...it's only words

Hard as it is to believe now, Tarun was my hero. Not just from his early Tehelka days when he took on the establishment fearlessly and showed us what journalism was all about but from 19 years back when he was the features editor of Financial Express and I was a nobody rookie reporter into my second newspaper job. My most vivid memory of Tarun (second only to him sprawled in the editor’s chair, his legs on the sacred editor’s table in his glass doored cabin, his laugh booming through office – which made me gasp in disbelief when I saw it for the first time); is of him coming to work in a blood stained shirt. He had just returned from taking a road accident victim to the hospital in the gypsy he used to drive. In my eyes, cold blooded, power hungry editors didn’t do those kind of things. But he did. But then, he was different. Fearless, idealistic, bold and brilliant. That was the Tarun we knew. There are other memories too. Of Tarun, standing behind your shoulder, telling you how a sentence could be rewritten to make greater impact; of him cold bloodedly taking the printed edition apart and analysing what had worked and what hadn't. Of him; taking us (his team of young boys and girls) home for dinner – macaroni and chicken cooked by his charming wife Geetan. Of him in his bookshelf lined sitting room, drink in hand, cracking jokes, pulling legs, prophesying where each of us would be 10 years from then. Of him standing at his door, an arm around Geetan, waving us off with a cheerful: “Don’t come back, you drunken buggers!”

For me, and most of us young reporters who joined him when he started the features section at FE, Tarun was the perfect boss. Not only could he write beautifully (he could; his India Today essays were legendary); he could pick the best stories, edit wonderfully, take a stand with the fearsome Prabhu Chawla, then editor, fight for salary raises (not just his but yours too), take on the management. And then stride in with your contract and fling it casually on the table with: “It’s done. Go work now”. He was the kind of journalist every young aspiring kid in journalism school dreams of becoming and hardly anybody ever does.

In his casual denim shirts rolled up at the arm, he walked tall. He strode through the corridors of Indian Express with an easy familiarity, he laughed without inhibition, his smile touched his eyes, his concern for people was genuine, he wore his intelligence lightly. From that first day when I knocked on his cabin door, biodata in hand, a nervous “Mr. Tejpal?” on my tongue; and he waved me in from where he was lazily leaning back in his swivel chair, arms clasped behind his head, with a: “Come on in. And call me Tarun;” he was the kind of person I wanted to be. He would sit in his cabin with his long legs on the table, discussing story ideas and special supplements; addressing guys with the crassest of expletives and they would be delighted with the familiarity. If you walked late for a meeting, stuttering over an apology, he would just grin wider and say: relax, pull a chair and tell us what you got. He would regale us with stories about the time he ran away from NDA (or was it IMA), he would share with us scandalous celebrity gossip; yes even about editors who had prepositioned young girls, about how Shobha De’s charm was far greater than her writing. He would send us for assignments with the warning: Don’t come back with wide eyed stories. Use your brains.

Once when I called a turbaned Sikh colleague I didn’t get along with Jodie Foster and the complaint reached Tarun; he called me to cabin. Rather severely he asked me what I had been calling the man since he was really upset. “Jodie Foster” I replied. “Why?’ he asked. “Because he has a judie,” I replied, wishing the earth would split and swallow me. A cut surd himself, Tarun burst into laughter and told me to get lost. “You guys make me feel like a school principal.”

Now when I hear of salt mining scandals in Goa and murky political deals and unbelievable fallen behavior in lifts; it shakes the belief of nearly 20 years. Tarun was an awesome guy or so I always believed. What he has done (and he apparently has since he has written that sick apology of a letter) is heart breaking for all of us who equated journalism of courage and conviction with him.

An ear splitting shriek pierces the mid afternoon stillness. The Aviator shades balanced on fufaji's long nose shudder delicately. Scowling darkly he opens his mouth and then shuts it again, relieved by the “let me handle this” look in fufuji’s eye. The SUV is deeply entrenched in the road chaos at Najibabad. Between the cacophony of guava sellers, peanut and gajak vendors, and mid traffic cows in yogic stances rubbing noses with cyclists; a huge man in a parrot green sweater is trying to shape shift his stomach and his motorcycle between the car and a truck parked bum to nose. Alongside, a rickshaw puller is trying to scratch an itch in some very personal places while two burkha clad women are disturbing his concentration by calling out to him from across the road. To cut a long story short, there is complete madness all around. A shriek is something that fufaji most certainly doesn’t need. He grits his teeth and grips the steering wheel harder.

Fufuji turns back bravely with a no nonsense “kya hua?” to catch Shaurya, all of 11, making a seemingly irresistible public offer. “Meri khushboo ka muft maza lo.” He is waving his armpit in his sister’s face. Little Suvira has pinched her nose with her fingers and is protesting on top of her shrill voice. Cousin Saransh, 12, gallantly jumps to her rescue. He uses his weight to pin the lanky Shaurya down while shoving his own armpit in his nose: “Le, tu mazaa le”.

By now, fufaji has also turned back with a dangerous growl. In a second the boys snake arms around each other. Shaurya, whose evil fragrance has wafted all the way to the front seat, is a clear winner. Though obviously not a crowd favourite. Fufuji is muttering darkly that the winning candidate will take a bath the moment they reach Kotdwar. There is a screech of protest from Shaurya who grumbles that his scent is “beshkimti” and wasting it would amount to his “beizzati" and “science ka nuksaan”. Scientists have offered to buy his “khushboo” which is like what the lions use to mark their territory, he declares proudly. Saransh looks on in grudging admiration. “Fufuji, fufuji, fufuji! Shaurya bhaiya do din se nahaye nahin hain,” little Suvira pipes in getting a quick hair tug from her brother. She pinches him back. Shaurya brushes it off with a: “Main mard hun aur mard ko kabhi dard nahi hota.”
“Boys! One more word and both of you will walk to Kotdwar.” Fufaji growls in his best military voice and for a while pin drop silence reigns, interrupted only by Suvi’s satisfied sniffling.

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“Mamma, I need a hair.” Before fufuji can figure out the request, Saransh has pulled some strands off her head.  Suvi is squealing again because Shaurya is tugging at her pony tail. The boys are holding the hair stretched across their fingers like razor blades and using them to snip at the other hair. “Teri mamma ka baal phir haar gaya,”  Shaurya roars in victory. Suvira is holding her head down obligingly so that Shaurya can pull out another hair. “I eat an egg every day. It has protein which is good for hair,” she says, proudly. The car Olympics come to an abrupt end when fufuji vindictively decides that both the boys will have to study for an hour everyday in Kotdwar. Saransh frowns unhappily while Shaurya stares glumly out of the window. For all of 10 minutes.

“OK let’s see whose hair is saltier,” Shaurya says. “Fufuji we’ll just use the pieces lying here,” he quickly adds, catching the warning look in his aunt’s eye. Shaurya has rolled up a trouser leg and is stroking his hairy leg proudly. “Mamma how come he has hair on his legs and I don’t” Saransh asks miserably. “Kyunki main mard hun, aur mard ko kabhi dard nahin hota. Samjhe!” Shaurya says. To prove it he asks Saransh to pull out a hair from his leg. Both the boys taste it and declare that it is quite salty. By this time fufaji has slowed the car down and told the boys that he is going to throw them out. Silence reigns. Another half hour of drive across the monkey filled forest of Najibabad, the boys count the number of stray dogs that have been reduced to carpet meat on the highway and make each other offers to eat it. They are ignored by the rest of the crowd. In another half hour the caravan reaches Kotdwar.

