I

It is still dark. Dark enough for most people to be afraid. Especially in this neighbourhood. It is the not the sort of place where a person would want to be sauntering around in the night. For someone kicked out of his home, it is best that I lay low in these unknown parts.

A while later, the breeze picks up. And with it wafts in the smell of fresh food. Smells like sambhar to me. It seems coming from around the corner.  Looks like this is going be a good day and a belly full of food. Haven't had much luck of late and the pickings have been lean. Time perhaps to take a risk.

--

It is dawn. And time for a mother to get to work. It is not easy being a single mother. Not the least in this country. Not when you have three hungry mouths to feed. A breeze is blowing. It carries the smell of food. Smells like sambhar to me. Looks like this is going to be a good day. A belly full of food and a bosom full of milk. This meal doesn't come free though. I will have to earn it.

--

Seventy minutes later

--

This sambhar is good. Fresh, warm and full of flavour. Such meals don't come everyday and this one was hard earned. An hour of toil and physical grind. It was worth it - for I need to recover my strength to take care of my babies in this harsh world on my own.

--

There was only one serving. And she got there first. If I want that meal. I will have to fight for it. She isn't going to let go of it so easily. But luck is on my side. I am young and fit. She is tired after her hard labour. Yes, this is my chance.

--

Fifteen minutes later

--

I am licking my wounds. They aren't so bad but what's more important is that I lost to HIM. My own flesh and blood stole my food and didn't hesitate for a second. For all I know he would have killed me. All for some sambhar? This is indeed a cruel world for a single mother. But then, I live to fight another day. That is how it has been for us mothers forever.

--

The sambhar is yummy. Warm, fresh and full of flavour. My nose hurts a little. Mom still packs a punch. But a man has gotta do what he's gotta do. After all, nothing is more important than the next meal. Meals like these are hard to come by. The world is changing - the world is shrinking. There aren't many places I can go. My kind can be shot for pleasure. Or poisoned for stealing a man's property. It is indeed a cruel world out there. But soon I'll be gone for good. Along with all 1500 odd of my kind.

--

July 29th is International Tiger Day. There are less than few thousand of these magnificent creatures left on Earth. And every day we lose more. Losing them does not mean the loss of a circus attraction or the stuff on Animal Planet. Losing them means losing the last of our dwindling forests. The last of  this planet's lungs. Tigers and other large predators are important for maintaining balance on this planet. If they go - we will follow them soon into extinction. 

Believe it or not. It is true.

The Broad Gauge is coming

The indigo sky is tainted by the first strokes of orange as the Satpura Express leaves the ugly sprawl of Jabalpur behind. The clatter of the track gives way to a dull roar as it steps on to the mighty bridge that spans the Narmada. A bridge made of steel and stone masonry, blood, guts and ingenuity. The sound it makes is enough to wake everyone in the carriage. The chap on the opposite seat murmurs 'Jai Narmada Maiyya' in his slumber. The orange in the sky is blacked out the by silhouette of a monster. A new bridge is being built - from concrete and modern technology. The sorts that make no noise. Soon, no one will know they're crossing their revered Narmada. 

The morning sun lights up the forests of the Satpura. The green and gold landscape is a joy to watch. We pass through tiny hamlets with exotic names like Sukri Mangela, Shikara, Gudru, Lamta. Children run out of their thatched huts to wave at the train - some of them stop their frolicking in the streams as we rumble over them. Wherever the train stops - the town comes alive and goes back to sleep when it leaves. Life here is idyllic, life here is beautiful. This place moved Bhavani Prasad Mishra, Kipling and countless other poets and writers to create some of their finest works.

Not for long though - on either side, the forest has been dug up. Miles upon miles of steel rails and concrete sleepers are being brought in. Towering mounds of dug up earth block the view of the rolling hills. Progress is coming. The Broad Gauge is coming. The tiny narrow gauge train that wheezes at 30-40kmph will be replaced by its big blue cousin that will thunder past at 100 kmph. 

'Jobs will come, mobile networks will come. We won't have to go to Jabalpur or Balaghat for everything' - says Ashutosh who boarded at Pindrai. He runs a knick knack shop there and is going to Balaghat to take delivery of fresh stock. 'My travel time will reduce by 4 hours. Nothing better can happen!', he beams.

Pindrai will grow, so will Nidhani and Titwa. Huts will be replaced by brick and mortar houses. The labour needed for that will build shanties along the new broad gauge and line up in the morning, mooning the passing trains with a bottle in hand. Everyone will drive around on their motorcycles with their heads wrapped around their mobile phones. The forest will be something that lies in the distance. The streams where kids used to bathe will be clogged with plastic.

I seem to be only one who is not happy about the broad gauge. I am the only one who wishes Pindrai is not overrun by property dealers and mobile phone billboards. I am the only one who wishes that forests of Mishra's poems and Kipling's books stay the way they are. But I am a just silly romantic who takes a week off from work to travel in a tiny narrow gauge train rumbling through the forest for amusement. Why should anyone bother about what I want? After all, I will catch the air-conditioned Duronto Express in the evening and be back in the morning in my 14th floor office overlooking mankind's towering achievements with a cup of coffee in hand. 

Why should anyone bother?

Aboard a train

Wherever a train goes in this country, chances are that I have been there. And in those hundreds of journeys across thousands of kilometers I have come across uncountable men, women and children some of whom have left an indelible impression on my being. I was lucky enough to capture some on my camera but a vast majority of them are out there is some corner of this country, going about their business - oblivious to the fact that there is a soul grateful for the short moment that they crossed his life.

