chaiti.
So considering our ecstatic response to the monsoons you would
think we Indians named it. In fact the word monsoon comes from the
Arab word mausim which means weather. Think of the paradox of
language, where the origin of the word for torrential rains begins in a
barren desert land that does not know the sensual pleasure of a monsoon
downpour. As a matter of fact, every year, rich Arabs flock to Mumbai
during the monsoons to get a flavour of the rains from the windows of
their luxury hotels.
After all it was the Arabs who discovered the monsoon winds. The
Arab seamen in their dhows first spotted the winds that blew into the
land for six months and were perfect for sailing to India and then it blew
in the opposite direction to take them home. It revolutionised trade that
had till then been overland by the Silk Route. Later when Vasco da
Gama opened the sea route from Europe it was the monsoons that blew
his ship into harbour in Kerala. Till then the Arabs had traded with India
peacefully but soon the English, Dutch and French traders followed
with their ships armed with cannons and pushed the Arabs away. The
monsoon brought great prosperity to India but they also brought the
men who conquered and colonised us.
When the hot loo winds blow, we ordinary folks can only dream of
the rains but royalty can presume to create its own showers. In the
desert land of Rajasthan, in the kingdom of Deeg, a maharaja built a
M, 1423
105
106
monsoon pavilion that is an open pillared structure of marble with a

huge water tank concealed on the roof. This tank was filled by a system
of pulleys turned by elephants. When the raja was in a rainy mood, the
pavilion would be decorated with flowers, the fountains would burst
into life as water poured down from the roof creating the illusion of
rain.
Of course you cant beat the Mughals at opulence. In Delhis Red
Fort there are two marble pavilions at two ends of the Hayat Baksh
garden appropriately named Sawan and Bhadon after the two monsoon
months. They were built only to watch the monsoons. The most exquisite
touch is in Bhadon where behind a cascade of water a row of niches
are carved in the marble wall, where lighted lamps were kept to create
a lamp lit waterfall.
Visit the Red Fort and imagine the scene. A cloudy monsoon evening
as among the rich carpets and swaying silk fans, perfumes and feminine
laughter, the Great Moghul reclines benignly against a bolster, puffing
on a hookah. While the softly falling waterfall of the nahar-i-bahisht,
the stream of paradise, flows down the wall, behind it the oil lamps
glimmer and sparkle. Then with thunder and lightning, the real rain comes
down all around. The Mughals really knew how to live.
The season of Varsha is also called Chaturmasa the months of
Asharh, Shravan, Bhadra and Ashvin from mid June to mid October. In
ancient times this was the period when sadhus took a respite from their
nomadic lives and gathered at pilgrimages like Varanasi to hold great
intellectual gatherings. The Buddha also adopted this system of retreat
and Buddhist monks moved into shelters that later grew into viharas.
The monsoons are moody things and even after a century of
collected data and various complicated parameters and calculations,
monsoon prediction can never be perfect. The meteorological centre at
Thiruvanthapuram is the first to spot the arrival of the monsoon clouds
and they are deluged by telephone calls from newspapers to the prime
ministers office. As one perplexed meteorologist describes it, Its like
the human brain. We know it but we dont know it. Sometimes I think
it can even confuse the computer programmes. Such a bewildering
number of factors have to be kept in mind Pacific sea temperatures
and hurricanes; barometric pressure in Buenos Aires, Jakarta, Darwin
and the Seychelles; rainfall in Java, Zimbabwe and Zanzibar; winter
M, 1423
snowfall in the Himalayas; the depth of the Antarctic ice cap, the easterly
winds over Kolkata and finally the totally puzzling El Nino effect.
What is even more interesting is that we actually get two monsoon
currents. The rain bearing clouds branch into two over the Indian Ocean,
one flowing over the Bay of Bengal to the east and the other over the
Arabian Sea to the west. They curve back over the Indian subcontinent
and when the two arms meet somewhere over Delhi no one is quite
sure which brought the rains, thus creating the usual confusion that we
Indians are so comfortable with.
In summer we look up at the sky so often we all become experts on
clouds. The low, solid mass of the nimbostratus and the thundery
cumulonimbus brings rain but it is the banks of fluffy, cotton wool cumulus
floating casually across the sky after the rains that offer that childhood
pleasure of discovering cloud monsters, castle and faces. The cumulus
covering the sky also means that Durga Puja is near. So wherever you
are travelling, stop snapping selfies on your smart phone and look up
and watch the clouds. As for me, I agree with Neil Diamond when he
sang, It's cloud illusions I recall. I really dont know clouds at all.
The rains permeate our lives, first we are waiting for it and then
complaining when it rains too much and clothes dont dry and the spikes
in the umbrellas break. It also inspires us in so many varied ways.
There is the ittar perfume that captures the incomparable aroma of wet
earth after the first showers that is simply called Mitti, earth. Hunt out
the ittar shop at the end of Dariba Kalan in Old Delhis Chandi Chowk
and the man at the counter will bring down a cut glass bottle from the
shelf and put of spot on your wrist. Take a sniff and the monsoons are
there!
In the Rajasthani style miniature paintings there is a set of twelve
miniatures that depict all the seasons called Baramasa, twelve months.
In the Varsha paintings they show women on swings, white cranes
flying across a dark, cloudy sky, peacocks dancing, musicians singing,
blooming lotuses in a pond and parakeets perched on trees. Everything
speaks of rain without the painting actually showing any rainfall. When
asked how he would paint real raindrops one miniature painter said,
Rain is done like ropes of pearls.
A perfume, crooked smiling lightning, lotus petal clouds and pearl
raindrops, for us that is the magic of monsoons.
M, 1423
107
108
Sagarika Gupta
Delhi
A long Weekend from

Delhi: Badrinath
Though my daughter and I did this trip leisurely, it can certainly be

done faster hence the title. You can take the Thursday overnight train
to Haridwar and the Sunday overnight train back to Delhi.
Day 1
We took the overnight Dehradun Express to Haridwar. If you want,
you can take off straightaway for Rudraprayag. We stayed for a night
at Haridwar, at Hotel Godwin (0135-2485421/22) which is on the
outskirts just beyond the town on Rishikesh Road, opposite Shanti Kunj,
Haridwar. The dcor was a little over the top but the food was excellent.
Day 2
It is a 6 hour drive to Hotel Monal (01364-233901-5) at Rudraprayag
(Alaknanda meets Mandakini), including a tea and clean toilet break at
Kandalia GMVN motel. On the way to Rudraprayag you will cross
Devprayag (Bhagirathi meets Alaknanda), Srikot and Srinagar.
The hotel is beyond the town it has rooms with balconies and
views of the mountains and Alaknanda. From here onwards, potatoes
are the main item on the menu!
Day 3
Leaving Rudraprayag for Joshimath you will cross Karnaprayag,
Nandaprayag and Chamoli. Before Chamoli, stop at Nirmal Palace for
tea and washrooms.
M, 1423
A long Weekend from Delhi: Badrinath
At Joshimath we did a homestay with Ajay Bhatt (94120-82247).