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The car cruises into Nanaji’s driveway and Scooby the part Doberman, part anybody’s-guess leaps at the windows in delight. He licks the kids and does a few quick celebratory laps of the garden, destroying some freshly planted saplings in the process. He then troops behind the children into the sitting room and rolls on his back, waiting for snacks to be brought in. Nanaji and Nani are delighted with the little guests who do a quick round of feet touching and then want to know if Nani has kept any chips for them. She has. “Nani have you made kulfi?” Saransh wants to know. She has. The sound of loud crunching and slurping dominates. A loudly protesting Shaurya is sent off to bathe while everyone else sits down for lunch. Post lunch when fufuji saunters across to the kitchen garden to revive her memories of the rubber tree under which she got married many years back, she is horrified to see that the boys have put up the garden ladder against the neighbours’ wall and are plucking out large unripe chakotras (sort of oranges) from a tree laden with the fruit. They are using the handball sized fruit as balls to play cricket, whipping them around with their bat. “Fufuji I’m also in their team now. Hai naa Saransh bhaiya,” says Suvi proudly as Saransh ignores her completely. A chakotra comes and smashes at her feet, spraying her face and curls with its juice. “If you cry we'll throw you out of our team,” Saransh warns her coldly. Shaurya comes closer to watch for tears. Suvi blinks them away bravely and gets back in position as wicket keeper.

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The next morning the boys decide that besides the Rs 500 each that Nanaji has given them they need to earn some extra money to buy bombs. Fufaji makes them a business offer of Rs 10 per fly they swat. “If you do it with a fly swatter, you’ll get Rs 5, but if you do it with your hand then the price goes up to Rs 10,” he says, raising the stakes. “I will need a body line up to make sure you are not recirculating the same flies. And I need to see blood on your hand to prove you hand swatted them. Now come back to me in one hour and NOT before that otherwise you get disqualified. Now disapperar!” he says. The boys get down to work while the family uses this time to grab an afternoon siesta. Fufaji changes the lens of his camera and goes around doing some macro photography that is his current obsession.

And this is how the three day holiday goes by. The children make a trip in a shared auto to the market at Jhanda Chowk to buy crackers (Saransh gets to sit with the driver); they eat hot alu ki tikkis from a roadside cart vendor who is frying them crisp in sizzling oil; they buy fresh veggies for Nani from the sabzi mandi and get green Made in China light strings to hang around the house. They even help fufuji in making a marathon rangoli with suji dyed in different shades after tying up a protesting Scooby in Nanaji’s bedroom. They drink lots of Pepsi, eat lots of Maggi and watch lots of movies on Nani’s TV.  They giggle a lot, fight a lot and eat a lot of butter chicken with butter naan that Nanaji orders for them from Relish restaurant down the road. They feed the bones to Scooby, climb the mango tree and potter around in the muddy garden patches. The three days zip by in a flash and soon it’s time to go back home with long faces and promises to return soon. Nanaji, Nani and Scooby see them off at the gate cheerfully looking forward to some peace and quiet till the caravan returns in the next school break.

The darkness that we had all been waiting for, fell suddenly. With it came an uneasy calm. The pink and orange hues of the setting sun were no longer reflecting off the fast flowing waters of the Ganga, or Maa Ganga as they call her up in the hills. With its daytime sparkle gone; the river appeared dark and brooding as it lashed restlessly against the steps of the deserted ghat. The flower seller, sitting within a half circle of leaf cups filled with flowers and a diya (Rs 10 each); who had drawn me earlier with her gentle eyes and luminescent i’ve-found-god smile; had gone too. In the half hour wait for the arati, much had changed. The most ominous were the rain clouds that had silently crept across the sky, making it many shades darker than it usually is at 6.30 pm on a summer evening.

Saransh and I were in a group of devout waiting for the Ganga Aarti on Triveni ghat, Rishikesh. We were sitting on stone steps leading up from the river, waiting for the sun to set so that the diyas could be lit.  Around us were about 60 others – mostly families with folded hands - men with angochas hanging on their shoulders, women with sari pallus covering their heads, children with shiny eyes; and some white skinned foreigners in Om print kurtas, tilaks and chappals. Just as the priests started chanting mantras and lighting the large ceremonial brass lamps; the sky broke with a loud roar. A fierce downpour splattered over the shed; and outside, snuffing out not just the diyas but also the lights, it seemed. The river bank was plunged in pitch darkness.

Outside the shed, rain lashed the angry river. Inside, there was a rush of people pushing to get a roof over their heads. Saransh and I held hands tightly and just kept moving wherever the crowd shoved us. After a while there was stillness and a cold fear started putting its icy fingers on us. “Will the rain stop?” Saransh whispered fearfully. “Of course,” I whispered back, trying to sound confident. Many more minutes passed but the storm did not abate. I felt something wet licking my toes and realized that muddy water was now lapping our feet. In panic I turned to an old priest standing beside me. He smiled gently and said: "Dariye mat, yeh Ganga ka paani nahin hai, sadak se aa raha hai. Kuch nahi hoga”.  

Someone asked for kapur and the priest handed it over in the dark. There was the sound of a match being struck and a small flame leapt up. The lamps were being lit again.  The yellow glow started casting shadows around and someone started singing “Jai Gange mata”. Slowly, everyone had joined in. Saransh was standing with his palms together, eyes tightly shut, even as the rain sprayed us with errant drops and water engulfed our feet.  I tried to close my eyes too but after more than a decade of non believing it was impossible for me to convince myself that a god would save us. Around me there were faces that appeared calm and collected; unified by their divine faith. In my mind there was just a crass acceptance of human insignificance before the might of nature.

Atheism had come to me over a few years; science and Richard Dawkins having played a major role in the indoctrination. But I kept it to myself, preferring that Saransh form his own beliefs as he grew older. I remembered how some years back he had startled me by saying: I don’t think there is a god living in the sky, there are only planets there. I looked at him as he tried to mumble words from the arati he did not know. Some of his terrible fear was gone, if only for those moments. At that time he was a believer and it gave him strength when he needed it the most. I regretted I wasn't one because believers have advantages in life that non believers don’t.

Epilogue: You don't need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out that the river did not breach its bank and we survived. When the rain stemmed a bit, we rushed into the darkness and clambered up the steps of the ghat where our autorickshaw driver was waiting for us faithfully, soaked to the skin but smilingly holding out a plastic bottle of Ganga water.  "Ghar mein rakhne se sab accha hota hai," he said, handing it over to me.