--

The water carrier of Titlagarh Junction

The August air was heavy with the monsoon's weight. Underneath the tin platform canopy, the mid day heat was stewing those waiting for their trains. An old man, his back bent by the load on his shoulders walked from person to person offering them water and a kind word. He took no money for the bottles he filled or the thirsts he quenched. He bore no smile, nor any sadness. But the lines that creased his face were like the map of his life.

The Runaways of Patadrdih

The huge Patardih yard lay in ruins. A busy mining town laid waste by fire. Among the lumbering hulks of rusted, decaying coaches and equipment lived two boys, not very different from Oliver Twist and Jack Dawkins. They did odd jobs at the station, cleaning the coaches with the shirts on their backs, braving the constable's lathi and getting high on paint thinner. Yet they were happier than most people I know, including myself.

The Doe Eyed Beauty of Araku

She crouched by the window, peering out - fascinated by the ethereal beauty of the Eastern Ghats. The constant whirr of camera shutters broke her reverie. She turned and looked at me. And her eyes took away my breath.

The Pink Lady of Zawar

She stood there, resplendent in Pink among the brown dust of the Thar. She had a question, the answer to which no one had. She walked from window to window, door to door asking the same thing over and over again. She asked me too, and I didn't have an answer either. She left the station. I think her heart was broken. So was mine.

The Villupuram Maami
An old lady sat on a blue bench at Villupuram. She knew everyone, and everyone knew her. Passerby stopped to talk to her. She had a kind word for them all, and a smile. She liked her betel nut and her coffee. She had a thing or two to say to those littering the platform. I think she had seen almost everything life had to offer. I think she had the Buddha in her.

The man who had put up his feet...
Life is like a train. It takes you from start to finish. You can either be busy in driving the train or choose to be a part of it and watch the world go past you.

How Meru Cabs almost ruined my Diwali

Note : I wouldn't do this normally. I have enough brains to understand that once in a while an organization does face problems in service delivery. But what my goat was the fact that Meru still hasn't bothered to revert on my complaints which I raised on the call centre and via their Twitter account.

On Nov 1,2013 I booked a Meru Cab from Malad to Mumbai Airport for 1730 hrs via Meru Cabs' website. I got a confirmation message for booking #22515917 with the standard note that I'll get my cab details 20 mins before pickup time. Till 1725 or thereabouts, I got no SMS or call from them, so I rang up their customer care on my own. After a long wait I get through to an agent who promptly informs me that my cab is delayed due to unavailability of cabs in the area due to a traffic jam. When I asked her why I wasn't informed, she said 'the concerned team was about to reach out to me'. When I asked when the cab would come, she said it would be delayed by 15-20 mins.

I got no further call or SMS from Meru that evening. At 1745 my patience ran out and I had to hail an auto finally. There was absolutely no traffic jam in the area (and if Google Maps Traffic was to be believed, none in the vicinity of Goregaon, Malad or Kandivali at that hour). Worse, there were two Meru Cabs parked right beneath my building with the drivers having chai!

I barely made it to my flight home for Diwali and on the way I even tweeted twice or thrice tagging their official account, and yet got no response. 

So dear Meru Cabs, what am I to understand? That you give no shit to a customer? As far as I can see that is exactly what it seems. I am not here asking for any money nor am I here threatening I will not use your service ever again. 

All I ask for as a customer is some respect. Respect for the fact that once I got a confirmation SMS I don't have to worry about getting to the airport or missing my flight. Respect for the fact that if you cannot send a cab, at least have the decency to inform me - in time. Respect the fact that if I am raising a concern, acknowledge it. If you cannot respect such basics then I suppose you have no right to run a business that has a direct impact on our lives. I still do not demand anything from you, merely expect that you pull up your socks. 

I hope that is not too difficult.

The 21st Century Tiger Hunters

It's 0500 and the knock on the door gets louder by the minute. Jhandu, fresh and beaming as ever is ready with the morning chai. Even before we take the chai, there is a question for him - 'Kaunsa zone mila hai?' (what zone have we got today?). 'Zone 1' he says - and with that answer even the piping hot cup suddenly feels like an ice cube.

Zone 1 in Ranthambhore National Park is not exactly known for bountiful tiger spottings. Among the 5 main zones, it is the shortest and has only one resident tiger who shows scant respect for lines drawn on a map by man. Dejected, we drain our cup empty and start packing the cameras and water bottles. We dress to blend in to the forest - browns, olives and greys. Even our camera lenses have camouflage covers on them to avoid unsettling the wildlife. In short, we are armed and ready.

Half an hour later, our Gypsy for the game drive has already arrived. Mercifully, the guide and driver are seasoned pros - well known to us. The buzz last evening has been that T-24, the resident male was sighted on a Sambhar kill in Zone 1. Suddenly, the prospects of sighting one of the park's more belligerent males look bright. We are raring to go, but there is a problem.

'Abey Goldy - kahan hai?' No sign of the big dude, and then a minute later he comes, thundering down the stairs like a raging torrent. As usual he spent too much time on the throne after dunking too many kebabs last night and as usual he gets an earful of playful banter.

The park gate is a 10 minute drive away, our indemnity forms are already filled. The government is not responsible if a tiger decided to have us for lunch now. At the gate we urge our guide to complete the formalities quickly and we are at Singh Dwar - from where the safari formally starts. We try and gather fresh news from the guard at the gate but none is forthcoming.

Our drive will take us past exotically named spots like Tooti Ka Nala, Kala Peela Pani and Dhoop Chowk. We give the first point a cursory check before heading on. Apart from the morning chatter of birds and rutting calls of Spotted deer the forest air has little to tell us. The trail is dead too - no pugmarks that would be of any interest can be seen. We soldier on to no avail.