He calls his place Himalayan Abode and organizes treks. The cook told
us he fills in as a trekking guide. He turned out be a great cook too!
Rooms have full length windows with views of the mountains and the
Alaknanda.
One of Joshimaths temples is the winter abode of Badrinarayan
from November to April, when the main temple shuts down.
Day 4
Though it is only 45 kilometres to Badrinath from here, it is a difficult
climb (by car) of about 2 hours. There is a gate system as the road is
narrow and the traffic alternates each way. On the way you will cross
Govind Ghat and Pandukeswar and then, like everyone else, you have
to stop at Hanuman Chatti for the blessings of the divine Ram-bhakt,
for you can go no further without that! From here on, there is no metalled
road. Stones and rocks are falling from above (this is a landslide prone
area) and waterfalls come down the cliff, cross the road and go over
the other side. You would certainly want Lady Luck or Bajrangbali
(whoever you prefer) on your side on this stretch. And yet, the
surroundings are as breathtakingly beautiful as the road is bad.
Hotel Sarovar Portico (91-93190-68849) is just as you enter the
valley where Badrinath temple is situated. Walk down to the temple
from there (about 1.5 kilometres), but ask the car to pick you up as it is
a steep climb back. The hotel is excellent with electric mattresses and
heated rooms.
******************
We made our hotel bookings through United Travel Service at
Barakhamba Road, New Delhi (23312804/2225) where Seema (9311293591) was very helpful. Car rental was managed by Sudhir Rai (9760373769) and our driver Rajesh (97609-91092) turned out to be absolutely
wonderful.
M, 1423
109
110
Kritika Kirty
Delhi
Is there a right way to start reminiscing? At the age of nine and

twenty I find my entire childhood encapsulated in the summer months I
used to spend at my fathers ancestral house in Allahabad. This was a
ritual that took place every year and I dreaded this enforced vacation. I
remember keeping a calendar and crossing off days that took a lifetime
to pass. Now, I find that the memories have trickled over time and
accumulated. I close my eyes and can smell the jasmine tangled over
the door. The indescribable scent of old books in my granddads library
has never really left me either. I remember the rickety fans that moved
ever so slowly and that I used to count the blades as they lazily circled
above me, barely stirring the syrupy air.
I remember every couple of years my cousins would visit and the
four of us - that is my elder sister, my cousin brother and sister and I
would become what the rest of the family called - the hell raisers. To be
honest, being the youngest member of the troupe I was never really into
the business of raising hell. I was happy to just tag along and to solemnly
perform whatever menial task was deemed fit for me. I never once felt
left out of things and even though was sometimes chastised for almost
ruining the plan, always felt loved. We would stage plays in which I
was always the kid, the drunkard, the murderer or the beggar! We
would rescue birds that would fall off their nests and play haunted house
(never a favorite of mine - the house had, as my sister used to say, far
too much of authentic atmosphere!).
I remember sitting on a boat at the bank of the Ganga afraid to set
M, 1423
sail, and then, the fear abating and me joyously trailing a hand through
the water, sparkling with the promise of redemption. The early morning
chants of sadhus who bring out the cynic in me now were merely colorful
and musical backgrounds then. They were the backdrop to something
far more profound and intangible. It is surprising how rarely I come
across that feeling now. Hot jalebis accompanied by a side of delectable
cool dahi remains another fond memory.
But most of all I remember the silent, enigmatic presence of my
grandfather. My grandmother was gregarious and used to mercilessly
tease me till I dissolved into tears. But my grandfather was a mystery.
Never talking more than was required; he used to perpetually lounge in
his rocking chair, reading. I dont ever remember seeing him without a
book. If atavism can be regarded as not just a physical throwback but
actually a personality throwback as well, then, I would have to
acknowledge that despite never having spoken to him I have always
felt a strange sense of affinity with Dadu. His retreat into the make
believe world, his complete disregard for social dos, his reticence seem all too familiar. When I read out my first poem to him he had said
"Mondo noi" meaning "not bad" high praise from him considering his
personal vocabulary never had the word good in it. I guess he believed
things could always be perfected, made better than they were. We
found a diary after his death. In that he talked about his visit to China.
My dad was taken aback; no one seems to have known about that trip.
We still dont know if it actually happened or was the beginning of a
work of fiction.
I feel a little at a loose end now. Through space and time I lean
back across the years and ruffle the hair of an eight year old kid who
cribs about the heat and swats away the mosquitos. I look into her eyes
and tell her to take it slow. I tell her to explore this rambling old house
and to feel its stories in her bones. I tell her to hold on to these days
because she does not realize it yet but they are truly golden. I tell her to
breathe in the warm air perfumed with jasmine. I tell her to run her
fingers through the yellowing pages of a hundred year old book. She
will reluctantly do all of this. And then one day she will sit down to write
about it and not be able to capture any of it. She will simply try to fill up
a blank screen with words that try to encompass the memories of a
childhood - and fail.
M, 1423
111
112
Smita Chaudhuri
Kolkata
Those Were The Days
When writing about travel, it is usual to dwell on the places one has
visited. I would like to pen my experience of the rail travel during my
childhood and youth. Since both my father and husband were officials
in the Indian Railways, my experience is limited to travelling by first
class or in official carriages more commonly known as saloons. These
entitlements went with the job and covered the families as well.
Rail travel in my childhood was a pleasure. Trains were on time
and the platforms were clean and well maintained. Many of the wayside
ones, especially on the Oudh Tirhut Railway, even had small gardens!
Train journeys were usually overnight ones. I remember the one from
Lahore to Calcutta took thirty six hours. The one from Rawalpindi to
Bengal was even longer. We always travelled with a fair amount of
luggage as did most people those days. The minimum was a hold-all
containing the bedding - a duree, a light mattress, bed sheets, pillows
and blankets if it was winter, a few suitcases, a tiffin carrier and
sometimes even a surahi in a wooden stand.
At every station there were coolies dressed in a white dhoti, red
shirt and a long piece of cloth rolled like a turban around their heads.
Each coolie had an oval brass plate tied to his upper arm. This had his
license number and the name of the railway, like ER for Eastern Railways
engraved on it. A coolie slung the hold-all over his left arm, holding on to
the suitcase with one hand and carried the tiffin carrier in his other
hand. The charge per coolie if my memory serves me correctly in
the late forties was four annas.
M, 1423
Those Were The Days
The coaches were made of wood, except for the Assam Mail and
the Darjeeling Mail. The doors were made of solid wood with latches
both at the top and bottom. I do not remember any corridor coaches like
you see in the Rajdhani Express today. Individual compartments four
berthers or a centre one with two berths was the norm.
A four berther had two lower and two upper berths usually aligned
along the track. The upper berths were hooked up to the wall during the
day. At night these were let down, held by stout iron chains suspended
from the ceiling of the compartment. The lower berths had backrests
that were let down at night converting the berth into a bed. There would
be a hand rest at the foot of the berth which was also used as a foothold
to climb up to the upper berth.
Between the two lower berths would be a small folding table above
which was fixed a mirror with hooks on either side. These were used to
hang hats and coats. Apart from lights, night lights and fans fixed to the
ceiling, each lower berth had a reading light and a metal glass holder
fixed to the wall of the compartment.
A centre cubicle had a lower and an upper berth aligned horizontally
to the track. There was usually an armchair at the foot of the lower
berth too. All the berths, armchairs and even the chains holding the
upper berths to the ceiling were upholstered in coloured leather and
embossed with the initials of the particular railway. For the North Western
Railway, the colour was red and a deep green for the Eastern Railway.
The mirrors were also similarly embossed.
The windows had no bars but three sets of sashes which could be
hitched up and let down singly or all together. Each sash was a wooden
frame holding a panel of glass, fire iron mesh or wooden slats. The
glass kept out the dust but not the sun. The iron mesh kept out insects
and the glare, but not the dust while the wooden slats kept out only the
sun. It was drilled into us children never to keep our hands on the window
sill in a moving train as a sudden jerk could bring one or more of the
sashes crashing down. We were also instructed never to look out towards
the engine in a moving train. This was to prevent the coal dust from the
engine smoke getting into our eyes.
All first class compartments had their own well fitted bathrooms.
At every junction station, railway sweepers would come in to clean the
compartment and the bathrooms. The coupling holding the bogies were
M, 1423
113
114
Those Were The Days
checked at the junction stations too and the call coupling cuss was a
familiar round which we would repeat with happy smiles on our faces.
First class passengers were indeed privileged as they were allowed
free travel for at least one servant. For railway officials it was two.
Each first class bogie had a servants compartment at one end.
In Northern India, the railway catering service was run by Kellners.
Their men appeared at stations well before meal times to take down
orders from the passengers. The message would be telegraphed to the
station where the train would reach for lunch or dinner as the case
might be. Piping hot meals on well laid out trays were served by
impeccably dressed bearers. The company even took special orders
for children. I still remember the delicious soups, chicken, pish-pash (an
Anglo-Indian dish we even made at home) and caramel custard puddings
that were served for lunch and dinner.
Some prestigious trains had a dining car attached. This was a long
coach with a row of small tables and chairs along each side with a
narrow aisle in between and a kitchen at the end. Each table was laid
out for four people with snow-white linen, shining crockery and cutlery,
careful to the last detail to include salt and pepper cellars. Safety must
have been excellent to allow passengers to go to the dining car for
meals. I do not remember if the servant was summoned to look after
our luggage while we were in the dining car. Tempting puris, aloo subzis
and sweets of various kinds were sold by hawkers on the platforms but
unfortunately Ma never allowed us to taste them.
Railway officials touring on duty were allowed saloons. Families
could also travel in them. I remember we once had some cousins also
traveling with us. These saloon cars were either four wheelers or eight
wheelers. A four wheeler had a living room with a table, some chairs
and a folding bed which hung along the wall during the day. A door from
one end of the living room led to a narrow passage which had a bathroom
on one side, and opened into a small kitchen at the other end. The
kitchen had a chulah lined with iron sheets and a chimney, which
opened out into the roof of the carriage. Opposite the chulah was a
wooden bunk for the peon who accompanied the officer on the tour. A
Line box was issued when going out on tour and had all the necessary
crockery, cutlery and cooking utensils that would be used for the comfort
of the officer spending his days in this home away from home. Dry
M, 1423
Those Were The Days
rations were carried from home and fresh vegetables, milk eggs and
other such products were purchased from markets near the station.
The fuel used was cinder and hot water in winter which was fetched
from the steam engine.
Eight wheeler saloons came in various sizes. The smallest had a
living room, a bedroom, a bathroom and a kitchen. Some also had a
small room for the stenographer. You must remember that the officers
had to work every day although the families were relaxed, enjoying the
holiday. Quite a few of the saloons had a long glass panel fitted
horizontally across the back wall of the living room. This was known as
the Trailing Window and allowed inspection of the track over which
the train had just passed when the saloon was attached to the rear of
the train. One particular scene is etched in my memory. We had gone to
Jogindernagar from Pathankot on the Kangra Valley Railway- incidentally
one of the most scenic rail-roads I have ever seen. We reached
Jogindernagar on the day of Kojagari Purnima. The night was clear
and the entire Dhauladhar Range bathed in gorgeous moonlight was
visible from the Trailing Window. Even after fifty years I only have to
close my eyes for the entire scene to re-appear before me.
The larger saloons had a living room in the centre with a door at the
end leading to the stenographers room and the kitchen. Another door
at the other end led to a narrow corridor into which opened two or three
bedrooms and a bathroom at the rear. These saloons had their own
crockery, cutlery etc. with a saloon bearer in charge. Attachment of
saloons to trains also followed a hierarchical order. The four wheeler
saloons of junior officers were usually attached to parcel trains or slow
passenger trains. As one went higher up, the saloons were attached to
faster trains. But attachment of saloons to prestigious mail trains was
only for heads of departments and above. I believe the Maharaja of
Patiala still has a well-maintained saloon and you can take a look at the
one that is on display at the Rail Museum in Delhi. If you have seen the
Agatha Christie movie Murder on the Orient Express, you will know
what I mean by the luxury of first class travel and its well-appointed
dining car.
Travelling in a saloon was not an unmixed blessing especially for
junior officers. A four wheeler attached next to the engine or at the rear
of the train shook so much that it was jokingly referred to as a filly
M, 1423
115
116
Those Were The Days
box! Moreover, a saloon was the only place of residence for a railway
official when inspecting a station. Sleeping in a saloon which had stood
the whole day under a blazing summer sun was certainly not an amiable
experience.
The advent of corridor coaches with barred windows probably
increased the safety of rail travel but the toilets were a casualty. Airconditioned two and three tier coaches have no doubt made journeys
comfortable, safe and dust free. Indeed rail travel has become affordable
for a great majority of our people, but my heart still yearns for the days
when travelling in a coupe, one had complete privacy. You neither had
to queue up for filthy toilets nor lug the luggage through crowded corridors
when boarding or getting off a train with minutes to spare.
Well those were the days and they have certainly ended.
M, 1423
117
Nilanjana Mukherjee
Gurgaon
Where the Grass Meets