Dariye mat, yeh Ganga ka paani nahin hai, sadak se aa raha hai. Kuch nahi hoga: Don't be scared, the river has not breached its bank; Ghar mein rakhne se sab accha hota hai: all shall be well if you keep it in the house


The river Ganga is considered sacred by Hindus and worshipped as a goddess. It is believed that a dip in its waters can wash away your sins and grant you access to heaven. 
It is ranked as one of the five most polluted rivers in the world. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ganges

The blue waters of Brienz Lake are shimmering in the sun. Expressionless eyelashless cows are munching on some picture perfect green grass. Tulips are blooming prettily outside Swiss chalets. It could be a scene right out of a Yash Chopra film but there is no Shahrukh Khan traipsing across the yellow wildflower covered hillside, eyes misty with unspoken love. My very own Shahrukh Khan is staring stonily ahead, his long fingers resting on the steering wheel of the Mercedes Vito he is driving. Inside the car, dark clouds are looming. Manoj mumbles something gruffly; Puneet (my favourite brother in law) doesn’t bother to answer and the temperatures dip lower. Requests to put on music are ignored. I turn to my cell in defiance. “Jeet hi lenge baazi ham tum…pyaar ka bandhan tute naa…” the soulful lyrics of the old ditty fill our ears. From the back seat, Saransh whimpers his disapproval while Isha, who has been reading a book, noisily opens a packet of wafers. Cousin Tanu and I (stressed since yesterday since the two guys (who used to be best friends back home) are refusing to talk to each other in vilayat over some silly half-witted male thing) look at each other and grin.
Since we shan’t be washing dirty linen on a public blog, let me just say that it takes 12 hours,  Asha Bhonsle’s “Jo bhi hai bas yahi ek pal hai”; and a bottle of Old Monk rum (lugged all the way from Air Force Station, Palam) to thaw the ice and thankfully the driving holiday across Austria and Switzerland returns to Bollywood terrain leaving us free to appreciate the snow capped Alps; the lush meadows; the super fit cyclists; the quaint villages with begonias and geranium blooming on window sills. It also allows Tanu and me to dream once again of the retired life we are plotting to have in neighbourhood huts on some sleepy hillside in Garhwal, a few decades from now.
Sitting on a log bench in Axalp with the snow dappled Alps in front of me the next day I notice a man flying overhead and wave to him. He reminds me of an old friend. The wi fi brings a message from a classmate who is testing audio chat and I listen in delight. The jangling cowbells have me itching to make a video for my mom since I feel she might never come to Switzerland and I want her to have no regrets since it is just a sanitized version of Auli back home in Pauri Garhwal. With better roads. 
And then I arm twist myself into switching the wi fi off, reluctantly severing the ties pulling me back across the seven seas. The withdrawal symptoms eventually pass and it is only when I stop checking my cell every few minutes like a trained seal that I am able to open my arms and embrace my first Europe experience. And here it is for your reading pleasure:

Day 2 Salsa on the streets of Wien
After a lousy breakfast of salamis, bread, orange juice and coffee; we walk down to the tube station that is just five minutes’ away. Puneet is turning into a brooding monster ever since people accused him of scrounging and booking us into a rotten hotel; completely ignoring the fact that no one else was interested in doing the dirty work. We marvel at the organized traffic, the delightful roadside cafes, dogs on leash stepping obediently into the tube, incredibly tall girls on high heeled boots and poodles and old ladies with strange haircuts. Buying a day pass for 7 Euros each (kids free), we take a ride to Stephansplatz and climb the steps to where the towering Stephansdom overpowers us by its sheer presence. Bingo!  It starts to rain. Cold and wet, we decide to take a Tram 1 ride around Innere Stadt (Old town) recommended by Lonely Planet and gush over  the marvellous old world architecture with fountains and statuesque figures (mostly killing other people) looking down at us from the walls. The rain spoils things that day but on our way back from Switzerland 10 days later, we stop by for a day to find the sun shining. Puneet wants to chill in the hotel (a nice one this time) since he wants to check out some pubs in the evening so we dump the kids with him. Manoj insists on chaperoning Tanu and me (much against our wishes) on what was to be a “girls only” shopping spree. 
We take a walk down the street from Stephansdome and soak in the full splendor of Europe’s street side musicians, sensuous salsa dancers, leggy beauties with small skirts. Manoj gets into photographer mood and starts changing lenses. We happily lose the photographer and saunter around the shops with our leftover Euros jiggling in our pockets. Mozart is playing on a giant screen and people are sprawled on the road, sipping beer in silence. We wander inside the beautiful Stephansdome, check out a Gustav Klimt exhibition and roam the streets picking up gifts for friends back home: silk scarves and pendants with Klimt’s The Kiss on them and glass lamps painted with city landscapes. We sip spritzers and coffee while listening to the musicians on the street and drop coins into hats and open guitar cases. A Johnny Dep lookalike doing the Salsa with his beautiful partner catches our eye. Destiny reunites us with Manoj who is still clicking away passionately. Reclaiming him, we pick up pizza slices and doner sandwiches and head back to the hotel, bypassing an Erotic Show poster with incredibly buxom babes doing incredible things with ropes and poles that make Manoj grin like a school boy. Outside the hotel we run into Puneet looking fresh as a daisy. It’s his turn to explore the city and having seen the Erotic Show poster, Tanu decides to ditch us and tag along with him. 

Drive to Axalp
We hire a nine seater from Hertz at the airport the next day for the staggering figure of Rs 90,000 a week. It was much cheaper when we had checked from India but we didn’t book then and now it’s too late for regrets. The guys flash their newly acquired International driving licenses (Rs 500 and a day’s work), say a little prayer (it’s a right hand drive) and hop in. It takes a while to fix the Tom Tom and they give the Hertz guy some tense moments when they can’t start the car. Next, they almost ram the car into the parking gate. Mr. Hertz jumps to our rescue yet again, beads of sweat lining his forehead. Finally with a bump and a growl, the car quivers to life and we are out on the highway. Hertz guy is last seen reaching for a cigarette with trembling fingers.
 Soon red poppies start nodding at us from the roadside, the road ambles along lush green countryside dotted with patches of forest, interesting houses, churches and abbeys. The frown lines on Puneet’s brow have eased and he is comfortably overtaking trucks on the highway. The car cruises at a leisurely 100 km plus an hour and by evening we are at our destination – Tulfes -  a small village near Innsbruck. Puneet gets down to check the hotel we are booked at. Tanu and I use his absence to crib about how he tries to save money all the time and how he must have booked us into some cheap and rotten place here as well. He returns with a half smile (the widest he smiles without a beer can in his hand) and invites us in. We have to eat our words. It is a beautiful old country house with red cushions, exquisite linen, lights that get switched on and off on our footsteps and a quaint restaurant with lace curtains. At Rs 5,000 a room, with breakfast thrown in, it is a steal. A balcony overlooks the gorgeous snow clad mountains. Across the road is Burnout Bar on Jack Daniels Road (no, seriously!).
The kids take up the bedroom attached to ours and the Pareeks are left to romance in the one further away. Puneet has been resurrected from the dungeons and is a hero once again. We rush to get him his well deserved cans of beer right on the balcony where he is busy clicking pictures.

Switzerland
Tulfes is the most beautiful village I have ever seen. There are flowers everywhere, fat cats clean their whiskers on wood benches; apricot trees (yes trees) clamber up house walls; goats graze in fenced enclosures, horses neigh under trees, a beautiful church with paintings on stone walls stands sleepily at the corner and there is just one store where you get everything from plants to potato wafers.  We stock up our car with large bottles of orange juice, bread, milk and spreads since the chalet in Axalp, the Swiss ski town (where we have got good off season rates) has a kitchen we will be using for the next five days. With friendly smiles and dankes (thank you in German) to our hostess and the white aproned fat East European cook who has fed us chilli pork ribs and fries the evening before, we are off. We cross the border at Liechtenstein, drive past Lucerne and Brienz, and with just a few wrong turns and just a few angry wags of the finger from fellow drivers finally climb up a steep slope covered with wild flowers and grazing cows to reach Axalp. There our host and soon-to-be dost the six feet plus Peter with the salt and pepper beard, an interesting I’m-sharing-a-secret-with-you voice, a wide smile and a bright red “One Life, get one” T shirt welcomes us warmly. This time the Pareeks are saddled with the kids, who are having a noisy pillow fight on the bunk bed right above theirs. Shaking our heads in wicked delight Manoj and I lug our suitcases to a small but peaceful room on the other side.
We are on a hill slope overlooking the mountains. Peter junior, a chubby cheeked schoolboy,  is doing a barbeque. Soon he and his dad pull out deck chairs, put on snazzy dark glasses and enjoy an Alps view dinner of sausages and chips at a bright and sunny 8 pm.
The next morning I wake up early and find my way to the log bench outside. Around me wild flowers bloom, right ahead the Alps form a wide semi circle, a gentle breeze rustles through my hair and carries the sound of the bells of cows that are grazing somewhere out of my visual range. It is a meditative moment and I soak it in before dragging Manoj out for a walk.

