A back-Pencher Naturalist

On safari in Masai Mara a few years ago, I was treated to a daily wake-up rendition of "Ingonyama nengw' enamabala" by the best part of my life. Thankfully, she did not consider "Chaddi pehan ke phool khila hai" to be as iconic; or maybe it was just that the thought of 45°C while on safari did not make her very songful. Or maybe she considers Rudyard Kipling such an imperialist ass that she has forgotten "The Jungle Book". But she did remember that the forests of Seoni, where Sir William Henry Sleeman discovered a boy brought up by wolves, were the setting for the story of Mowgli. It is difficult to not recall Mowgli; the chaddi pehan ke likeness pops up liberally around the Turia Gate of the Pench Tiger Reserve. That name is kind of shorthand, for the reserve bundles in it the Indira Priyadarshini National Park and the Pench Mowgli Sanctuary. The latter is out of bounds for tourists, but the Mowgli from the animated series can be found in the souvenir shops, the signboards exhorting visitors to be mindful of nature and a few life-size figures that kids try to get photos taken with. They may not know Kipling, but they've taken this Mowgli to be one of their own. 

Curious about the etymology of Turia, we checked with one of our guides; according to him, it was the spot from where officials of the British Raj would proceed 'on tour'; the vernacular description of this activity stuck on to become the name of the locality. Turia Gate is the favoured entrance to the Pench Tiger Reserve, accommodating 74 of the 99 vehicles allowed into the core area of the reserve. Despite that, the scene around the gate is quite relaxed. Space to park quite a few vehicles, just a couple of shops selling stuff from fizzy drinks to I-been-to-Pench t-shirts. And some Mowgli stickers. Of course.

One thing to keep in mind is that, in Madhya Pradesh, the forests take a half-day break on Wednesdays. No visitors on Wednesday afternoons. That is the only time you have? Go on to one of the gates on the Maharashtra side of the forest. The nearest such to the Turia gate is the Khursapar gate, 12 km away. But if you do end up at Turia gate on a Wednesday afternoon, do yourself a favour, and drive the extra 40 km to Sillari gate, which is said to be the best on the Maharastra side. Our experience going through Khursapar will become one of those suppressed, traumatic memories. It was likely an off day for all of us, the visitors, the guide, the driver, and maybe the animals there as well. The one thing I remember - faintly - from that safari is that we had a female guide. She was one of the 20-odd ladies who have been authorised to work as guides at Pench, something I haven't seen at any of the other National Parks I've been to. So that was a first; I hope it does not remain unique over the next few years.

Getting in through the Turia gate, you will be assigned one of three routes; one towards the Baginalla waterhole, another which takes you to open central lands and the third towards rocky terrain going up to Kalapahad, the highest point within the Reserve. 

It all sounds well to say it like this, but I have no clue how many times we went along each of those routes. After a couple of safaris, some of the points became familiar - like the communal waterhole from where one has to turn right to arrive at the nest of the Malabar Pied Hornbill. At the waterhole itself, we knew where to look for the mongoose, to peer up at the Hanuman Langur kiddos showing off their swinging prowess or to watch out for the flocks of Red Jungle Fowl, the males having an unusual circular white patch behind their beaks. (Unusual when first observed; learnt much later that such a patch - a lappet - is usual enough for this subspecies, the Gallus gallus murghi). 

Other locations became routine. The MP Forest Department has an elephant camp at Alikatta, inside the core area. There was a village here once, which was relocated when the area became part of the tiger reserve. The five elephants working for the Department are as domesticated as can be; their staple breakfast is stuffed roti, about 8-10 for each elephant. Not to worry, these are slightly bigger than the ones landing up on your breakfast table and the elephants do get other munchies as well. 

Alikkata seems to be the place to get stuffed. It is where the safari vehicles congregate for breakfast. Sometime during the first safari of our trip, messages came from veteran Pench-folk: "Don't miss the alu bonda at Alikatta!", they exhorted. We didn't. 