the Sky: Maasai land
A swirling meringue sea spreads beneath us, the rising sun below
making the clouds radiant. Dark jagged rocks pierce the fluff and rise
to dwarf the clouds, swathes of pristine snow outlining their crevices.
Dawn is breaking over the pinnacle of Africa Kilimanjaro!
I watch spellbound as our Rwanda Air plane carries us across
Tanzania, passing the 18,500 feet tall and the highest African peak to
our right, and then over the sea-like expanse of Lake Victoria, into
Kigali, the capital of Rwanda. Kigali is beautifully laid out over several
rolling hills and is sparklingly clean and green. Unlike in cities in many
African countries, even late in the evening men and women were out
shopping, walking and jogging on tree-lined sidewalks of Kigali or in
driving on its wide, brightly lit streets free of traffic congestion. The
landlocked little country of 11 million people was made infamous by the
tribal warfare and genocide of 1994 that butchered more than a tenth of
its population and razed everything to the ground. But Rwanda has put
its strife-torn history to rest and made amazing progress under the
continuing leadership of President Paul Kagame. In recognition of
Rwandas remarkable development achievements, the country was
hosting the third all-Africa sanitation conference AfricaSan 3 in July
2011 the purpose of my travel.
* * *
Not all who chased the giraffe, caught it.
But the one that did, did chase it
..... African proverb.
M, 1423
118
Where the Grass Meets the Sky
At the end of the conference and post-conference workshops in

Kenya - it was time to go chasing giraffes. The wild wildlife enthusiast
whom I married a long time ago, joined me in Nairobi, and on July 28
we found ourselves on-board a 10-seater plane to Nanyuki, accompanied
only by the pilot. We flew between the Aberdare hills on the west and
the wide-based pyramid of Mount Kenya rising over 17000 feet to the
east, to land in Nanyuki. Dozens of bright-eyed, red-jerseyed Kenyan
schoolchildren greeted us with much clapping. Their teachers had
brought them to the airstrip to see planes land and take off.
Ol Pejeta Conservancy Rhino camp, July 28-30, 2011
Two cheerful young Maasai men, Andrew and Benjamin (Maasai
names Korok and Meshakh) are waiting for us in their 4-wheel drive
open safari vehicle. We set off for the two hour drive to Rhino camp
within the 90,000 acre Ol Pejeta wildlife conservancy. Within minutes
of entry through the Rongai gate into the wilderness area, we are in the
golden savannah spotted with thorny acacia trees and clumps of dark
green vegetation marking out the courses of streams. We are just getting
used to spotting leaping swarms of antelopes and zebra herds crossing
our rain-washed track, when Benjamin slows the car to a stop and
silently points to the roadside. There, resting under a tree, less than six
feet away from our open safari vehicle, is a magnificent lioness. She
fixes her brilliant amber eyes on us with disinterest for what seems an
eternity, and then turns away. Literally a heart-stopping welcome to
wild Africa!
We reach Porini Rhino camp at lunchtime and promptly fall in love
with the place. Set among tall shady trees, on the bank of a small seasonal
river, are six spacious tents overlooking the sprawling savannah and a
watering hole just across the river. When we arrive, the watering hole
is ringed by giraffes, presenting quite a spectacle. From a height of 1618 feet, they must bend their necks to ground level to access the pool of
water. They do it by splaying their legs sideways looking like a steadily
widening inverted V, to lower their heads till the mouth is close enough
to the water to drink. We get busy with cameras. By then lunch has
been served al fresco in the Ol Kinyei trees grove.
* * *
M, 1423
May I offer a choice of wine?