Running into the SOTC juggernaut
The next few days we start the car every morning and drive down to places around – Bern with its bear pit; Interlaken with hang gliders in the air; and Brienz, famous for its wood sculpting school, where I am almost mauled by a Rotterweiler that I try to pet; mistakenly assuming that it has been giving me loving come hither looks. Luckily he is chained and I just get to smell his bad breath and see the sunshine reflecting on his canines. We take a train ride to Lauterbrunnen and Jungfrau and marvel at the sheer beauty of the landscape and the waterfalls and the engineering feat that has made tunnels possible right up to Europe’s highest point. There we run into an SOTC group that has left a trail of destruction behind it. Someone has puked right in the middle of the restaurant and a Gujarati gentleman is helpfully directing traffic around it. The loos are dirty and overflowing with toilet paper. A surging mass of people pours into the lift, not allowing anyone to get off till weaker mortals whimper to be let out. The mechanically turning door is filled with chattering tourists who are trying to push it to make it turn faster. Since I am claustrophobic, I almost die imagining that the door will get stuck and scream at them to let me get out. Tanu is frowning darkly and the guys, who are putting up a brave face, are shaken too since they agree readily when we tell them it’s time to go back. We have paid around Rs 30,000 per family for the visit but no one wants to hang around, except Saransh who says he wants to ski and/or go to the US. He is ignored and dragged onto the waiting train and we return to the world of easy breathing.
On our way back to Wien, we check out Salzburg and a pretty Austrian village called Gosau. Our knowledge of German now extends to “guten morgan” (good morning); “guten abend” (good evening) “danke” (thank you), “where is WC?” and thumbs up signs. The people are friendly, the toilets sparkling clean, the order and respect for traffic rules unbelievable. Sitting in a romantic roadside café in Vienna on the last day of the trip, Manoj and I marvel at the trams and the traffic moving on the street in perfect harmony along with the ladies with dogs and old men with umbrellas. We marvel at just how organized Europe is, how disciplined the citizens are, how valued human life is. We have seen bus drivers peacefully reading books while waiting at stops; dogs drinking from a special canine water fountain at Interlaken, restaurants having dog dishes, families cycling with a picnic meal in a park, no one checking tickets on the tube in Vienna. “You think India will get there in 50 years?” I ask him. He shakes his head silently. In hundred? He shakes his head again. We silently sip on our beer/wine and check the menu for food. Nothing interests me. Europe may be like a dream but I’m still feeling homesick for dal, chawal, sabzi and achaar. It’s time to pack our bags and return where we belong.

Preface –
A boring biography!
The trouble with biographies is that they are BORING! It's almost as if publishers tell authors: "Hey! Go and write 20 chapters about this great person." And just as the poor author is nodding obediently and getting up to leave; they add: "And make it boring". 
But doing that to Sachin's biography is a bit difficult. 'Cause the stuff his life is made of is anything but boring. Bet you didn't know that he often scared his brother by talking loudly and playing cricket in his sleep. He was such a school bully that the first thing he wanted to know when he was introduced to a new kid was: Will I be able to beat him up? And none less than his best friend has told me that he would often be found standing on his bench in class, punished by the teacher for throwing ink on his classmates. And I bet you didn’t know either that once - while on tour to Ahmedabad with the under 15 team - Sachin applied Sloan’s balm (a painful burning ointment) around his teammate Atul Ranade’s eyes while he was sleeping. When poor Atul woke up in the middle of the night, rubbing his burning eyes and started screaming that he could not see; Sachin (pretending to be asleep) rushed him to the bathroom and said, "Apply this cream it will make you feel better.” The cream was actually toothpaste and since poor Atul couldn't see that either he rubbed it all over his eyes. Agreed that was not a nice thing to do. Atul could have lost his eyesight. But this is just to give you an idea about the kind of stuff you'll find in this book so that you don't yawn or do related things like fall asleep. Because that’s what school text books are for. 

The story of Sachin Tendulkar goes back a bit of a long way (30 odd years) but really not all that much if you compare it to the life of the dinosaurs (that goes back 230 million years).  To begin where it all sort of started (for Sachin silly; not the dinosaurs) you’ll have to hold my hand and let me take you to a cricket ground in Mumbai called Shivaji Park. If you’d rather not hold hands, that’s fine  too. Makes it easier for me to type. Just hang in there and read on because the awesomeness of this single ground can be judged by the fact that two of the world's best batsmen - Sunil Gavaskar and Sachin Tendulkar - both learnt their cricket here.

Chapter 1 - The kid with 13 silver coins
The time was 6.30 pm.  A pale orange sun had just yawned too (no it wasn’t reading any biographies; just settling down for the night); and its last rays were sweeping across Mumbai’s Shivaji Park where little boys practiced cricket everyday. They were falling on a skinny little kid with tennis legend McEnroe inspired curly hair. He was a McEnroe fan and he was just about 12 years old. The rays were bouncing off the shiny run out patch on the old cricket bat he was holding and making the sweat on his forehead sparkle like tiny diamonds. They were dancing off the wild curls that he liked to shake around; adding a determined glint to his eyes and warming up the sweaty fingers gripped tightly around his cricket bat.  He was short, stocky and stood a few inches below the other boys in his class. Yes, that was Sachin. Next time you make fun of a short kid, it might help to remember that!  
Twelve-year-old Sachin was really tired since he had been batting since morning but he had an incentive to stay on the pitch. Winking at him from the middle stump was a shining silver one rupee coin. His coach Ramakant Achrekar had placed it there. Sachin knew that if he wanted to take the coin home (which he did, very badly) he would have to remain not out till the end of the practice session. Otherwise, the coin  would go to the bowler who took his wicket.

He had woken up early that day. From 7 am to 10 am, he had practised at the nets. From 10 am to 4 pm, he had played a match. And for the last two hours he had again been practising under the watchful eye of his coach – the tall and serious looking Ramakant Achrekar sir. Just when he had become exhausted and thought he could not go on anymore; Achrekar sir had placed the one rupee coin on the middle stump. Sachin knew he couldn’t quit now. That was the last ball of the last over. Sachin's eyes were fixed on the boy at the bowler’s end. He was frowning in concentration and his heart was beating just a little faster than usual.
Rubbing the ball against his trouser leg one last time, the bowler swung his arm back to fling it at the little batsman with all his strength. The ball came flying through the air and Sachin stepped forward and swung his bat to meet it off the ground. It connected hard with the willow and went spinning through the air even as his little fingers strained to hold the bat under its impact. He lifted his head and watched it zip through the air in a wide arc and chewed his lower lip anxiously as a boy ran after it. The ball whizzed past the fielder's open fingers and rolled over the grass crossing the boundary for a four.

Even as a shout of dismay rang out through the boys, Sachin smiled shyly and  turned around to reach for the coin he had won. He slipped it into his pocket with Achrekar sir looking on from the stands. It was at times like this that coach Achrekar felt that Sachin was no ordinary boy. But, one doubts, if at that particular moment, even he could have guessed that the cute kid with the curly hair would grow up to become one of  the world’s greatest batsmen.