At Kala Peela Pani we will have to turn back as the trail ends. At this very spot the previous season, we came face to face with T-24's mate T-39 in a memorable encounter. Kala Peela Pani is also a perennial source of water so the chances of a tiger coming this way are always high. So we wait.

At first there is silence in the Gypsy. We all listen to the jungle - A bunch of Alexandrine Parakeets on a Flame of the Forest make a racket. Unfazed, the Langoors on the nearby branches groom each other. Rufous Treepies look intently at us in hope of a meal. A Black Tail mongoose slinks hurries the trail and Sambhar graze contentedly in the distance.

The clock ticks, the sun climbs, patience wears thin. So we bully Sid - as usual. And then we turn to Goldy - as usual, who protests - as usual. Suddenly - there is deathly silence in the Gypsy. A Cheetal has called out in alarm. And the langoor are agitated too - their short, staccato cries have us reaching for our cameras. The ugly, loud brays of the peacocks  make us hold our breath. A predator is on the move.

The calling and barking goes on for nearly five minutes and our hopes rise with each one of them. The sound of engines breaks our concentration - other groups have heard the commotion and have come rushing. We frown - not wanting to share our 'catch' with anyone else. Someone in the other Gypsy mutters something - half a dozen glares are instantly directed at him. He cowers.

Something in the bushes dead ahead moves - our fingers tense on the shutter. A bunch of peafowl emerge in alarm, wings fluttering but our quarry is still hidden. We continue to wait.

Ten minutes go by - nothing moves. The alarm calls have died down. The langoors revert to their grooming. The peacock busies himself in the pursuit of amorous females. The Sambhar get back to their grazing. Our driver signals that it is time to go. We have to leave the park by 0930 hours or the driver and guide can get suspended.

With drooping shoulders we get back to Singh Dwar. There is another Gypsy there - its plate tells us it is from Zone 2. In it are a bunch of yuppies in bright t-shirts and Armani glares, looking as out of place as a suited banker in Calangute. But their ear to ear grins have another story to tell. They've spotted one.

Our driver comes back after completing the formalities. 'Noor and Sultan at Phoota Kot - 45 minute tak dikhe dono, paani mein the' - Apparently the yuppies managed to spot T-39 'Noor' with her cub Sultan in the water, and that too for 45 mins. Needless to say, the length of our faces had increased.

That afternoon, we are determined to get Zone 4 or 5 - so a barrage of requests are made and Jhandu arrives with the good news. Zone 4 it is - domain of the T-25 aka the 'Dollar Male', T-19 and that legend among tigers, T-16 'Machhli'.

This time, the right turns left from Singh Dwar and we make it a point to stop at Gullar Kui. There is a little pond there above which sits a Brown Fish Owl. A Brown Fish Owl is lucky - you see one, you see a tiger for sure (like everyone else, we too have our pet superstitions). And he is there, wondering why so many apes are pointing so many big tubes at him.

At Tamba Khan, the road turns right and climbs - steeply. There is a logjam of Gypsies and Canters which can only mean one thing. Yes there is a tiger - nay tigers. Apparently, T-25 and T-16 are hanging out together. The matriarch in the company of the young stud is like Rekha dating Hrthik Roshan for lack of a better example. No wonder there is so much commotion.

Suddenly, T-25 gets up and starts moving downhill. Vehicles jostle for position to catch a glimpse, but there is no room to maneuver on the steep slope. Tempers fray, engines rev but to no avail - he is gone. All that remains is Machhli, who has seen thousands of tourists come and go in her 15 years and more. She is least bothered and rolls over for a nap.

It doesn't take a minute for the traffic to dissipate then. Some with happy spotters, other's still waiting for a shot at our first tiger. But if we've learnt anything from the tiger - it is patience. So we head down to Tamba Khan and wait. There's plenty of bird life around to keep us engaged.

Half an hour later, a Sambhar barks. The sound coming from the cemented waterhole's direction. We rush, just in time to find T-25 step out of the water and vanish in to the thicket. Dang! We wait again. Soon there is another alarm call.

We spot movement in the bushes - it is a tiger indeed. But not 25, it is a female. Our guides are experienced and know where it is headed. The driver wastes no time in positioning us - the excitement makes us pant. As if we have been sprinting through the forest.

Soon there is another movement - we hold our breath. Not that we have a choice - the sight of Machhli heading right towards can have that effect. Our eyes lock, an inexplicable chill runs down our spine. A quad of camera shutters come to life in unison. The hunt, is over. The tiger has got us - again.

July 29 is celebrated each year as International Tiger Day

This post is dedicated to the Sambhar Twins, Sid, Goldy and Old Man - fellow tiger hunters and thorough 'gentlemen'

Orissa Adventures - Eating a live bird

The Inbox chimes - the Orissa tickets have arrived. The weekend is a blur, driving to the Buddha International Circuit for the Formula 1 race, packing, emptying memory cards and charging batteries, and of course drinking like a fish. So a strong coffee is called for as I wait for my flight to Calcutta and onward to Bhubaneswar.

The aircraft circles over the City of Joy, providing stunning vistas of the two bridges over the Hooghly, the Maidan, Victoria Memorial before turning north to line up with the runway. As much as I love the city, I hate its abominable airport and am glad to be up in the air again. This time, we follow the Hooghly’s course where it meets the sea at Haldia before following the coast southward. We turn inland over the Mahanadi Delta and catch a glimpse of the famous Lingaraj Temple before touching down.