Peter, a 6.5 feet tall gentle giant serves a perfectly cooked 3-course
lunch of avocado soup, grilled chicken with roasted vegetables and slices
of quiche, fresh-from-the-oven oregano whole-wheat rolls and finally,
chocolate mousse. It is surreal dining like this with gazelles and zebras
grazing around, while an elephant bathes her calf at the water hole less
than 20 feet away. There are no fences to separate us from the wildlife.
The Maasai men who manage all camp services and wildlife viewing
assure guests that wild animals do not pose dangers to them unless
provoked or threatened. We are advised, however, not to be outside our
tents after nightfall or walk between tents in the dark unless accompanied
by one of the Maasai guards. Two of them stay up every night by a
small fire, guarding the camp.
From our beds in the spacious tents we gaze out at the watering
hole through the large tent windows covered with netting for the day
and canvas covers for the chilly nights. The tents are tastefully furnished
with colonial furniture and an attached en suite bathroom. Solar lamps
light tents and lanterns line camp paths at night, till the guests retire. Hot
water is supplied into a large canvas bag hung high on a pole outside
the bathroom when a guest wants a shower. With two layers of zippers
securing tent entrances at night, and hot water bottles slipped under
locally woven sheeps wool blankets, we are snug in the lap of ecofriendly luxury at the Porini camps. Despite rainstorms, strong chilly
winds, and wildebeests grunting or a giraffe peeing next to the tent
(sounded like a brief waterfall), we have never slept so soundly.
The next morning before first light we are woken with cups of hot
coffee and after a quick breakfast, are off for the dawn game drive.
Sharply etched across the cloudless eastern horizon is the expanse of
Mount Kenya, its tips frosted with snow. The wind is bitingly cold across
our faces. Benjamin has given us ponchos lined with Maasai blankets.
I hug it close around me as we slowly follow a large herd of female
elephants with calves. The calves stay safe under their mothers bellies
and turn their trunks up to suckle. A huge matriarch elephant is keeping
the group under her eagle eye, and herds stragglers on. A hippo heaves
itself out of the river to graze on the riverbank...and hastily jumps back
into water at the slightest sound from our vehicle. Korok explains
...hippos have sensitive skins. Cant stand sunlight. Theyll graze mostly
M, 1423
119
120
at night and get under water as soon as the sun comes up.
Yellow green grasslands spread as far as eyes can see, broken by
clumps of trees and hills on the horizon. Lilac-breasted rollers are chirping
on the acacia branches. Deep blue-green kingfishers dart about. On
the ground there are clucking herds of guinea fowl and Kori bustards.
Even the few crows we see look different, with white collars around
black necks. Male ostriches with bright pink colouring indicating their
prowess as mates, are strolling about with a collection of females. Zebras
look up from their grazing to stare at us. Two zebras chase each other
playfully and stop for a moment face-to-face as if kissing, and give me
a memorable snapshot. Large herds of golden impalas and Thomsons
gazelles seem to light up the greenery they are feeding on, as their
silken bodies reflect the early morning sun. They start as the car changes
gear, and fifty pairs of doe eyes turn their wide-eyed gaze our way.
We have reached the gates of the chimpanzee sanctuary started by
Jane Goodall.
* * *
A guide leads us through the dense forest which is now the chimps
protected habitat. A chimp mother is suckling her baby under a shady
bush, and simultaneously picking out lice from its fur. A male, presumably
her mate, lies on his back by her side, one foreleg (or forearm?) scratching
the opposite underarm. A young chimp swings from a low branch over
the river kicking up a splash, gibbering happily. The sight of chimpanzees
playing, eating, resting peacefully mask the harsh truths. Chimps rescued
from poachers and animal traders are brought to this sanctuary within
the game reserve, and helped to recover and re-learn how to survive in
the wild. Only one out of every four rescued animals survives, so
traumatic is their experience in the hands of man. Wood planks on trees
bear stark messages Humans are our greatest threat
through logging and the bush-meat trade
Our parents were killed for meat.
If you kill our trees, you kill us
We are your closest relatives
so like you, highly intelligent
We are refugees from a war against forests.
Please stop the war!
M, 1423
Onwards to the more forested parts of the reserve which is preferred