And here’s a little secret that most people don’t know. Even after he became the greatest batsman in the world, and had millions of people cheering and clapping and chanting his name every time he came to bat, Sachin would still consider the 13 coins he won from his coach during those childhood cricket sessions as his most prized possession. 

Pictures from the book The making of a cricketer by Ajit Tendulkar. Chapter based on interview with Sachin's childhood friend Amol Muzumdar

At Achrekar sir’s nets
Just in case you want to know how  Acherkar sir,  Sachin’s amazing coach,  trained him; here’s the experience recounted by Amol Muzumdar, a school time friend who also trained at the same nets.  Amol is an awesome cricketer too. He is the highest run scorer in a Ranji match with more than 11,070 runs. Amol also has 21 coins as batting medallions from the cricket he played at Shivaji Park. Over to Amol:

On the western border of Punjab where India ends and Pakistan begins (or the other way, depending upon which side you're looking from), there lies a stretch of no man’s land, marked off by rusty barbed wire fencing. It hides the scar where a country was once cut into two. Overlooked by the bunkers of young rifle-yielding soldiers in Army fatigues, here you find a small temple and a masjid facing each other like reluctant adversaries from opposite sides of the road. Beyond spread out emerald green wheat fields that look uncannily similar on both sides. So do the people who gather here to watch the retreat ceremony held every evening by India’s Border Security Force and Pakistani Rangers. If it weren’t for the occasional black burkha or a man in pathani salwar you wouldn’t really be able to tell one side from the other. Women in bright flowery salwar kameez, middle aged men with salt and pepper beards, little girls with ribbon flowers knotted in their pigtails and boys with sparkling eyes are all over the place. Stripped of accents, religious ideologies and colours of skin, aren’t people the same everywhere? It’s sad then that they won’t smile at each other.

At Hussainiwalla, 11 km from Ferozepur (where I live), a flag lowering ceremony takes place every evening. The friendly crowd banter stops the moment the soldiers march in and an uneasy stillness creeps in broken only by self conscious throat clearing or a nervous giggle that escapes someone or the other. As the soldiers take aggressive stances, lift their legs high in the air, stomp their boots hard into the ground, twist their moustaches up and glare at each other; someone in the crowd invariably starts a chant of “Pakistan zindabaad” or “Bharat mata ki jai” and these are flung around like insults in a rising crescendo of mutual scorn.

The two national flags are brought down to the buglers’ call and the crowd's jeering that travels all the way to the shelled ruins of India’s last railway station  where visitors, who have escaped the evil spell of the ugly scar, smile and get their pictures taken. Further away there is an abruptly aborted railway line with a painted sign that says: “Northern Railway ends here.” Once the track went all the way to Lahore, about 60 km away. Now, it doesn’t go anywhere. If you are the sensitive, writer type, you stand there and imagine how trains must have once rushed past, clattering on the metal tracks, groaning with their happy loads of families and friends and cattle, smoke coiling into the air. All you hear now is the rustle of the wind in the ripe yellow mustard fields, the banter of children playing on the deserted track and the splash of buffaloes taking a dip in a stagnant pool of water.

If you’ve never heard of Ferozepur, I wouldn’t hold it against you. It is one of those places that fell off the map in 1947 and lies forgotten since, buried under a pile of history and the memories of old sardars in granny glasses who squat on roadsides at dusk sipping hot cups of milky tea. The oldest British district of Punjab, established in 1833 (long before the NRI hubs of Ludhiana and Amritsar became districts) Ferozepur was the place from where the British established control over much of north-west India as well as what is now Pakistan. Now it is the headquarters of a division of the Indian Army which is why it sometimes surfaces in Army people’s conversation, particularly when someone who has not been keeping MS Branch happy has just received posting orders and is scratching his head to “where the @#$% could it be?”.

Beleaguered officers and armchair travellers who like to check out places no one else goes to, might want to know that Ferozepur is a typical old Punjab town on the banks of the Sutlej. It was founded by Sultan Firoze Shah Tughlaq, a Muslim ruler who reigned over Delhi from 1351 to 1388. To get here you will have to drive down from Ludhiana. Yes, the same that is known for woolen hosiery and a large Yo Yo Honey Singh fan base. From here a wide tarred road takes you westwards, initially dotted with roadside eateries and colleges and then vast farms where ethereally beautiful wheat fields in dazzling shades of green surround solitary farm houses. The per hectare wheat yields here are comparable to the best in the world and they have matched wheat yields of even Ontario in Canada which makes us do a bit of balle balle here. And now, I hope, we shall not have anybody sneering at sleepy, small town nobody’s-ever-heard-of Ferozepur.

If you drive our way late afternoon, a beautiful glowing orange sun is going to be right in your eye all through. Because, you’re travelling west my friend. So have those Ray Bans handy. If you are poetically inclined the vision of the setting sun turning the sky a myriad shades with bright pink bougainvillea blooming by the roadside might make you want to erupt into deep poetry so have ear plugs  for fellow passengers handy too.  Ferozepur has the magical quality that proves a Stephen Hawking's hypothesis right – time does slow down here. Long time back the town was surrounded by a wall, which had 10 gates providing protection to people living inside, now five remain (in various states of ruin) but we don’t mind because nobody needs protection anyway. Old timers brag that once upon a time Moti Bazar and Hira Mandi were big markets selling pearls and diamonds with singing girls as an added attraction. Now, you’re more likely to step on a stray dog. And if your life feels incomplete without singing girls, the only option you have is to switch on the car stereo.

At Hussainiwalla, the Sutlej flows quiet and deep, watched over by discerning migratory birds drying their wings on the bridge. This is where they say the British dumped the ashes of revolutionaries Bhagat Singh, Sukhdev and Rajguru after executing them in a Lahore prison a day before their scheduled hanging, fearing public out lash. In Toori Bazaar there is a building where it is said they manufactured bombs, while on the ground floor, Gaya Pershad, an associate, practiced medicine. A memorial to the three martyrs stands in the middle of a small garden where people remove their shoes and bow their heads as a mark of respect. Girls with covered heads giggle as young boys with shiny gold rimmed aviator glasses and a few shirt buttons open get pictures taken. Bored soldiers look on from a nearby Army post, unimpressed. A fallen bridge stretches across the water and water hyacinth now blooms where once a bloody war was fought. Stray fishermen dip their oars in the water and a golden Labrador retriever, trained by the Army’s dog squad to detect bombs, wags its tail and sniffs inside the boots of visiting cars.

There are other things I could tell you but I'm a bit reluctant to. For instance, I could tell you more about the Barki memorial set up in the memory of 7 Infantry Division soldiers who laid down their lives in 1965; about the Saragarhi  Gurdwara, built in the memory of 21 Sikh soldiers who died defending the Fort of Saragarhi in a suicidal battle when they were surrounded by 10,000 Pathans.  Or even the  brutality of the 71 war; about Major SPS Waraich who they say was taken prisoner; about Major Ashok Suri who once wrote a letter to his father saying he was in a Pakistani prison but could never be traced; about 52 soldiers who have been reported missing and will never come back. I could tell you painful stories about destroyed  railways stations and blown up bridges and families emotionally damaged for life but  bad memories are best forgotten.