 The aircraft seat gives way to a captain’s chair in an Innova and we’re cruising along the NH-5 to Keonjhar, Kendujhar or Kendujargarh as some call it. Grumbling tummies called for a halt and our driver assured us that Hotel Annapurna, just short of Dharmasala was the best in the area. But if burnt daal, garlicky cauliflowers and rotis that could be used as pizza bases was the best NH5 could offer - we are in serious trouble.

Turning left from Panikholi, we drive past Jajpur Road and the next 40 odd kilometres till Anandapur are horrible. Broken roads and heavy traffic slow us down. The sun begins to set as we approach Ghatgaon hills and what a sunset it is? We stop and admire the orange disc as it gently dips below the horizon. Things are looking promising again.

Darkness has fallen as we thread our way through the thick forests of the Ghatgaon hills. The road now lit up only by the headlamps looks like a ghostly path with massive trees bending over it like guardians of a hellish portal.

It is dinner time as we check in at Hotel Sans on College Road, Keonjhar. The running joke has been that the hotel will be ‘sans’ anything. An empty plot with beds laid out in it. However, we’re proven wrong. Almost every creature comfort is provided for. I had expected Keonjhar to be the boondocks, but boy was I wrong?

Nevertheless, Small town India is the best place to look for exotic meals. And on that count, Keonjhar had topped the list. On the menu was ‘Chicken Singing’, described as ‘Chicken on a hot plate served live’.

Since I am the last person on the planet to miss an opportunity to eat a live bird served on a dinner plate, I promptly order one. Only to be disappointed to find a dead bird, hacked to pieces and dabbed with cashew flavoured white sauce. I register my protest with the Bengali cook, who calls me the choicest terms his language has for a madman; for expecting to be served a live bird cooked to perfection.

Heartbroken and hungry, I go to sleep determined to get a refund in the morning, promptly forgetting about it at the sight of steaming Dosas for breakfast. The destination for a day is an Anganwadi where I am shooting for a UNICEF project.

The centre is set high up among the hills, surrounded by scores of iron ore mines. Strangely, the air is clear and no sign of the red dust associated with iron ore mines is visible. Instead, an interminable queue of trucks is parked along the jungle road. Apparently, there is some temporary ban on mining and as a result everyone in the area is twiddling thumbs. Not that I am complaining.

I wonder though if the dust has any affect on the tiny tots at the Anganwadi, but am surprised to find a fancy device installed at the centre by the mining company to take care of. Not sure of the science behind it, but apparently the thing prevents dust from settling in the air in a 50 metre radius by creating some sort of vacuum.

Shoot done, we head back and I come across a huge Hanuman statue in the middle of nowhere. Our local guide informs us that the hills in the area are called 'Gandhamardana' after the Ramayana legend where Hanuman carries back a mountain full of life giving herbs from the Himalayas. A twitter post on the same launches a fierce debate as it turns out that Gandamardana was the hill in Rameswaram from where he took off on his epic flight to Lanka. The Orissa connection in unclear, especially since there is another Gandhamardana hill in the nearby Bolangir district.

Not wanting to mess with local legends, we head back to our hotel. Not wanting to mess with the cook either, I order Dal and Rice and crash early. The next day’s shoot takes us to many other Anganwadi centres where UNICEF is supporting Govt of India’s Integrated Child Development Scheme (ICDS) in order to improve the mortality ratio among young children.

Children in Orissa are among the most deprived in the country and visits to Nutritional Rehabilitation Centres (NRCs) set up to treat severely malnourished children are both heartbreaking and heart warming. It is horrible to see kids who were virtually a bag of skin and bone, yet I am happy to note that Indian Public Health system is now setting up facilities that can prevent these children from dying. My time in Keonjhar is almost up, but not before a visit to the lovely Sanghagra waterfalls just outside Keonjhar town.

Notes from the Rann

The dusty, bumpy road from Morbi gives way to smooth tarmac at Halvad and our GSRTC bus soon pulls in to the dusty town of Dhrangadhra. The princely state it once ruled commanded a 13 gun salute. Today it is just one of those blink and you miss places. Not for us though - we are here to explore the Little Rann of Kutch and a sturdy Mahindra Commander Jeep waits for us outside the bus stand. The driver, Hajibhai soon has us speeding along the bumpy country road - our stomachs are grumbling in the late afternoon.

Keekar, Babool and other shrubs of the arid desert country dot the landscape and all of a sudden give way to a lush green patch watered by Narmada canal. It is dry once again as we pull in to Jogad village, where our host - the affable Devjibhai Dhamecha awaits. Photographer, Naturalist, Tour Operator and All round good guy, Devjibhai is an authority on the salty desert known as the Rann of Kutch. His little property, the Eco Tours Camp is the perfect launchpad for forays into the Rann.

But first thing first - lunch! While we check into our spartan, but comfortable 'Kooba' huts, a simply homely meal is laid out. Over the meal Devjibhai briefs us about the surrounding landscape, wildlife and salt trade which is the chief economic activity in these parts. Within a few minutes it is clear that all the stories that we had heard about the man are more than true.

Later in the evening, we head out to a nearby watering hole where local wildlife comes to drink around sunset. The hour long wait results in nothing. We cross the road and head towards a thicket where we suspect our luck will change.And it does - I climb a mound of salt and immediately catch a glimpse of our elusive quarry. But the flash of brown and white disappears in the bushes and light fails soon.