by rhinos. Ol Pejeta contains the largest sanctuary in East Africa for
the endangered Black Rhino. We do not have to look long for them.
Camouflaged among tall trees are three enormous animals looking much
like clumps of black boulders, barely moving. As we watch, one massive
double horned black rhino emerges from the thicket to graze on the
green meadow made lush by recent rains. He is nearly fifty meters
away. As he grazes farther away from us, Benjamin starts the car to
move closer. At once the rhinos ears perk up and he takes off, running
awkwardly on short stubby legs but amazingly fast. Before I can capture
him on lens he is a distant dot on the horizon.
After two such encounters I learn how to catch a rhino on camera.
Use high speed setting, do NOT focus on the moving rhino, but aim for
the empty space in front of the animal and shoot. He will run into the
frame and youll have the perfect shot!!
But why do rhinos run for their lives at the slightest unfamiliar sound?
It is, sadly, learned behaviour. The African rhino is under siege by humans.
The rhino horn fetches $60,000 a kilogram in the international market
going mostly to China where it is used for traditional medicine. With
this kind of money, it is not just the individual villager-turned-poacher
that is the enemy. There are now organized syndicates behind rhino
hunting. The Maasai guides tell us that Chinese companies have bagged
large road building contracts in Africa. Wherever they are working,
rhino populations are declining much faster than elsewhere, despite
governments attempts to police poaching. At the rhino sanctuary chilling
statistics are displayed:
Kenya had 20,000 black rhinos in 1970.
By 1980 there were 1800.
In 1990 there were only 400 left."
I shudder to think what might be the number today.
The rhino sanctuary provides a relatively safe space for them to
breed. But will this be enough for them to survive extinction? Humans
are the only despicable species that kills for reasons other than its survival,
and thinks nothing of wiping out other forms of life from the face of the
earth for personal financial gains.
Nobility, thy name is definitely NOT human.
* * *
M, 1423
121
122
The sun is low in the sky as we walk through the bush with Korok
and Meshakh in their bright red Maasai garb. They carry decoratively
handled daggers and double edged spears. They believe that the red
colour confuses lions. They teach us to identify differences in the tracks
and dung of antelopes, buffaloes and rhinos, and how the acacia fruit
hosts ant colonies to avoid being eaten by animals. They sing Maasai
songs as we walk and show us how to throw their heavy spears which
I can barely handle. Back at the camp we watch the orange sun sink
behind the water hole. Gazelles, elands, baboons and zebras float in
and out of the scene in the red-orange afterglow. A lioness brings her
cubs to drink. As the light fades, a black rhino drops in, a dark shadow
blending into the foliage. With four other camp guests we sit around a
bonfire with sundowners in hand, under a brilliantly starry night. All the
familiar constellations seem to be in the wrong places in the southern
hemisphere sky and the Milky Way flows clear and wide across the
inky velvet.
The end to a perfect day, in the lap of the ultimate perfection called
nature.
Maasai Mara and Lion Camp, July 30-August 3.
the wind lies asleep in the arms of the dawn,
like a child that has cried all night1.
A rainstorm has raged all night. The dawn breaks with clear coralstreaked skies. As the impalas stir and birds take to the sky, we wend
our way back through the fresh green stillness to the Nanyuki airstrip.
People wait at the little coffee stall as tiny 10-seater planes land from
time to time. Waiting passengers go up to the plane and ask the pilot
where he is headed next. Once you hear the right name of the destination,
you have to throw your bag in and climb on board. We find the plane
going to Ol Kiombo airstrip in Maasai Mara national park and take off
for the hour long flight.
As we cross over hills, farmlands and forests, the topography
gradually changes to dry, yellow highland savannah, broken by sparse
lines of greenery marking streams and rivers. Scattered circular human
settlements are visible, with huts along the fenced circumference and
1
Coromandel fishers; Sarojini Naidu
M, 1423
an inner ring fence which we later learn as built for the cattle. These
are Maasai settlements called enkangs. We are approaching the first
airstrip Serena Springs when someone calls out excitedly there they
are the wildebeests running! and videocams began to whirr...
On the golden landscape several long undulating black lines are
converging at a spot and joining together to become one thick moving
black swathe. The migrating wildebeests! The lines pulse with
movement, raising dust clouds. Thousands of animals are flowing forward
like a black cloud rolling over the grassland, crossing a stream and
spreading out on the greener pasture across the stream. We descend
into their midst in Maasai land - where humans and animals share the
boundless wilderness. We are welcomed by an acre of gnus and zebras
on the side of the airstrip near the Talek river.
Two tall, ebony-hued Maasai men in their bright red knee-length
wraps and beaded jewellery around necks, waists and arms, come
forward with welcoming smiles and Jambo, bwana ! They introduce
themselves as Jackson and Jared, which is so incongruous with their
appearance that I cant help asking for their real names. Jackson is
actually Linguis Saiyalel, named after a famous Maasai warrior. Jared
is Koshal Saiyalel. His name means the rainy season, which is the
season of plenty in the local calendar. Both stay with us as our guides,
drivers and delightful companions through the four nights and days we
spend at the Porini Lion camp, deep within the Olare Orok conservancy
in the vast Mara plains.
Local Maasai communities own the land in Maasai Mara. Since
the early 1990s, they have begun to set aside these vast Conservancies
as protected reserves for wildlife and receive rental incomes from tourism
activities, as well as employment as game rangers, trackers and camp
staff. In return the communities honour partnership agreements with
the government and eco-tourism agencies to not hunt or harass wildlife
or cut trees, nor construct or occupy land for dwelling inside
conservancies. This has resulted in wildlife numbers significantly growing
in these regions over the past two decades. The Porini and other similar
tented camps within Kenyan conservancies have no permanent
construction, no fences to separate wildlife from the camps, and adhere
to sustainable water, land, energy and waste management policies.
Maasai warriors guide guests safely around their land, sharing with
M, 1423
123
124
them their knowledge about indigenous plants, animals, culture and