The quiet of Ferozepur belies its violent history. While memorials to dead heroes fall by the wayside, outside these smile young guava sellers with carts piled up with juicy fruit. Kakke da dhabas dish out Punjab’s legendary butter chicken and at the locally famous Lotan ki machli, tipplers stand around having a drink, balancing Old Monk bottles on car bonnets, since a firm notice says: Yahan baith ke daru peena mana hai.

Spring is returning to Ferozepur even as I write. In my small garden the first red poppy blooms. Out in the villages, mustard fields stretch across for miles, nodding  their heads happily in the breeze. Sometimes I wonder if on the other side too there is a person watching the pigeons fly overhead, if he too feels the breeze on his face, if the faint strains of the azaan from a distant mosque escaping the restrictions borders place on lesser beings, fall on his ears too. And if he too hopes that the ugly scar we're both trying to hide shall finally heal one day and we wont be scared to touch it anymore. Or if  people who look like us  will be able to smile at each other from across the border at Hussainiwala. Goodbye Ferozepur, thanks for sharing your winter and your spring, I understand your pain and hope that one day things will get better for you.

 It’s that time of the year once again when we catch up with television celebs who brought into our bedrooms the most unbearable rubbish. Guys and gals, you nearly killed us when we went banging our heads against our television screens. For that you get this well deserved kick on the rear and some new year resolution suggestions that might make us like you (more).

Arnab Goswami – Also goes by the name Or-knob (for his striking resemblance to a door knob). The guy who couldn’t be Superman was thrown out of auditions for rudely demanding why his character shouldn’t be called Clark Can instead of Clark Kent.
New year resolution: I will not scream at people demanding “ANSWERS”.

The poster boy of Times Now uses his TV show and eloquent frog eyes to scare politicians by venting out frustration that has built up inside him for not being able to fulfill his childhood dream of wearing his underwear on top of his slacks and flying across the planet battling evil. The man “who still hasn’t found what he’s looking for” now wears a frown, a dark suit, nau nambar ke chashme and has transformed himself into the enraged crusader for India’s snoozing middle class.

Arnab’s modus operandi is to invite villains to his show, lock them up in small rectangular boxes, distract them by violently waving sheets of paper in their faces (claiming shrewdly that they are CAG/CBI/other-terrible-sounding reports), while fixing them with a hateful hypnotic stare. While they cringe in terror, he suddenly shouts  “I WANT ANSWERS” in their ears in glass shattering decibels and converts them into quivering masses of jelly. It has been reliably learnt that the channel has ENT specialist on call facility. Panelists often have to be taken out on stretchers with eardrum damage. Some have had to be hospitalized with damaged vocal chords after they tried to outshout Arnab (quite unsuccessfully, of course).

Karan Thapar - The anchor who believes he was born to be obnoxiously rude to the world
New year resolution: I shall make peace with the devil within, loosen my tie and retire.

There have been hushed whispers in secret circles that Karan Thapar is not the Devil’s Advocate but the devil incarnate. Some claim that he is, in fact, a 500 year old vampire who has attained eternal old age by feeding on human blood. And that he sleeps in an old creaky wooden casket in the day time and walks into the CNN IBN newsroom only around 8.30 pm, salivating for flesh and gore. Since physical violence is not permitted on national television, Karan orally drags his interviewees across sharp craggy edged blades of broken glass till they scream for mercy. We want a break from Count Karan who has been showing us the dark, spinechilling journalist-eats-all-others side of the world ever since he managed to slink into a TV studio on a moonless night. Karan, please go back to that old castle in Transylvania where you came from and take a nap in your casket for the next 500 years with your pet wolves.

Salman Khan: The star who has made sleepwalking on shows and mumbling meaningless rubbish (that only he has the IQ to understand) a style statement.
New year resolution: I shall not come to the Big Boss show with ants in my pants.

Salman Khan has been showing up for the Big Boss show in pants so tight that fans suspect they belong to sis-in-law Malaika and have landed in his wardrobe in a family dhobi goof up. The result is that in his stifling discomfort he twitches and twists and wriggles all over the stage making funny sounds with his eyes popping out. The saddest repercussion of this wardrobe malfunction has been that it is sprouting clones on other television shows where small time wannabe actors have started aping the big star blindly not understanding the real reason for his Chulbul Pande type dance moves.

Ram Kapoor - TV's fattest (also Tom Cruise for middle aged couch potatoes of the fairer sex who have still not stopped deep breathing over that nauseating errr..bad-room scene)

New year resolution: I shall not pile on the kilos just because I want to audition for the roles of footballs, elephants and rhinos.
Method actor Ram Kapoor, big (pun intended) star of the Ekta Kapoor serial Bade Acche Lagte Hain, has been growing larger than life in more ways than one. Kapoor confesses that he could never lose the weight he put on many years back to audition for the football’s role in Bend it like Beckham. Last heard Ram Kapoor had to be bumped off the serial Bade Acche Lagte Hain since only half of him  could  fit into the small screen.

Archana Puran Singh - Once sexy debutante of Jalwa who has shape shifted into a flabby female Govinda clone.
New year resolution: I will not fake laughter at jokes that don’t even merit a smile.

She is, most definitely, being paid per laugh which is why Archana Puran Singh guffaws like a woman gassed with nitrous oxide on Comedy Circus, a television show that should be re titled Tragedy Circus due to its pathetic content. The sad old show has run out of laughs after burning out once talented guys like VIP, Sudesh, Kapil and Krishna. Regular watchers tend to weep into their hand towels and suffer hallucinations where they are chased by the big biceped screeching Archana down dark alleys.

The two ugly, bald guys on Roadies – Since the only word that describes them cannot be used on family blogs, we shall skip an introduction.
New year resolution: We shall rinse our mouths with soap, grow our hair long (and comb it over our faces)

Sorry we’ve forgotten your names guys and would also like to forget that you exist. If at all, you still feel the urge to strut and swear around Roadies, that crappy show on MTV that you host, grow your hair and style it over your faces. You guessed it. We don’t want to be reminded each time that your faces are as deplorable as your manners.

With that dear readers we come to the end of 'TV's most pathetic'. To disappointed wannabes like Barkha Dutt, Rajat Sharma, Sakshi Tanwar, Ranvijay etc, who couldn't make it there this time, we’d just like to say: don't go wiping your noses on your designer dress sleeves, guys. You’re downright pathetic too but we only had space for so many. Better luck next year! May the worst continue to win.

Tell me if this gives a sense of déjà vu. Still groggy from last night’s hangover and pulling muck strings out of the eyes, you reach for the television remote when you are suddenly hit on the head (colloquially speaking) by a mind boggling bunch of gurus. Channel surf and you are alarmed by the horrifying  variety in their shapes, sizes, sexes, fancy dresses, accents and tones -  coaxing, cajoling, even frightening you towards the path of  spiritual redemption.

I've no idea how they make you feel but they do make me yearn for the good old days when one had to suffer just one (though undeniably ugly) Dhirendra Brahmachari doing yogasanas on the TV set (that too only on Sundays).  So what has brought on this sudden spurting supply of spiritual leaders? I guess there's only one answer:  demand. Right from the times of Arjun who found his Parthasarthy, or charioteer, in Krishna – the life coach, we have always had gurus. Only now, they are around us in awesome numbers and manifestations. The guru no longer comes wrapped in loin cloth. He/she sports a cool hairstyle, designer clothes and more often than not, a Blackberry or an Iphone.