Next morning we're up early and a quick chai later we are motoring along the salt flats. It isn't long before we come face to face with a herd of Khur -  the animal we've come this far too see. A species of wild ass, the Khur is critically endangered and the Rann of Kutch is the last place on earth where these beautiful animals can be seen. Loss of habitat and encroachment of their range by humans and domesticated cattle have seen their number dwindle to a few thousand.

A little further, we come across another bunch of Khur - waiting out on the salt flats. Occupying their grazing ground is a herd of domesticated cattle. Even in their last refuge - a so called protected sanctuary they are being squeezed out slowly. The locals can't help it either - strong winds remove the fertile top soil and seawater intrusion during the rains leaves the soil and water saline. Denudation of natural vegetation means that very little land is left for agriculture and grazing. And it is the humans and their flock that win the battle invariably.

We come across the incredible sight of a marooned boat in the middle of the desert. Devijibhai tells us that the seawater intrusion in the monsoon provides another opportunity to the locals to supplement their livelihoods. The water is seeded with marine life which thrives during the rains and then later farmed. Shrimps and small fish are the chief catch. The forest department discourages this shrimping but the vast tracts of the Rann are simply too big for it to police.

The biggest threat however is the mushrooming of the salt pans in the Rann. The salt contractors increasingly encroach on the scant grassland leading to the disturbance of wildlife. The Great Indian Bustard was once found aplenty here, but Devjibhai confirms that it is rarely seen now. A few friends of mine had toured these parts looking for the and they too returned empty handed.

With little or no income from agriculture and increasing competition from cheap, migrant labour the local populace falls easy prey to the salt companies. Overworked, exploited and underpaid - the salt pan workers toil in the blazing sun for meagre returns. 

In a cruel twist of fate, the little agriculture that survives is now under threat from the Khur themselves. Under pressure from man and cattle, incidents of Khur attacking standing crops in search of food are increasing. The locals for the moment are content with shooing the wild animals away, but one wonders how long before the first shot is fired or the first wild ass is poisoned?

With these questions, we step on to what is known as the White Rann - the pristine salt covered flatland that is features on virtually every tourist brochure or postcard on these parts. It is a vista straight out of Star Wars - Tattooine is what comes to mind.

It is the beginning of the dry season - and soil under the salt is still soft. The first foray by a vehicle into these parts was only made the previous day - a forest department Jeep drove all the way to a nearby 'Bet' or island to set up a watchtower. The Bets are nothing but patches of high ground that are marooned in the monsoon and repopulated in the dry weather. We towards one, but our Jeep gets bogged down in the mush. It takes all of the engine's the 72 horse power and the strength of three men to push it out. We return, but the sight of three clay figurines alone in the empty Rann remain with me. As the sun sets, the Khur return to the sanctuary of the bushes - they will venture out again in the night. An uneasy calm prevails in the Jeep.

Gazillions of crickets shatter the quiet of the night. Under a starry blanket we wonder about the future of this unique but increasingly fragile Eden. A shooting star wheels overhead. Our wish is not a secret

The Battle of Lakhota Lake

Lakhota Lake, Jamnagar - March 14 1755 hrs

The day is drawing to a close. The sun inching closer to the horizon. Birds are flocking back to the trees surrounding the lake. Flocks of Mallards, Teals and Moorhens are swimming gracefully in the still waters. The lake's resident Pelicans are out feeding too - swimming in semi-circular formations to herd fish and diving in sync to pluck out any unlucky fish caught in their trap.

 There is a splash and one of the Pelicans steers away from the group. From our vantage point, we can clearly make out that he has caught something big. The rest of the group are not going to let the fellow get away with such rich spoils and make their way after him.

1800 hrs - A furious battle is underway - wing against wing, mandible against mandible. It's three against one and our man virtually has his neck caught in the beak of his attacker. He continues to fight and hold on. It is summer, the water levels in the lake are precariously low. Such catches are hard to come by, so the fight is worth it.



1805 hrs But it isn't the only battle that he is fighting. Caught in its pouch is a huge catfish and it has no intention of becoming anyone's meal. The fish, at least a foot long is thrashing about wildly in the pouch and thwarting any effort made by the Pelican to swallow it.

1807 hrs - It has been more than ten minutes that the Pelican bagged the Catfish, but the battle continues to rage. Every time the Pelican tries to swallow the fish, it curls up making it impossible for the bird to gulp it down. There are going to be no free meals.

1815 hrs: No one has given up. The Pelican is trying every trick in the book to swallow its fat catch. And the fat catch is trying every trick it knows to stay alive. The unlucky ones are in hot pursuit, not having given the hope of stealing a meal.

1818 hrs : Things are getting desperate. The attacks continue from every side, the fish battling away as well. But the doughty fellow is beating every attack. He is tougher than we thought, but surely he must be weary. Something has got to give!

1820 hrs : For a second, the attackers pause. That is all the opportunity that is needed. Our chap makes a might effort to steer clear of his pursuers and in the same move takes a mighty gulp. Success at last! The fish and the marauders have been defeated.

1821 hrs : The battle over, the victorious Pelican flaps his enormous wings in style while the rest are left to lick their wounds and get back to finding a square meal for themselves. Mother Nature has just taken 25 minutes to teach us the meaning of 'Survival of the Fittest.'

Rajdhani

What a jerk! The invective directed towards the idiot who has piled a mountain of luggage in the aisle. And towards the collective force of the train’s weight acting on the coupler as it starts. The owner of the luggage appears, rushing in from the door waving goodbyes to the hordes that have come to see him off. Barging his way past me, he spends five more minutes arranging his stuff underneath the seats and I finally get the chance to reclaim my prized territory - the side lower and the accompanying view of filthy suburbia as the Rajdhani sets off for its daily sprint from the nation’s political capital to the financial.