Were you here looking for descriptions of the wildlife itself? Oh, for that, you're better off reading this from DamVilRam, seeing pictures from Suresh here, or from Arul, here. If you insist on seeing photos that I took, go here - has a couple of tiger videos, too! 

God is no Role Model

Could never think of him as a role model batsman. Yes, a young boy could copy that out-flexing of the knees, the adjusting of the box, the positioning of the bat and maybe the stance. But it stopped there. One could never, ever, dream of replicating the strokes he played. Dravid, you could aspire to be, even if the ability were to remain ever so far behind. Laxman, you could pretend you were, for a stroke or four, even if you were easily seen for the pretender you were. But this man, it was just not possible. Anyone who ever attempted to do it stepped away very quickly, stricken, never to venture there again. And so, there were few who could criticise. Or even critique. 

Young children are never told they have to grow up to be a Siva, a Vishnu or even an Indra. Stories are told of them, sure, but to inspire: emulation is never a requirement. We know that is not possible and we don’t want to place such pressure on anyone. 

Gods are never Role Models. We should just be thankful they will always be around. 

A non-political meeting

It was not a political meeting, as Cho Ramaswamy reminded us twice during his 'special address' that lasted less than five minutes. The crowd at the Centenary Auditorium of the University of Madras did not believe him, of course. Arun Shourie followed, speaking about his latest book, and using quotes from that to berate the government for its inaction; the audience was sure that Cho was right, that his was not a political meeting. It was unlike the Arun Shourie that I expected; there he was, firing up the crowd, taking pot-shots at the PM, berating the Parliamentary Standing Committee on Defence for being dysfunctional and snidely describing its Chairman as "that great geo-strategic thinker - Shri Raj Babbar". He warned us that whatever words Modi used would be dissected for emphasis, setting the crowd up to expect something strong from the man as he came up to speak.

Parts of the crowd chanted the usual slogans, but they scattered and fell to the ground rather quickly. Modi got into his speech - it was in English, and he was reading it out. That was rather disappointing, for he wasn't getting a lot of it right. It was only when he went away from the prepared text and expounded in Hindi that he was most relaxed and at his best. Of course he needled the government. Of course he mocked them. It was nothing new, nothing different from what he has been saying for the past year or so. But because he was saying it at the Nani Palkhivala Memorial Lecture on "India and the World" - not a political meeting - it seemed to be a tad jarring. 

We got past that quickly, for every time he made a comment about the present dispensation, he moved into some other idea. There were a few ideas there, ideas that probably sketched out his foreign policy vision, at least for the neighbourhood. The standard line of being tough against intrusion extended into weaving strands of neighbourliness, playing upon common south Asian identities: Buddhism was the thread of choice for the evening. Rhetoric about repelling intrusions across our borders flowed into a somber assessment of cyber-warfare preparedness; and then, very surprisingly, into an charged plea for repelling terrorism through "firewalls of our hearts". It was, as he put it, "Shakti with Shanti"

He spoke about decentralising foreign policy, or at least its visible manifestations. That part was picked up by the print media, but his point was also to use such opportunities to build awareness about various parts of the country, thereby building a gateway to the tourism industry; "Terrorism divides, tourism unities", he repeated. Arun Shourie had indicated that Narendrabhai would be talking about soft power, but not that he would be doing it so softly.

It was not just soft power, but also "healing power". The putative PM-in-waiting talked about easing the world's aches and pains, not merely with medical tourism but also through a greater emphasis on ayurveda and other traditional systems, as well as yoga. He spoke about moving away from emphasis on fossil fuels, to creating a grouping of nations blessed with the sun's healing power, something like an OSPEC, to coin an acronym. His closing exhortation was for everyone to take their job seriously and to do it well.

Simple statements, but they were quite well presented. The contrast with other aspirants was probably the difference between simple and simplistic. Was this lecture significant? I can't help feeling that the media has ignored what seems to be a strategic pivot of the Modi campaign. On the strength of what he said today, there is certainly hope. But that hope needs to be sustained through a more full-bodied version of the policy. In any case, it is certainly better than playing headless chicken!