ecosystems.
An hours drive through the seemingly endless open savannah brings
us to the Lion camp situated on the seasonal Ntakatiak river. Our
spacious, comfortably appointed tent named Simba (Maasai for lion)
overlooks a hippo pool. Beyond it a forested ridge slopes gently upwards,
where herds of grazing antelopes, wildebeest, baboons and wild buffaloes
maintain a constant wildlife show all day and lions roar at night. Zebras
and wildebeest wander freely in and out of the camp , grazing on the
newly green grass after recent rains. Lying back on an armchair on the
shady tent veranda, armed with a pair of binoculars and camera , listening
to the forest and soaking in the wilderness through all my senses is
my current definition of paradise ! A cool breeze flaps tent awnings,
bringing the fragrance of marula flowers in bloom. A mongoose family
is playing under my chair.....
The next morning it is steaming Arabica coffee at 5.45 a.m. and
departure before daybreak for the whole days game drives. This is the
golden hour, when the Mara is waking up.
* * *
In the semi-darkness we are close to a herd of elephants still sleeping
sitting on the ground, and actually snoring! We stay and watch as they
wake and stand up, call out to each other and slowly move off to graze.
We drive on and come upon a pride of two lions, four lionesses and
cubs feasting on the nights kill a wildebeest almost as large as a
buffalo. They pay no attention to our vehicle. The lions are satiated and
move away to lie down. It is now the lionesses and the cubs turn to
feed. When they have all had enough, the lionesses drag the remaining
carcass away into the bushes, to hide it from the hyenas and the vultures.
The cubs prance about, playing tag and rolling over each other in mock
fights. How I long to cuddle those balls of fur!
The lightening sky shows acres and acres of wildebeest-dotted
spaces, punctuated by spikes of giraffes. The grass was tall and green
the day before today it is grazed to the ground and yellow stumps
remain. The wildebeest lawnmowers must move on and on. It is a very
odd-looking animal. Comparable to a cow in size, it has a goats head
and ears, the bulls horns, a beard that continues from its chin all the
M, 1423
way to its chest, a shock of brush like hair outlining its spine from the
head halfway down the back like an apology of a mane, a slight
humpback, forelegs longer than hind legs and a resultant ungainly gait.
At South Africas Kruger national park our guide had told us that when
God finished with creation He had various animal body parts leftover
and threw them together to make the wildebeest or the Gnu !
Linguis is hopeful that there might be a river crossing today. The
animals have gathered in thousands on the riverbank. But they are still
milling about, grazing peacefully. There is no movement towards the
river. We wait a while. Then Linguis drives us away to a hippo pool and
sets up our breakfast on a high bank, overlooking the dozens of snouts
visible on the muddy water surface. Toast, bacon and sausages, fruit,
pancakes with honey and steaming mugs of freshly brewed coffee to
the accompaniment of hippos honking, snorting noisily and bobbing up
to lunge at each other..........Never thought of that combination before
it works brilliantly !
A cheetah is enjoying his morning kill of a baby gazelle. Sitting
bathed in morning light, he chews every bone and sinew, licking the
carcass almost clean. The vulture waiting patiently on a nearby tree
stares longingly and flies in to clean up when the cheetah ambles off,
content. We spot a distant swirling mass of vultures and drive in their
direction to find another kill, a wildebeest killed the night before probably
by a lion, and left half-eaten. A gang of spotted hyenas are devouring it
and sniggering noisily at vultures who have also laid claim to the carcass.
Vultures crowd around it from one end.... hyenas charge them snarling
and they hop back momentarily, only to advance again as soon as the
hyenas turns their back to feed. The competition continues. The grazers
are eaten by predators; the predators die, rot and turn to dust, feeding
the producers, viz. the grass and plants. The grazers feed on and fertilize
the producers and the cycle goes on.
Where we are parked, the Mara river is a swathe of brown water
about thirty meters wide, and we are informed, up to eight meters deep.
There is a stench in the air. Some bloated wildebeest carcasses are
visible caught between tree roots along the bank. Vultures crowd the
termite hills overlooking the river where Marabou storks are pacing.
On the opposite bank we spot a tangle of hippos sprawled placidly upon
each other and looking like glistening rocks. Motionless crocodiles, their
M, 1423
125
126
colour blending them completely into the muddy, sun-dappled bank, wait
silently, as we do, for the most spectacular of African wildlife shows to
begin any moment. The wildebeest migration! Their numbers have
swollen further since we saw them at dawn. More keep drifting into the
riverside congregation as we watch, much like a dam with pressure
building to breaking point. Sooner or later the wall has to breach
somewhere. Linguis manoeuvres the car to a high spot on the riverbank
to give us ringside seats, with the sun behind us and we wait, with
baited breath. We are rewarded, almost half an hour later.
At a point close to the water within the grey-black sea of wildebeest
a sudden explosion of movement begins a stampede towards the river.
Propelled by instincts that well never understand, they rush almost
blindly forward, falling over each other. Soon dust clouds obscure the
bank from which they are rushing in and the water turns into a frothing
mass of jostling black bodies broken here and there by black and white
stripes of zebras. They jump, fall, wade, swim, struggle against the
current, some drown and get washed away. Waiting crocodiles swiftly
remove what bodies they can from the oncoming flood of food. Hippos,
normally aggressive with intruders into their territory, move rapidly away
from the crossing point. Several vehicles have gathered on our side of
the river and each one has cameras focused on the spectacle. It just
goes on and on. From distant points in the west and southern parts of
the horizon long lines of wildebeest have formed automatically and all
lines are running full pelt at the crossing point of the day. How do they
know! What lines of communication inform them ?
Over nearly fifteen minutes the waves of animals keep coming till
the plains beyond the river are emptied of wildebeests. Tens of thousands
of them spread out over greener grasslands on our side of the river,
swarming all around us. Everyone is silent, listening in wonder to the
wind speaking to the rippling waves of grass and the grunting Gnus. In
another weeks time theyll consume the new growth and move further
north. By that time, if it rains on the Mara, new grass will grow to host
the next wave of animals coming in from Serengeti national park, south
of Maasai Mara. After the long rains end in Serengeti every May, the
grass does not regenerate and by July millions of wildebeest begin the
trek north, chasing storms and evading predators, to their dry season
refuge in the cool highlands of Maasai Mara where the grass is still
M, 1423
green. After the rains return to the region in October, they reverse
directions and migrate south to Serengeti again every year.
* * *
Our principal mission for the Maasai Mara trip has just been
accomplished! Happy and hungry, we let Linguis, Koshal and another
Porini camp vehicle find a shady tree in the savannah to lay out our
picnic lunch. Theyve even brought hand sanitizers, bless them!
Dark storm clouds are gathering on the northern horizon, offering
brilliant contrast to the sunlit yellow grasslands alive with large Elands
and Topi antelopes. We start driving back to the camp. A lone tree in
the middle of the grassy landscape offers a bit of shade from the hot
afternoon sun, and sure enough, it is well occupied. Linguis takes us
closer. Resting their heads on fallen logs are the lion king, his lionesses
and cubs. The big cats are fast asleep but the cubs are awake, suckling
and playing. One of them picks up his mothers thick, heavy tail in his
mouth and lays it straight on the ground. Then he watches it intently and
smacks it with his paw every time it twitches. The lioness raises her
head and gives him a warning growl and falls back to sleep. The cub
yawns and flops on the ground, burrowing under her belly to find her
nipples, where his siblings are already latched on.
At sunset time clouds begin rolling in, but miraculously, leave a
narrow swathe of sky clear near the western horizon. Before the setting
sun emerges from the dark clouds hanging above, it turns the slice of
sky below a bright vermillion as if the entire western periphery of
Mara is aflame. Then, as the red globe slips out of the clouds and
begins to sink behind the ridge facing us, wildebeest profiles emerge as
perfectly etched silhouettes around the trunk and spreading branches
of acacia against the orange sky the quintessential African picture
postcard.
Caught in the floodlight of our night game drive are shy, dark-loving,
night-grazing hippos they run back into the darkness as fast as they
can. We come upon vast fields of sleeping wildebeests and antelopes,
but busy nocturnal animals like spring hares that look and move like
miniature kangaroos, and white-tailed mongoose. We do not see a lion
hunting and killing I am not sure I want to.
Early next morning right outside our tent is an exquisite miniature
M, 1423
127
128
antelope, with enormous eyes and no bigger than a cocker spaniel. A

Dik Dik, I am told later. We head out of the conservancy towards a
Maasai village. In the distance something looks like a huge flower
repeatedly opening and closing its white petals flecked with pink and
black. We get closer and Koshal shows us a pair of Maasai ostriches,
mating. All that we can see are a pair of necks and heads, around
which four wings of three meter wing spans are flapping gracefully and
rhythmically in slow motion. No camera can possibly capture the
splendour of that dance of life - but I still try.
* * *
"I hope your cows are well" is how a Maasai greets friends.
Enormous herds of cattle are being shepherded through the Mara
reserve by young Maasai boys. Life in the enkang is centred around
the cattle in more ways than one. Married men live with their families in
the enkang, a group of 20 odd huts built in a circle around which is built
a thick thorny fence to keep out lions, leopards, hyenas and jackals. At
the centre of the enkang there is often another ring fenced area for
calves and kids, whereas fully grown cattle and goats occupy the centre
of the circle of huts.
Cows are linked to grass and grass is linked to the land. Both are
sacred to the Maasai. They will not offend the land by piercing it. They
will therefore not cultivate it, nor dig a well, not even bury the dead
preferring to leave dead bodies to wild animals. They still wander from
place to place as pastoralists, although some have gone to school and
are now finding employment outside villages.
The only limit to polygamy is the cattle wealth of a man. New
wives are always available for 5-10 heads of cattle, depending on her
looks and youth. The enkang chiefs first wifes hut is on the right of
the fence entrance and she closes the entrance every evening. The
second wifes hut is to the left of the entrance and hers is the task of
opening it every morning. The third and fourth wives huts follow those
on the right and left of the first and second wives huts, getting
progressively smaller. The womens tasks are to construct the huts,
milk the animals, collect water and fuel wood, cook and care for the
children and do bead work. Mens tasks are to build fences, herd and
graze cattle and slaughter animals. The huts look quite like caves.
M, 1423
On the way back to the camp we come across giraffe park in the
Jurassic Park style. High on a ridge, lined up against the sky is a row of
very long legs and necks moving in unison. They tower over the acacia
thickets they are feeding on. The Maasai giraffes are taller and darker
than their reticulated cousins we saw in Ol Pejeta. They seem quite
unafraid of vehicles and stop to peer at us long and hard. Todays sunset
silhouettes are entwined giraffe necks and families of (Hakuna
Matata !) warthogs. Meanwhile, slithering on a tree trunk, bathed in
the setting suns rays, is a pair of black necked spitting cobras, leisurely
mating.
We are nearing the end of our stay in the wild wonderland. The last
bonfire of our trip is lit and last sundowner toasts raised to the Lion
Camp and its neighbours in Maasai Mara.
We reach the Ol Kiombo air strip for our return flight we find that
the wildebeest and zebras have invaded the runway. A safari vehicle
chases them to clear space for the plane to land. Our plane is late. No
one seems to know when it might arrive. Koshal asks the pilot of a
plane on its way to Mombasa and he agrees to take us to Nairobi, on his
way. We bid fond good-byes to Linguis and Koshal, wishing their families
and daughters Nashipai (happiness bringer) and Nadania (the proud
one) well. Both young men have promised not to marry a second time.
We wing our long way back home to the urban jungle. Maasai land
has carved an indelible niche in my heart, and comes with me. Every
now and then, as the sun goes down, I still cant help returning to the
Mara.....
The shadows of the acacia trees are lengthening across the golden
savannah. Lions are waking up. The leopard has left its hideout in the
thicket and the hyenas are creeping out of their holes. A breath of wind
comes singing through the grass. It crosses the endless open plains,
turning chilly upon my skin as the sun sinks low. Vultures and eagles
drop out of the sky to settle on the tops of Ol Kinyei trees. Wildebeest
go grunting and grazing into the sunset where the grass meets the
vermillion sky.......
May nothing ever change you, Maasai land.
For pictures see inside covers
M, 1423
129
130
The Last Word
Summer, 1998. I move to the Bronx, a northern borough of