When I left home for the station, the late afternoon temperature was in 40s. By the time I get off the Metro at New Delhi, it is drizzling. The ten minute walk to my coach has me drenched, not in rainwater but in my own sweat. But half an inch of tinted glass and the powerful air conditioning of the German design coaches are just what the doctor ordered.

As the open fields of Haryana come into view, the Pantry steward turns up with the evening snack - a sandwich, a samosa, sweets and a pack of juice. A menu that hasn’t changed from the time when Harish Bhimani claimed to be Father Time each Sunday morning on national television. 

“Tussi Bambe jaana?” A loud voice from the right enquires if I am travelling up to Bombay? My co-passengers are a bunch of Punjabi gentlefolk, already sprawled on their berths like good government servants having a post-lunch nap in the sunny lawns of Delhi’s winter. “Aaho!”, I replied in the affirmative, thus opening a floodgate of queries from fertilizer men from Bathinda, on their way to Hazira near Surat for some training.

Their queries chiefly concern the availability of alcohol or the lack of it in India’s only dry state. They are going to spend two weeks there and the question of not drinking simply does not arise. Yet the prospect of breaking the law in a government campus doesn’t appeal much, hence the fervent enquiries for legal ways to drink.

I simply point out that the Union Territory of Daman, where booze is legal is a few hours drive away. That lights up their faces and out comes a bottle of Blender's Pride and a few cut glasses (Note aforementioned remark on breaking the law). The first peg is generously offered, but politely refused causing a few faux frowns.

As their conversation drifts to the bust size of Mrs. Behl and the enormous backside of the yet unmarried Ms. Gandotra, I resume my lookout from the window. It is nearly seven, and the first of the birds and the farmers are returning home. The orange sun and the dust kicked up by the cattle have set up that magic hour which the Hindi language beautifully describes as ‘Godhuli’.

Looking at the sparse thatchments and curling wood fires, I can’t help but marvel at the tenacity of the farmer, braving it day in and out in weather that would knock us city dwellers out in ten minutes. There, behind the half an inch of tinted glass and the powerful air conditioning - it is easy to conjure such evocative images.

We are now thundering through Rajasthan, covering more than 2 km in a minute when soup followed by a tasty dinner is served. The bootleggers of Bathinda are still going great guns when I decide to draw my curtains and pump up the volume in my headphones. A full moon is out and Nusrat’s Night Song is the perfect accompaniment for the stunning views of the Dara Pass rolling past me.

I am gently woken by the Pantry steward, armed with a flask of hot water and all the essentials for the morning cuppa. We are fast closing in on Bombay and my bay is eerily quiet. The Bathinda gang had gotten off at Surat in the wee hours and I have the whole bay to myself.

I pull back the curtains on both windows and bright sunshine from the rising sun streams in. The PA system squawks the morning news bulletin, via hastily recorded tapes picked up at Surat. Another ritual that steadfastly refuses to die, even in an era where people know about incidents even before they happen!

By the time the breakfast tray of omlette, toast (special service for yours truly), cutlets and coffee is cleared, the first of Bombay’s famed local trains were running alongside. Bleary eyed commuters hang on for dear life from every hand and foot hold possible.

The Bombay wallas on my train don’t give them a second look, while first timers from the North restart a conversation heard each morning on the Rajdhani, if you listen carefully. “Pata nahi kya rakha hai Bombay mein? Public ko dekho, na ghar mein jagah, na train mein - fir bhi marte hain yahan aane ko!” - God knows what’s there in Bombay, there’s neither space in their homes, nor on the trains - yet people would give anything to come here!

The Bombay wallah seated across them replies - “Kam se kam yahan chor to nahin hai! Dilli mein to Auto aur taxi mein loot hai!” - At least people are honest here, all your auto and taxi drivers in Delhi want to loot you.

I am not interested in the rest of the argument, having heard it many times now. Another local train runs along side, almost every one hanging from its door turns to admire the Rajdhani. Perhaps reflecting on their lives as it bounces back at them from the half inch thick glass - wondering how nice it would be to enjoy some of that powerful air conditioning?

Rock and Ruin

"Tamil, Kannada, Telugu or Malayalam, there is only one superstar - Rajinikanth!" "What about Upendra?",  I ask. "He is only a copycat", replies Shankar, our auto driver. Sharing the driver's seat with him is Gopi, his best friend. "You look like faariner, medam." Not for the first time has MB heard this in her life. BB and I share a laugh, as the narrow road from Hospet twists and turns through impossibly placed boulders that signal that our destination is near. 

We're heading to Hampi, a long overdue item on the bucket list. Even on the approach, almost every word that we'd read up about it was unfolding itself around us. Every half a mile or so, the remains of a temple or some long lost royal structure could be seen. And almost all of them, surrounded by ugly ASI fencing and the forbidding blue board that reads out the law protecting them. A dramatic drop in elevation ends up at the main bus stand. Shankar and Gopi leave us to find our digs for the next few days.

Later in the day we are walking past the Bazaar towards Atchyutaraya Temple, when angry monsoon clouds start gathering over the village. Standing next to the impressive monolithic Nandi statue, the decision to come off-season already seems to be paying off. 

First settled in the 14th century by the brothers Harihara and Bukka, the Vijayanagara Empire reached its zenith under the rule of Krishna Deva Raya in the 16th century. In the preceding years, the incumbents to the throne had built an impressive series of temple, palaces and monuments around their capital. A lost war, led to the sudden desertion and subsequent ruin of the capital. Nevertheless, what remains today is testimony to the grandeur and skill of the kings and artisans of those times.