Heaven on earth

The tea gardens reaching up to Nallamudi, in Valparai, are owned by the Bombay Burmah Trading Company, but where the hill falls off into the Pooncholai, the Forest Department of the state government takes over. The tea gardens are scenic enough, but the shola forests of the pooncholai make them quite run-of-the-mill in comparison.

To get to the pooncholai, we have to buy tickets from the forest guard. It is then that we learn of a unique gent who is allowed unhindered access into the forests. "He has seen God, you know", says our driver and he is backed up by the forest guard. Yeah, right. 

The climb up through the tea garden is a slow gradient. The sight of a black shouldered kite on a silver oak keeps us company through a curve. The flower of the tea plant - now, whoever thought they would be allowed to blossom? - with a bug lying on its back inside the petals kept conversation going for a while.

Then, silence. A dragonfly, with a deft mid-air swerve, swooped on a small Blue Tiger butterfly with a softly audible 'thwack'. It is surely not polite to watch someone eat, but we try to take pictures. The dragonfly is not amused and it goes deeper into the tea gardens.

We are near the edge. A ledge, with a concrete structure, comes into view. An old man close to the building sees us coming and calls out, urging us to come on over. We watch. He goes to the edge, raises his arms to the sky and yells across the valley. Not a language that any of us can decipher.

We follow his arms as they come down, to look across the valley. In the far distance, seven or eight threads of silver seem to be descending directly from the clouds that wrap the peaks. The threads are lost in the multi-coloured greens of the sholas, and, much lower down, emerge as broad streams making waterfalls as they course further down the valley.

A path dips away to the right, and at its end, a small clearing houses two large, flat, sloping stones, which, together with a third, smaller one, form a rough triangle. An open flame on the small stone is almost invisible in the bright sunlight. The larger stones are decked out with flowers in bright colours, some of them way off any palette that you can imagine. 

Along the path, many of those flowers bob at us. Amidst them, more bright colours flash around; flying jewels, those Crimson-backed Sunbirds. One would think such brilliantly coloured feathers would stand out, but they merge with the vivid flowers until we are confused if it is the flower or the bird that is flying.

Heaven on earth.

And then we see the signboard on the side of the path. In Tamizh and English, it says this is the 'SEEN GOD SHRINE'. The old man is waiting, he has seen us looking at the sign. "38 years and 104 days ago", he says. "I saw God. Here". He speaks in Tamizh and English and says his life changed that day. No more trousers, no job, just tending to the stones for a couple of hours a day before going to his son's house for his daily 'kanji'.

Velu has seen all the animals of the forest. He is believable, for he does not tell of the tiger we missed last week. The last one he saw was five years ago. We ask him about the God. "There was a square patch of brilliant light, and it grew to a column that seemed to reach up to the sky. He was beautiful. I saw him with these mortal eyes.", he says, emphasising the mortal-ness. 

We probe further. What did he speak to God about? "Why would I need to tell you about that? I saw Him, I spoke to Him and I am the better for it". So, is he a devotee? "பித்தன்னு சொல்லலாங்கொ (a manic would be more apt)". He is happy. Maybe he did have some kind of epiphany here.

There are few better places to have a vision of God, anyway.

Three generations, and 13 days

A little over 25 years ago, I borrowed a bike, and with my friend in tow, went off to see my grandfather. We did not have a phone at home and neither did my grandfather have one in his. It was far simpler to get on a bike and ride out from Nungambakkam, to convey a momentous bit of news to the old man at his house in Nanganallur.