New York. I rent a townhouse with a back yard that has actual
grass in it and a magnolia tree. I have a large family - four kids,
and a dog.
I take the subway train into Manhattan every morning. At the
bottom of the escalator is a newspaper store. The shop is large
and attractive. It is filled with magazines, comics, newspapers. I
drop by the store every day on my way to work. It is often full of
people from South Asia. The conversation is a mix of Hindi, Bengali,
Mandarin. To me this is New York, the great melting pot, where
everyone comes from everywhere else to live, and make his home.
I smile good morning while I pick up my paper. The people at the
counter minding the store smile back at me. I feel the warmth. A
gentleness. A ray of sun.
One morning I notice a Bengali newspaper. The man behind
the counter notices my curiosity. Its Bengali. My language. I am
from Bangladesh.
I am a Bengali too!
Really! You dont look Bengali!
I have heard that before. I tell him that I am an Indian, from
Delhi. A bond happens. It is a strange thing, this bond, created by
M, 1423
The Last Word
a common language. It weaves a net between people 9000 miles

away from home. It creates togetherness, perhaps linked by identity.
I feel the bond immediately, with this strange man, at a newspaper
stall, in a borough called the Bronx, in New York City, because
we both speak Bengali and because we both are thousands of
miles from our own countries. In further conversations I discover
a little more about him. His name is Ali. Sometimes on weekends
when I go into the city, I find myself lingering at his store, talking,
listening to his views about politics, about American culture. We
talk, the bond deepening. He confesses that he does not like Indians.
They are cold and arrogant, he says.
That surprises me. I am curious to explore his thinking. I am
aware of the struggle and the difficulties he faces every day as I
watch him deal with customers and vendors. His communication
with them is labored and halting. He does not speak English well.
To most Americans he comes off as impolite, uncultured, and even
arrogant. I admire his courage though, and I understand the sheer
adventure of what he has done. He has flown 9000 miles to a
country about which he knows little. As I chat with him, I find out
that his father owns a shop in a small town, south of Dhaka. He
has never been to college. No one in his family has. They are poor,
even though they never went hungry. How poor? He looks at me:
a life with no options is poor, he says firmly. Only a full stomach
isnt enough. All he wanted to do was to leave Bangladesh and its
poverty. But where should he go? He had no clear destination,
other than a mute longing to get out. He heard stories about America
from other Bangladeshi friends, who had managed to come to this
country. Stories of success. Of achievement. He had a cousin who
had come to New York and got a job and did well. Ali took a
plunge. He applied for visa and there was a quota for Bangladeshis.
He got his visa fairly quickly. Borrowing money from a distant
relative, he landed at JFK with 500 dollars in his pocket. He knew
nothing about America, not its history, or its geography, and did
M, 1423
131
132
The Last Word
not really care. All he understood, in an incoherent way, was that

in America if people work hard, they survive. And sometimes they
even thrive. And he did. Now, fifteen years later he owned a corner
store at the base of a subway station in New York City and even
had three employees.
Ali has been in America for over fifteen years now but he still
does not understand anything about it. He has no feel for America.
On the contrary, he has a deep distrust and confusion. He feels
both inferior and superior to Americans. He likes it that they are
rich and powerful. But dislikes the social structure of American
life, or what he understands about it. He hates the blacks. They
are filthy and violent. He advises me to be careful of them. When I
ask him what he thinks has made America great, he gives no answer.
He does not understand such questions. I ask him about his family;
about the two young children he is raising. A rare smile breaks out:
he is proud of them. They are doing well in school, he tells me. The
boy is crazy about baseball. The girl plays the piano and is taking
lessons. They are eleven and thirteen. I ask if they have American
friends. Yes, of course. He has big dreams for them. Whatever
they want to study, he will pay for it. He already owns two houses.
Like all South Asians, he knows how to make money; how to
invest money, how to scrimp and save. Now he has a goal and a
dream. So, does he talk to his children about what they want? No,
of course not. Where is the time and what is the need?
They want what I want, he tells me. He is sure of this. There
is no need to talk.
So, America is good? You like America? I keep at it.
I dont know.
In the months I have been chatting with Ali, I realize that he is
much impressed with me. Especially because of my command over
the English language. He tells me how lucky I am to be comfortable
in both languages. There is a tinge of envy in his voice. He wants
me to help him with getting Bengali in the curriculum in the Bronx
M, 1423
The Last Word
School District. There has been agitation about having schools

teach Bengali as a subsidiary language. A group has created a
committee and they have met with the local school superintendent.
The superintendent, in turn, has asked for a written proposal. And
that is where the problem lay. No one in the committee has ever
written a proposal, never mind in English. Can I help? Is there
anything put together? I ask. There is nothing. For months now the
whole idea has stalled. He invites me to a meeting with his
committee. At the meeting there are about thirty Bangladeshis, all
eager to have this happen. All of them have children in the school
system. They are worried that their kids are becoming American
and they are unable to control it. The children are only learning
English. Not one child knows any Bengali. I do understand their
concern, dont I? Yes, I understand their concern. I understand
that they have come to America, not to assimilate and grow within
the culture. They have no idea what American culture is and they
dont care. They have come here to make money and become
rich, something they would not have achieved in their own country.
But, fifteen years on they realize that they are losing something
they had not bargained for. They are losing their children to
America. I sit there and hear the rise and fall of conversation. My
mind travels. I think of my own privileged, Indian background.
About being an immigrant. How immigrants tend to lead double
lives. They have double visions. They are stranded between an old
home and a new one, an old self and a new self. What about a
sense of home? Do they have a home here? Or are they, in a sense,
homeless? Ones home is legitimized by love. Otherwise its only a
fact of geography or biology. I think of some of my immigrant
friends: Germans, Irish and Vietnamese. They felt that their countries
had betrayed them. Nazi Germany persecuted them. Ireland starved
them. Vietnam drove them to the sea. Some of these people found
a meaning to their lives when they came to America. But what do
Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis or other South Asians lose or
M, 1423
133
134
The Last Word
find once they move to America? Do they move here because