“Gurus and saints have always been around us and we always went to them for support and guidance,” agrees social anthropologist Nimmi Rangaswamy, researcher at Microsoft India Research Labs, Bangalore. What's new, she says, is their sheer commercialization and the magnitude at which it is happening.  So what’s fueling this desperate demand? Is it the breakdown of the joint family system that gave us our path showers in parents and grandparents, cousins and siblings? Or is it the growing emptiness we are left with when we jet set across the globe in new age lifestyles that spare no time for healthy communication with friends and family? Or, something else?

According to Boston-based technocrat Prithviraj Banerjee, the reason why more and more people are searching for gurus is because as the basic needs of society get fulfilled, people move higher in Maslow's pyramid (towards self actualization) and start craving spiritual bliss. “With rising incomes we have more people in that layer and hence an increased awareness of the unfulfilled desire for our true selves,” he says. Nimmi feels there is a need to conform to a global lifestyle.  “We have suddenly been catapulted into a lifestyle where we are jet setting across the world and drawing salaries we couldn’t have imagined 15 years back. This lifestyle has brought on its own needs. Personal trainers, grooming, a world class wardrobe have becomes imperative for those who want to fit in (or aspire to fit in) this new global milieu like VPs and GMs, film stars and models. Life coaches and therapists are part of the same lifestyle,” she says.

Life coach Malti Bhojwani feels people seek guidance because they have isolated themselves emotionally. So have modern lifestyles given us awesome salaries, personal trainers, swanky cars and big houses but also extracted a price for it in terms of deeper human interaction? “Spouses get so busy in modern lifestyles that couples often feel alone in their thoughts. They lack the intimacy that makes supportive interactions possible. We feel no one would understand deeply, care enough or have the time to really listen.” This "silence", according to Malti, has led to a growing need for personal development professionals.

Does rocketing ambition make us build walls around ourselves? Are we scared of appearing weak and would rather not discuss problems and unhappinesses even with friends or family? Malti says "yes" to both and adds that working with a coach is different from chatting with a partner, a parent or a friend, as it is a professional, confidential and unbiased relationship. “Our friends and family often have fixed ideas about who we are and what our past capabilities were which can sometimes hold us back from pursuing our new dreams and desires,” she explains.

In the new world, there is a growing tribe of people who openly call themselves atheists or agnostics. Prithviraj feels organized religions often distort the words of great gurus like Buddha and Jesus and this has led to people getting delinked from the true meaning of life. Dr Shyam Bhat, psychiatrist and integrative medicine specialist, agrees.  “People who are disenchanted with religion are turning to psychology and there has always been an overlap between spirituality and psychology,” he says.  

Shyam also points out that till some time back roles in society were very strictly defined – you were supposed to finish college, get a job, get married, buy a house, have children and then retire. All needs were categorized and taken care of, leaving you free to seek spiritual meaning in the end. Over the past decade there has been complete freedom and a sense of “normlessness”. You can be in college and buy your first house, you can live together without being married, and you may or may not have children. “There are no rules. This is good because it will eventually lead us to form our own rules but it is also a time of confusion and self doubt when some of us might need to seek direction,” he feels.

If we wish to be dramatic we can say that the winds of change are blowing. Girls who wear saris and cover their heads at pujas are equally comfortable changing into shorts and sipping vodka at the pub. The functions of family have changed, and often parents really don’t know how to guide their children because they have never faced such situations before. This might have brought on a need for professional help and there’s really no harm in seeking it – whether you need a life coach to show you the way to what you want or a trained psychiatrist to handle darker negative emotions.

If you ask me (or, even if you don't) I’d say, there are two people you need in your life. One: the path shower or the Krishna. The other: the shaman – the one who takes away your pain. These are the two who make life easier and more meaningful. If you have found both in friends and family, or even inside you, feel blessed. There is really nobody else you need. However, if you are seeking a guru by all means go for it. But pick intelligently. It’s a big market out there and right next to a truly enlightened person you risk running into a fraud.

This was the cover story for the Deccan Herald Saturday magazine. http://www.deccanherald.com/content/298576/india-guru-bazaar.html

Naveen Kumar is a gifted illustrator and photographer. Also, former DH colleague.

The new illustration made by Naveen which he felt suited the story better :)

In the twilight dappled ruins of a crumbling fort,
swallows roost;
And life goes on

Under my toes, the stones burn. It is as if the fire still rages in the underground vaults of Chittorgarh where the beautiful queen Padmini flung herself into the flames 700 years back, along with 1200 other women and children, preferring a painful death to disgrace. But actually, it is just the hot afternoon sun. I yearn to step back into my shoes but to visit Rani Padmini’s last haunt, you show respect by going bare feet. Inside a claustrophobic temple, etched in stone, is a portrait of a woman looking into a mirror. “That is the queen lamenting the beauty that only brought misfortune and death,” I’m told.  From the corner of my eye I catch the lady sitting outside the temple shake her stick at an alarmed Saransh for not taking off his shoes. I’d love to take her home with me.

Since Manoj is too busy changing lenses, and Saransh has gone into deep sulk at being dragged around instead of being allowed to sit in the car and have chips, I give undivided attention to the young man by my side. He has chased us on a wheezing old luna (quite like a modern day horse borne Rajput warrior) as our car climbed up to the fort ramparts and has coaxed us (by fearlessly sticking his head in through our window) into hiring him as a guide.

So Rajes, as he introduces himself, is warming up to his version of Padmini’s story and quite frankly giving me goose bumps with his lethal powers of narration. He points to a short stone staircase that leads to a shimmering pool of water and then winds down under a crumbling stone arch, disappearing into the darkness underneath. Visitors are not allowed in, he tells me. Wild horses couldn’t drag me there. That is the path leading to the cellars where pyres of burning sandalwood were lit into which cauldrons of ghee were poured to make the flames dance and touch the roof. And then to the blowing of the conch, queen Padmini jumped into the flames, dressed in her wedding finery, looking breathtakingly beautiful, just the way she had done on the day she came to the king - Rawal Ratan Singh - as his young bride. I listen spellbound as Rajes takes me back 700 years to the time when Allauddin Khilji, the king of Delhi, hearing of Padmini’s legendary beauty from a wandering musician, laid seige to the fort of Chittorgarh, demanding her for his harem. “Six months had passed, the food had finished and children were crying for milk,” Rajes tells me. So when Khilji made an offer to withdraw his forces if he was allowed to see Padmini just once, Rawal Ratan Singh agreed. Khilji was blindfolded and brought in on the condition that he would only be allowed to see Padmini in a mirror.

Rajes walks me to Padmini’s palace that stands in the centre of a pond where lotus flowers once bloomed (so he says) but now only murky water stagnates. Saransh, who is noisily emptying a coconut through a straw, has also fallen under the spell of the master story teller and scampers along. Rajes points out the steps of the palace where Padmini sat with a delicate veil covering her face and then lifted it for a fraction of a second so that Khilji could see her face in a mirror fixed in the palace across the water.

He has us follow him to the spot where Khilji stood and we take turns at looking into a cheap mirror fixed on the crumbling wall that reflects the steps of Padmini’s palace. She was so beautiful that Khilji forgot his promise and when Ratan Singh escorted him out of the fort he had him captured and threatened to kill him unless Padmini was handed over. The queen, who was as intelligent as she was beautiful (a rare combination, Rajes says, as I glare and Manoj grins) asked for 700 palanquins for her maids and when the palanquins returned, out jumped armed soldiers who managed to rescue their king. Khilji refused to lift the seige and finally the gates of Chittorgarh had to be opened for a final suicidal battle.    