Nanganallur in the early 1970s was rustic. The Beach-Tambaram suburban trains did not stop there. Pallavan’s 18C rumbled by maybe four times a day, connecting Nanganallur’s main roads to Madras’ Mount Road. During the working days, menfolk were hard to spot, for there was nothing in Nanganallur for them to work on. The retired gents would be resting inside, cooling themselves with palmyra-leaf fans, while the women would be getting ‘things ready’. We kids had the streets to ourselves. Not just the streets, the compounds of the houses too. We would jump over walls, wriggle under fences, and even cut through barbed wire, if that gave us a tougher path from point A to point B. We weren’t awed by retired Secretaries to Government, or District Educational Officers, or Public Sector General Managers. But I was careful that we did not trouble that retired Deputy Superintendent of Police. Not just because he was a policeman. Not just because he was granddad’s friend. But also because he had the only fridge within a 20km radius (I imagined) in those days and he always smiled when he gave us ice cubes. Granddad and he – with a bunch of other retirees – played bridge for hours every evening and no matter how much they swore at each other during the session, I could still get my ice-cubes from the DSP when I wanted them.

The late 1980s had changed Nanganallur. I reached my grandfather’s house quite soon and had finished telling him about having got my admission to XLRI (his response is recorded here), when the DSP walks in. The oldies got to boasting.

“The boy says he is going to Bihar”, says granddad.

“Really? My grandson is also going there”, says DSP.

Granddad: “He’s going to do his MBA”.

DSP: “So is my grandson”.

Granddad: “He is going Jamshedpur, to XLRI!”

DSP: “Is that right? So is my grandson!”

With a vague feeling of apprehension that they were building up steam to swear at each other again, I ventured to ask the DSP his grandson’s name.

“Bharath Chandran”.

At which my friend piped up. “Bharath Chandran?!! Was he in PSBB?”, which left me wondering what I was doing in this oh-we-all-know-him kind of gathering.

That was my first introduction to Brat. Brilliant alumnus of PSBB, wonderful quizzer, had so many friends that he was never at home… The first three times I went to his house to meet this wonder-man in person, I came back disappointed. And then he walked in to my house one morning. Bespectacled, stooping, fuzzy throated. And when he left 15 minutes later, he left me wondering how I was going to even hoping to compete against such awesome brains.

XLRI changed many of us and sent us out in different directions. But Brat went back to his family, to help his father run his business and, at the same time, also help his grandfather, the DSP, run his. That wasn’t easy, I guess, but it gave me a chance to meet the DSP several times, for Brat and I met every evening, mostly after his work, but often when he was winding down.  And he and I would sometimes remark about the curious, generation-skipping friendship. Not entirely generation-skipping, actually, for our uncles were together for a little bit, singing Elvis Presley songs and acting groovy.

The years went by and we saw less of each other. Since November 2010, I hadn’t seen him at all. But there was no way I could not think of him every day. He was struggling with multiple sclerosis, being taken care of by his mother and his brother, away in Bengaluru. Some of us tried to help, but there was only so much we could do. I didn’t have the guts to go see him.

So, I will have no memory of him in hospital beds. I can’t visualize him in the ICU. I can only see him walk into my house in the morning light: I can only see him telling me that he is going to go back to Dubai once the MS is under control: I can only see him laughing out loud at the physiotherapist who is haranguing him to take his exercises more seriously. I will not see him any other way, for there is nothing more of him to see. The phone call on the morning of June 4 told me that.

Many of his friends from school, college and XLRI will be at his shubam, the 13^th day ceremony, later today. Almost all of them would have known him for much longer than I have. They will all miss him. I will miss him too, but maybe differently. I have anyway missed seeing him in the past couple of years. I had already been missing the ‘usual’ Brat for the past 5 or 6 years. During those years, when we did meet, he was happier talking about XL, or the few years immediately after, than about anything else. Granddads entered the conversation, too. He remembered my granddad almost as much as I remembered his, even though he grew up in Madras city, away from Nanganallur. And now I know those conversations can never happen again, and that a friendship spanning three generations has come to a pause. I will miss a bit of myself.

Chennai? What's that?

This post comes about courtesy the good folks at the Chennai Bloggers Club. The Tag-blog has been going on for over a month-and-then-some. Sulaiman Sait, the lover of poetry in all its forms, has passed the tag to me - the penultimate link in this log. 

Why aren't we doing this in French? Portuguese? Double-Dutch? I'd like to think it is because of my city. 