With the monsoon clouds providing dramatic backdrops, our cameras were going berserk. Every stone, every gate, every pathway had a million stories to tell. But no story seems more evocative than that of the Courtesan's Street (view a 360° panorama here). Said to be the liveliest of all streets in Hampi, it's pavilions showcased merchandise from far off lands. Food stalls, knick knacks and performances by dancing girls were the highlight of evenings. If one were to close their eyes and listen carefully, perhaps the laughing of the dancing girls and the tinkle of their anklets could still be heard. And as if on cue, a group of wild horses materialize out of nowhere and disappear into the temple.

North East towards to the river is the Vittala Temple complex. Thirty seconds into it comes a voice, "Medam faarin ninchi vacchindi, photo teestamu!" (Madam is a foreigner, lets take a picture with her).A Telugu family of fourteen has taken a fancy to MB and are crowding her for a picture. The poor girl from Uttarakhand has no option but to oblige while BB and I are rolling over in laughter again. The architecture and carving at the Vittala Temple is no laughing matter though.

The stone chariot within the compound is a shrine in itself and a work of years of painstaking labour. "Come, I will show you musical pillars, 50 rupees only." We decide to oblige the obviously unofficial guide. He leads us to the Maha Mandapa or the chief hall and strikes the pillars and hopes that we will hear Sa-re-ga-ma. We only hear a thin metal rod striking stone. That or we are tone deaf.

A walk down the riverbank, and a ride in a coracle later we are chomping on the delectable pizzas straight from a wood fired oven. Had it not been for the paddy fields and the sound of hymns from the temples in the air - I could have very well been in Italy.

The next morning, we are face to face with the Angry God - The statue of Ugra Narasimha celebrates the legend of Prahalad who was rescued from his evil father by Vishnu, who took the form of a man-beast. Seated on (now ruined) coils of the seven headed serpent 'Sesha' and crowned by the still swollen clouds, the statue did look terrifying. Down the road from here lie the Southern group of monuments, or the Royal Enclosure. Impressive as they are, especially the Hazara Rama temple and the outlying palaces in their well manicured lawns do not evoke the same feeling as the ones set among the boulders by the riverside.

We head to the Hemkuta hill, above the Virupaksha temple and the main bazaar. Littered with shrines and cenotaphs from various eras, it is perhaps the most tranquil spot in all of Hampi. It affords a marvellous view of the temple and its surroundings. The three of us wander on our own atop the hill and I come across this little Hanuman temple when I have my 'Hampi moment'.

The setting sun has set the grey clouds alight. Birds return home and the only sound is wind weaving its way through the boulders, laden with the chime of the temple bells. I sit there alone, watching the changing colours narrate long forgotten stories of valour, grandeur, beauty and defeat.

The endless and enchanting Sambhar Lake

A picture in a travel magazine of a train cruising past a bunch of rosy pink flamingos had caught our fancy a few years ago. Ever since M and I had been planning to visit the vast expanses of the Sambhar Salt Lake. For one reason or the other, the trip was postponed until last week, when we were cruising down the excellent Yamuna Expressway towards Mathura.

Leaving the Expressway, we negotiated the narrow alleys of Mathura’s ancient quarters and took the SH 33 to Bharatpur and thence NH 11 to Jaipur. This convoluted route necessitated by horror stories narrated by friends and family while stuck in massive jams on the NH8 between Delhi and Jaipur. Bypassing Jaipur from the south, we hit NH 8 heading due west and at Dudu we turned off the road leading to Sambhar Lake. Road conditions on this entire stretch were excellent bar a few short patches.
The Sambhar Lake is India’s largest inland saline water body, covering an area of almost 200km². It is home to a vast variety of birds, both native and migrant. Of foremost interest are the visiting flocks of Greater and Lesser Flamingoes. More than 10,000 birds make this lake their winter home each year along with many others.

The lake is also the production hub of Sambhar Salt Works and produces nearly 10% of the country’s supply of salt. The Salt Works’ lovely colonial Circuit House was our home during the trip. It is better to call in advance and make bookings as there isn’t any other decent stay option available.
After checking in, we decided to head straight to the south eastern shores of the lake - where the Shakambhari Mata Temple is located at the base of a promontory that provides stunning views of the lake. A short but stiff climb to the top of the cliff leads to further magic. The entire lake is visible from the Chattri on top and the sheer scale of the place can boggle the mind.

After witnessing a gorgeous sunset over the temple, we headed back to Circuit House to be treated to a lovely home style meal cooked by the caretakers.

Next morning at the crack of dawn we were on the earthen anicut that divides the lake in to two. One needs to drive down the Shakambhari Temple road and past the village of Japhog, take the dirt track leading off to the right. Keep your eyes peeled as it is easy to miss. The anicut controls the supply of water in to the pans used for salt production. A railway line belonging to the Sambhar Salt Works runs atop the dam, all the way to Gudha on the other side.

We spotted a small flock of sub-adult flamingos foraging near the dam. Their plumage was nearly white, not having reached the pink colours that the species is famous for. The pink ones, in their large numbers were far away in the water - far even for my 500mm lens.

We drove further down the road to find a closer vantage point. Another dirt track past this freshwater pond leads to the dried portions of the lake bed. This was the closest we got to the birds. Trouble is that a soft mushy layer of mud stands between the water and dried bed. This is almost impassable and hence we never got close enough to the birds for any close up photography. Yet the sight of thousands of flamingos stretching into the horizon against the backdrop of the temple was one to behold.