their countries have abandoned them? Or did they abandon their
countries? Is it the effect of poverty, then?
My reality was different. The Indians I had met since I had
come to the US were not business people. They had come for
higher education and their prime motivation was to get professional
degrees. They were in varied fields, science, medicine, engineering,
architecture, literature, music, art. Money, if it came, and it did,
was of secondary concern. The Bangladeshis I was meeting, here
in this Bronx home were very different. But, were they? Suddenly
a longago memory flashed. Of a young girl, perhaps 19, visiting
us in our Manhattan home. I had only been in the United States a
few months. Her father was a professor of economics at New
York University, a long time resident of the United States. Her
mother taught anthropology at Columbia. The girl was only 2 when
the family migrated to the US. My father was a visiting scholar at
Columbia University, here to write a book with a well known
American academic. Both families were at par; both highly educated
and motivated towards progress and professional, academic
achievement. But here the similarity ended. As the evening
progressed, I tried to make friends with the girl, who seemed to
be about my age. I knew that she had just graduated from high
school, summa cum laud, and was going to Harvard for her
undergraduate. As I was setting the table for dinner, getting plates
and glasses, knives and forks; she was standing by and watching
me. How much does your mother pay you for your help? she
asked, suddenly.
Why should she pay me?
Because this is America. Here work and time translates into
money. And you are working. She was blunt, unemotional. Curious,
I asked whether she thought living in the United States was a
privilege. She shrugged and said no, she did not like living in
America. She told me that her parents never allowed her to belong
M, 1423
The Last Word
here. They worked very hard to keep her Indian identity alive, and
in the process, fragmented the only world she knew.
What about India?
In India I am a foreigner. I dont like to go to India. But here,
in the US, I have been made to feel like a foreigner too. My parents
came here to build their careers. Only their careers. Never to
understand the country they chose to come to. They didnt care
about all that. They cared about anthropology. About economics.
Those were easier. There was no emotional investment necessary.
To understand and care about America was more difficult. It
required courage. A stepping out. They took the cowards way
out, hiding behind their old identities. They exiled themselves and
they exiled me.
What did they actually do so that you felt this way? I probed.
I was never allowed to have too many friends, certainly never
a boyfriend. I had to deflect any attention I got from boys in school.
Everyone at school thought I was weird.
Did you try to talk to your parents?
Of course. But they were not interested in how I felt.
I dont remember her name anymore. Its been thirty years.
But the memory of the conversation remain. Sitting in the Bronx,
in another setting, I wonder about us South Asians. Are we that
different? The educated and the not-so-educated? Ali is afraid of
his children turning American. The economics professor was also
afraid of letting his daughter loose. Of losing her to America.
Suddenly I am grateful my experience was different. My father
and even my mother, who was more traditional, understood that
you dont lose anyone to a country. You gain a country. And you
are enriched by it. America confused them too. But they had the
courage, in the end, to let America in.
* * *
I decided to help Ali and his friends with their project. I wrote
out a proposal and met with the superintendent. He promised to
M, 1423
135
136
The Last Word
read it and submit it to his committee and call us for a second

meeting. Without thinking much about it I became their
spokesperson. Did I want to be that?
Saturday morning. The agenda is a day at the Natural History
Museum. After a leisurely breakfast we take a bus over to the
subway. As soon as we reach the bottom of the escalator at the
station, my twins dart into Alis newspaper store while I linger
outside. They like the store because it sells comics. I let them go
because I know Ali and I can see him at the counter, busy with
something. A few moments later I hear a ruckus; some trouble. I
can see fairly well into the store and note that Ali is clearly upset. I
can hear raised voices. Get out! Get out! I hurry over. What I
see turns me cold. My two young sons are cowering and Ali is
screaming at them. As I enter the boys come running to me. They
are shaking. Ali keeps up his screaming.
They were stealing! They were going to take the comic book
and run!
Did you see them pick up the comic book? I ask.
They would have, if I hadnt stopped them! I kept watching
them. You dont know them, Didi! They are all thieves, these kids!
They were reading them, Ali, not stealing them. They are not
thieves. I say, as calmly as I can.
You dont know them, Didi ! They are lucky I am not calling
the police!
Ali, these two little boys are my sons.
He looks horrified.
Butbuthow? No! They cant be! They are black!
Yes, they are. Partly, anyway. Their father was black. I do
not wait to see his expression. I gather the boys and leave the
store.
Sree Sengupta
Antigua
M, 1423
ISSN 0976-0989
Issue No. 31, Year 8, No. 3
Sakuntala - Wood Engraving (1946)

Born in Santipur, Nadia, Lalit Mohan Sen (1898-1954) studied in Government School of Arts and Crafts
at Lucknow (of which he became Principal later), passing out in its first batch in 1917. Selected for the
Royal College of Arts, London, he received his degree in 1926. Later he went on to decorate Rashtrapati
Bhavan, New Delhi (1929) and India House, London (1931) with his paintings and murals. His works can
be found in the Victoria & Albert Museum - London, India House - London, Rashtrapati Bhawan - New
Delhi, and in the British Royal Collections - London. His works are vibrant in all branches, like pastel,
crayon, oil, pen & ink, etching, wood-cut, lino-cut, wood engraving, sculpture in wood & stone, textile
design and even photography. Not many people have seen Sen's works. An exhibition of his works was
organised by Ramakrishna Mission Institute of Culture, Golpark, Kolkata, on 20.03.2010. Another
exhibition of a family collection was organised by the Victoria Memorial Hall, Kolkata on 17.2.2014.
Prabartak Sen

Hindol 31st Issue October 2016

Enviado por

Dados do documento

Direitos autorais

Formatos disponíveis

Compartilhar este documento

Compartilhar ou incorporar documento

Opções de compartilhamento

Você considera este documento útil?

Este conteúdo é inapropriado?

Direitos autorais:

Formatos disponíveis

Hindol 31st Issue October 2016

Enviado por

Direitos autorais:

Formatos disponíveis

w

Special Issue : Travel

The elephant has no hair...Armies of Hindustan have several elephants in every

E-46, Greater Kailash-I,

Amiya Prosad Sen

Special Issue Travel

The Last Word

Rooted in the proto-Hominids need to migrate in pursuit

Opinions expressed in Hindol, as always, are those of the authors.

Rabindranath Tagore, put them on the Indian and European literary

The Caucasian and Australoid ideas are based on archeology,

Suppose the Y-chromosome (patrilineal) DNA profile of these

Yes, I would like to take / gift a subscription. Enclosed please find

Please send to:

HINDOL IS NOW ACCEPTING SUBSCRIPTIONS!

It was sometime in mid-2014 that I was led to believe that I might,

of the Hindu character who he took to be lacking in integrity. If he later

on modern India languages and literatures is called Modern Indology.

neighbourhood. Like a true Indian who never lets go something available

English though it is commonplace that the Anglo-Saxons staple diet

A Megh Malhaar To The Rains

Some time at the end of May, on an unbearably hot morning, a

A Megh Malhaar To The Rains

A Megh Malhaar To The Rains

Kalidasa composed his lyrical poems on love he named it Meghdutam

Centuries later another master of lyrical poetry Rabindranath Tagore

A Megh Malhaar To The Rains

monsoon pavilion that is an open pillared structure of marble with a

A Megh Malhaar To The Rains

A long Weekend from

Though my daughter and I did this trip leisurely, it can certainly be

A long Weekend from Delhi: Badrinath

At Joshimath we did a homestay with Ajay Bhatt (94120-82247).

Is there a right way to start reminiscing? At the age of nine and

Those Were The Days

Those Were The Days

Those Were The Days

Those Were The Days

Those Were The Days

Where the Grass Meets

Where the Grass Meets the Sky

At the end of the conference and post-conference workshops in

Where the Grass Meets the Sky

May I offer a choice of wine?

Where the Grass Meets the Sky

Where the Grass Meets the Sky

Onwards to the more forested parts of the reserve which is preferred

Where the Grass Meets the Sky

Coromandel fishers; Sarojini Naidu

Where the Grass Meets the Sky

Where the Grass Meets the Sky

them their knowledge about indigenous plants, animals, culture and

Where the Grass Meets the Sky

Where the Grass Meets the Sky

Where the Grass Meets the Sky

Where the Grass Meets the Sky

antelope, with enormous eyes and no bigger than a cocker spaniel. A

Where the Grass Meets the Sky

The Last Word

Summer, 1998. I move to the Bronx, a northern borough of

The Last Word

a common language. It weaves a net between people 9000 miles

The Last Word

not really care. All he understood, in an incoherent way, was that