It is a pity they named it Chennai, because that was like introducing a socially awkward uncle at a hep soiree by his pet name, the one used only by close friends and family. He knows all those beautiful people at the party will stumble over his name and feel sorry / hurt / irritated at that. He knows they'll soon recognise him for the good man that he is, but until then, he will have to suffer their awkwardness. He knows they will value his ideas, his perspectives, his point of view - and the vast knowledge he places at their disposal, but he also knows they would not like to be seen in conversation with him; with Him!? Of all people!! Yet, they will be back again, seeking his approval, his energy, to help them fulfill their plans. But to be seen around with, they'd prefer the glam, even if there was little substance beneath the wrapping. Why, Chennai is going to be around always, we can lean on Chennai as a backup, Chennai won't mind.

And Chennai doesn't, it truly doesn't.

But, the uncle wonders, what if I could have used my other name, the one I used to be known by to everyone else around the world. The word that is linked to cloth, paleontology, music, spice, spirituality, heat, learning, mathematics, movies, ophthalmology, beaches, automobiles, art, trigonometry… and pretty much everything else. ‘Madras’ had it all, the right connections, and, very wonderfully, didn’t hoard any of it. Madras just gave of itself to the world. The world of course, took a lot of it, and expected Madras to remain the same.

Madras didn’t mind. Not even when the pet name became official and the world had to scramble around to find who this was.

Chennai was Madras is Chennai will remain Madras.

Call it what you will, but you can’t take away the fact that this is the city:

• That’s completely self-made. No queen or king poured largesse on it. It was built from nothing but the fancy of an Englishman and the enterprise of those who helped him. 
• That the French lusted for. When the diplomats at Paris traded Madras back to the British in return for Cape Breton, the French military fumed. Under Comte de Lally, they desperately tried, for close to a decade, to take the city back. Had they prevailed, vous seriez lisez ceci en français (without Google Translate, of course) 
• That should be on par with the Vatican and Amalfi for being the only sites known to have tombs of an apostle of Christ
• Without which, there would possibly have been no Yale University
• With a wonderfully rounded economy, without being disproportionately famous for just any one sector
• That hosts the largest cultural event in the world, spanning over a month, without any visible central organizing force
• That cradles within itself the smallest National Park anywhere in the world
• Where the Pakistan cricket team was given a standing ovation as they did a lap of the stadium after winning a close match
• That is more than competent in several disciplines, but never with an in-your-face attitude – and that quite often leaves it a perennial runner-up
• Which is the only one I call home! More about it, every day, here

If you've managed to get this far, do take it ahead tomorrow with the next link.  Bhavana, an irreverant, still-not-comfortable blogger married to Chennai via an arranged match, who writes on socially relevant issues, will be talking about her marriage (to the city, of course!) on her blog. That's going to be the last link of this Blog-Tag, so you might also like to get more perspectives of what Chennai is all about by going back along the chain!

Ranthambore, Day 4 (last)

All packing done during the night, we were off to an earlier start – by about 10 minutes – than usual. It was much cooler than the previous days, but somehow, all the animals seemed to be having a lie-in. Running up to the top of a hillock on the Aravalli range, we took in another look at the dhok clouds across the valleys before going back to what had become a restful spot – the ranger station at Padam Tal, where we could watch the Golden Oriole, the Common Iora and the Parakeets on a Ficus, as also various waterbirds. The muggers had come out in strength to bid us a goodbye; the other high point of the safari was our coming across tracks of a porcupine, its footprint looking like one of the flowers children draw, with a large central circle fringed with six or seven circular petals.

The large group had broken up; 7 of us were the first away, rushing to Jaipur – a two-and-a-half hour drive – to take the SpiceJet flight to Chennai, touching down at Ahmedabad and Hyderabad on the way. A few stayed on at Sawai Madhopur and some others were spending time at Jaipur. Our goodbyes were rushed, but that doesn’t matter: we’re sure to see each other again, on the GoogleGroup if not at the MNS meeting – or maybe on the next MNS trip!