In the afternoon we were taken on a guided tour of the Salt Works around the lake. The saline water of the lake is evaporated to produce salt via a three stage process. The first step is to channel water into reservoirs from the main lake body. The aforementioned anicut performs that duty From there it is directed into ‘condensers’ - another pan in which the salinity of water is adjusted. Depending on the prevalent weather the salt content in the water can vary so water is pumped in accordingly until the right level is reached. Thence, it is channelled in to a third pan where the sun does it magic to evaporate the water, leaving only the salt crystals behind. The crystals are transported by the company’s unique railway system to be processed in a nearby factory and then shipped across the country.

One last visit to the promontory above the temple followed in the evening. The flamingoes were glowing pink in the blue waters - a sight forever to be imprinted in our memories.

The Coin Hunters of Ramganga

India has had a special affinity for rivers. For they are life givers to its largely agrarian society. Rivers are revered as mother goddesses and a dip in their waters during festivals is almost mandatory. And every they travel and cross a river, many Indians would throw a coin or two off the bridge and make wish.

Retrieving the coins from the murky waters is supplements the income for numerous poor families that dwell along the banks. These boys, living along the banks of the Ramganga in Bareilly are specialists in that art dipped lashed up magnets in the water, just after a train passes to retrieve some of the offered coins. Necessity truly, is the mother of invention.

The one eyed boy

As my train left the dusty, fly infested town of Churu behind I settled into my hard fought window seat and watched the sand dunes of the Thar roll by. Exotically named stations like Bissau, Mahansar, Kayamsar went by and we rumbled into Fathehpur Shekhawati. A nondescript town which had its 15 minutes of fame in the film Ghulami. My reverie was broken by the sharp sounds of two stones being clattered together to the tune of some long forgotten song.

Turning, I saw this boy perhaps 7 or 8 years in age - one of thousands such children that you come across in Indian trains. Travelling from station to station singing improvised versions of film or devotional songs while clattering a unique musical instrument made of two flat pieces of stone or tile and hoping to make some money out of the largesse of passengers. Most of them are homeless and this one was no exception. Most of them have a twinkle in their eyes as well. A hard life does not always win over mischief and innocence that comes with this age.

This one was different though, he had only one eye. It was full of sadness and melancholy. I tried talking to him, he didn't even tell me his name. I tried giving him 20 rupees -  he took only ten, grudgingly. He then turned away and started singing. In a voice that could shatter a diamond and sadness that could melt gold.

India in 52 frames - 27

The Concrete March


As India stakes its claim among the leading nations in the world, a construction boom has gripped the country. From malls, to apartments, to airports..everywhere concrete is making a vertical march.

Image Details
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Camera : Canon EOS 350D Digital
Aperture : f/10
Shutter Speed : 1/1000 sec
Focal Length : 18mm
ISO Speed : 100

India in 52 frames - 26

The river, the power, the mother

In Indian mythology, the river Ganga holds as exalted status. She's the consort of the Holy Trinity of Bramha, Vishnu and Shiva. She is personified as the ever flowing Power, and the ever forgiving all accepting Mother. It is no wonder, to see countless Indians lining up each morning along its banks, praying - for she is the distilled lifeblood of Indian tradition.

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Image Details

Camera : Canon EOS 350D Digital
Aperture: f/6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/800 sec
Focal Length : 190mm
ISO Speed: 400

India in 52 frames - 25

The oldest canvas in the world

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Deep in the heart of Madhya Pradesh, lie the cave shelters of Bhinmetka. These shelters exhibit the earliest traces of human life in India. It is suggested that at least some of these shelters were inhabited by man for in excess of 100,000 years. Some of the  rock paintings found among the Bhimbetka rock shelters are approximately 30,000 years old.

Image Details
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Camera : Canon EOS 350D Digital
Aperture : f/5.6
Shutter Speed : 1/1000 sec
Focal Length : 18mm
ISO Speed : 400

India in 52 frames - 24

The power of prayer

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A Buddhist monk prays at the Mahabodhi temple in Gaya. Buddhists believe that when praying generates power. The relationship between the person who prays and the object of prayer is like the relationship between a bell and the person who rings the bell. The bell won’t ring without someone to ring it. The being – the object of prayer- can only have power if people have faith in it.

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Image Details


Camera : Canon EOS 350D Digital
Aperture : f/5.0
Shutter Speed : 1/5 sec
Focal Length : 18mm
ISO Speed: 800

India in 52 frames - 23

- The Spectacle Arrives

- Ever since I was a child, I used to be glued to the TV on Sundays - watching my heroes roar around Silverstone, Monza or Monaco in their sleek beasts. Last weekend, I heard the ear splitting roars for myself, saw my heroes in person. And not just that, the track was in India, the advertisers on the cars were Indian and one driver even had the Ashok Chakra on his helmet.

F1 had truly arrived.

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Image Details
Camera : Canon EOS 350 Digital
Aperture : f/10
Shutter Speed : 1/500 sec
Focal Length : 92mm
ISO Speed : 100

India in 52 frames - 22

Ballet in the sky

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The legendary Surya Kiran Aerobatic Team of the Indian Air Force painting the tricolours in the skies above Bangalore.

Image Details

Camera : Canon EOS 50D

Aperture : f/9.0

Focal Length : 200mm

Shutter Speed : 1/640 sec

ISO Speed : 200

India in 52 frames - 21

Colours of India

If there is anything that defines this country, it's the myriad of colours that paint its canvas. Every nook and corner is just bursting with them.

Image Details

Camera : Canon EOS 350D Digital
Aperture : f/10
Shutter Speed : 1/250 sec
Focal Length : 55mm
ISO Speed : 200