“After the women had jumped into the fire, pushing their children into the flames before them, the men took off their armour, smeared their bodies with chandan, put flaming red tilaks on their foreheads and donned the kesariya robes of martyrdom. They stoically watched this ritual of death called jauhar and then sealed the women and children in even as their screams rent the air. Then with ash smeared on their foreheads, they got on their horses and rode down the stone path as the seven gates of Chittorgarh were flung open one by one. The outnumbered warriors fought until death, knowing they had nothing left to return to,” says Rajes his voice dropping to an emotional whisper. Through the chatter of tourists, the call of the bhelpuri wallah and the clink of a bottle opener hitting cold drink bottles, I can hear the trot of horse hooves, the sizzle of orange flames, the war cries of the warriors and the clash of naked swords. Rajes has, meanwhile devoured half a Pepsi in one large gulp and after a delicate burp got on with his story. “After every single man in the Rawal’s Army was massacred, the victorious Khilji, known for his cruelty, rode his elephant into the fort but all he found was a ghost town with barren halls and temples enveloped in the fumes of burning sandalwood. Driven to a mad rage, he ordered his soldier to loot and plunder and destroy everything in sight. The exquisitely carved stones figures on Chittorgarh’s walls are evidence of the ruthless fury unleashed. They stare silently with gorged out eyes, snipped off limbs and mutilated bodies.

The saka of Chittorgarh is the most poignantly romantic story that Rajasthan offers tourists but there are more. This is the same fort where Mira refused to commit sati on the death of her husband, proclaiming that she was married to Krishna; where a few hundred years later Rani Karmavati also committed jauhar when Sher Shah of Gujarat attacked the fort and though she sent a rakhi to the Mughal emperor Humayun, he could not reach in time to help her out. This is also where Panna dai, foster mother of Rana Sangha’s infant son Udai Singh, saved the future king of Mewar, by placing her son in Udai Singh’s bed when she learnt that a murderous attack was being planned on the child at night. These stories have been kept alive by bards and folk performers and local guides like Rajes.

 As we leave Chittorgarh, the sun is setting and the ruins are changing colour from yellow to orange to grey. I am ticked off by Rajes for not buying the special Sita phal sari at the fort emporium on which he would have received a two percent commission. Manoj slips him an extra tip to make up and we wave to him as he slips on his hideous helmet and zips away on the luna, finally disappearing in the rear view mirror. Manoj has slipped in a CD he has picked up and a gravelly Rajasthani folk singer’s voice fills the air. In the distance the massive ramparts of the fort are gradually getting smaller. I look at the cleft in the hills from where Rajes has told us Khilji’s Army poured in like colonies of  ants – slowly surrounding Chittorgarh with thousands of men, weapons, horses and elephants. A shiver runs down my spine. “I want to go home," whines the kid from the back seat. For once, so do I.  

The old jhola his mother had hung across his shoulder with all his belongings in it felt a little heavy but that was not why 10-year-old Ballu Patwal was dragging his feet. His new rubber slippers were a little too tight around his fat toes. Besides, he was used to running around bare feet in his village and after the excitement of their newness had died, the slippers made him quite uncomfortable. He had been carrying them under his arm but when they reached the town where people were better dressed than in the village, Tauji had sternly told him to put them on. Even now, Tauji had his left hand in a warm sweaty grip and was pulling him along absentmindedly. They had walked an hour, crossing Pabo village that Ballu had heard about in the song “Aijaa re Bhanumati, Pabo bajaara” (Hey beautiful Bhanumati, come with me to Pabo bazaar) .Tauji had bought him a crisp hot orange jalebi from a roadside halwai that Ballu had savored for about 15 minutes, making it last longer by taking tiny bites and savoring each one till it melted in his mouth. There was no motorable road to Ballu's village and they had to catch a bus from Satpuli to Kotdwar, from where they would be taking the train to Delhi. Ballu was leaving his parents to study with his uncle in a big city now. His village education was over.

Suddenly there was a loud roar, unlike anything Ballu had heard before and he leapt an inch off the ground and then hid behind his uncle. Coming down the road was a battered old Garhwal Mandal bus with puke markings down the sides but Ballu had never seen a bus before. “Ee Boey, kya hole sey!” (Oh mother! What could that be?) he whimpered and holding his uncle’s hand, wrapped himself around him one and a half times. To him it seemed as if a fearful monster was roaring down and he wanted to get out of its way and save his life. Ballu’s uncle told him gently that it was a baldeh (a big bull) and they would have to travel on it since Kotdwar was too far away to walk. Still petrified, Ballu watched as the strange looking baldeh stopped with a rattle and people started disappearing into it. “That’s eating people. Mil ni jaan,” (I’m not going) he told his uncle firmly. Totally deaf to his declaration, Tauji dragged him up the steps. They found a place to sit and Tauji distracted him by pointing things out of the window. Suddenly there was a dreadful growl and the baldeh started shaking. Screaming and pulling at his uncle’s arm to get out fast, Ballu screamed: “Yale hamthey khaan cha aaj,” (he’s going to eat us today). He cried and pleaded with his uncle to get off but his uncle didn’t budge. After a while, when the baldeh didn’t exhibit any man-eating behaviour, Ballu relaxed. The bus started moving and Ballu slowly started enjoying the breeze on his face, the slight shake under his bum and the scenery zipping past his window. When the bus reached Kotdwar, he even let go of his uncle’s hand and got down by himself, wishing his friends in the village could see him.

At Kotdwar railway station when Ballu saw the Mussorie Express, he couldn’t believe his eyes. It was a moving house his uncle told him, while he chewed his fingernails in disbelief. He just sat in one place through the journey not even daring to use the toilet for fear that he would get left behind. When they reached Delhi, he was surprised to find that there were no hills anywhere, just flat land all around. Never had he seen terrain like that. When he quizzed his uncle on where the hills had gone, he was told that when god had made the earth, he had left rocks and boulders in Garhwal but had trampled them under his feet to make other places flat.

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Ballu was admitted to a school and had shoes to wear and a copy to write on. Often in the evenings he would sit near the window, look at the stars and think of home in the hills. There, he would have been sitting near the kitchen wood fire with a flat piece of wood called the takhti.  He would wait patiently till his mother finished making all her rotis on the big iron tawa and and then he would ask her to turn it around for him. He would wait for it to cool a bit and then scrape off the soot from its underside and rub it on his takhti till it turned gleaming black. Then he would take a piece of old cloth and rub it on the wood to make the black surface shine. Next, he would take a small bowl and mix chuna with water to form a thick white paste. Dipping a piece of string in the liquid he would hold it straight and gently lower it on the takhti to make neat equidistant lines. Finally, the takhti would be put away to dry in a safe place where his siblings couldn’t smudge the fine white lines. The next day Ballu would march to school with his shining black slate and a twig that his father had chopped off a bamboo bush, sharpening the end into a fine point. Ballu would sit on the floor of the classroom and dip his home made pen in his home made ink to write the alphabets Masterjee called out in the most beautiful handwriting he could manage.

Just in case you’re wondering, I didn’t make up this story. I met retired Lt Col BS Patwal (yes, Ballu - now 69) at Ferozepur Club last weekend. He was looking quite distinguished in his white French beard and glasses as he sipped on his single malt. He refused a  lift back, saying he still preferred to walk. Though, he added, with a twinkle in his eyes, "buses don't scare me anymore".

Richa Verma is a slightly crazy though immensely talented graphic designer with the imagination of an eight year old. She is generally recognized by a mad glint in her eyes and a tendency to ask for whiskey with breakfast.

If you want to check out the beautiful Bhanumati and Pabo bazaar, song is up for you. Check left scroll.