Itz a mad MAD world! (Ranthambhor)

I had already begun to regret my decision to opt for a RSTC bus instead of the early morning train. It was around 1 pm and I was standing at a bus terminus of some off-the-map obscure village named Uniyara waiting for a bus known simply as hari rang ki gari — it seemed nobody has ever bothered to know the number of this green-coloured bus and I thanked my stars for not being colour blind!
Finally after what seemed an eternity, the bus arrived and the sight almost gave me a heart attack — there were heads and arms and jholas jutting out from every window, the roof was layered with rainbow-coloured luggage and people, and I am sure even a needle would die of asphyxia if it wanted to get past that door. But then it is the only bus that can take me to my destination. I was already way behind my schedule and was not too keen to wait for 6 hours at this middle-of-nowhere bus stand for the next hari rang ki gari.
So, I gathered all my courage and took my backpack, hand luggage and a deep breath — ‘you got to do what you got to do’ I reminded myself.
But just as I started walking towards the ticket window a familiar voice stopped me: “Arey madam yeh ulti bus hay!” ‘Ulti bus?’ now what is that supposed to mean? I looked around and spotted the ever-smiling Prateik Babbar...erm... the conductor of my Jaipur-Uniyara bus grinning at me. ‘Madam yeh bus Sawai Madhopur se Tonk ja rahi hay. Apki wali Tonk se aayegi,’ he explained.
Ah right! But no sooner had I heaved a sigh of relief, another equally over-populated green bus arrived. “Madam chalo aap ki bus” and before I could react I saw ‘Prateik’ clutch my hand luggage and deftly manoeuvre through the crowd. As if in a trance I followed him and my bag and when I came to my senses, I and my backpack along with the hand luggage were inside the bus, sitting pretty on a window seat and were ALIVE.
This was my fifth trip to Rajasthan and what makes me fall in love with the place a bit more each time are its people — rugged and rustic yet simple and helpful.
And if you are a girl travelling alone in this part of the country, expect men to stand up and insist you sit on their seat, old uncles to draw out weird maps with trembling hands and insist you follow the route mentioned, women to get chatty and enquire about your age and marital status and insist you get married soon and bus conductors to take the responsibility to get you a window seat in a packed bus!
However, after a teeth-chattering two-hour ride when I finally reached my hotel in Sawai Madhopur, the last bus for the evening safari was leaving and the manager told me that since I had not called up the hotel to book my seat for the safari all I could do that day was to hire a jeep and go to the fort. And within 15 minutes the jeep along with a very cheery Rajendra Singh was at my disposal. Ranthambhore Fort lies in the middle of the forest and as my driver for the day was also a forest guide, we stopped and spotted some yawning crocodiles, curious deer, flying peacocks and self-obsessed monkeys and when we finally reached the majestic ruins of the fort, the sun had mellowed  imparting a sombre look to the century-old stone walls and the birds had already begun singing a requiem for the dying day, and the vast forest overlooking the fort smelled of mist and gloom.
As we explored the multitudinous temples, mosques, palaces, cenotaphs and other ruins, Rajendra Singhji started narrating the tragic tale of Hammir Dev Chauhan — how the brave king of Ranthambhore fought and defeated Alauddin Khilji only to fall prey to the treachery of his own men. I felt as if I was caught in a time warp — maybe it was a cold evening like this when after a long war, Veer Hammir rode through the dense forest and reached his fort only to find all the women of his kingdom given up their lives in jauhar due to rumour spread by some of his own men regarding his death in the war and a heart-broken Hammir severed his head in front of Lord Shiva. Standing next to a pond of blood algae I could almost see blood oozing out from the severed head of Hammir and filling the ground. I shuddered.  And at this point Rajendra Singhji’s voice trailed and I could see his eyes moisten. 
As the last rays of sun bid adieu to Hammir’s beloved fort and winter chill wrapped its blanket over the forest I followed Singhji and trudged back to our jeep. The world suddenly seemed to have gone quiet as if to mourn the sad end of a king who survived great wars but succumbed to betrayals of his own men.
Next morning it was time to finally embark on the tiger trail! Ranthambhore has five zones for the tourists in the core area and tiger sightings are not rare. But unlike in summer, when tigers can be easily spotted near the watering holes, tracking one in the winter can be tricky.  Moreover it was an extended holiday and picnickers had flocked from all corners. I was not so much worried about spotting a tiger as I simply love the whole experience of spending time in a forest (although I was quietly confident of spotting one as I have been pretty lucky with tigers so far) but I was dreading the noisy picnic crowd.
There are two modes of transport for safaris in Ranthambhore — the 6-seater Gypsies and the 20-seater Canters and the seats are randomly allotted by a lucky draw and I was certainly not lucky enough to get a Gypsy that morning. When I boarded the Canter the only thing I wished was to ride sans the loud picnicker and screaming kids — and I got both. Not only there were people cracking jokes and shouting at the top of their voices, but there was a few months old crying baby! And to my horror his parents actually changed his diaper and nonchalantly flung the soiled diaper into the forest even after being repeatedly told by the forest guard not to throw even a piece of paper outside.
I was fuming but before I could react the Canter stopped. And I looked out “There! T-6 with its kill!” shouted the forest guard. And behind the shrubs I discerned the striped beast sitting majestically and in front was the bloody remains of its morning feast! What a sight! Of course if we wait for some time it would get up! But then most of the people in the Canter had lost interest in the tiger by then. Some even remarked, “Arey isse achcha to zoo mein dekh lengey”. I was scared that they might start playing antakshari if we waited there any longer when the baby started crying and that woke up another baby whom I had so far mistaken as a bundle of shawls and sweaters. This time it was too much for both the driver and the forest guard and they abandoned the plan of waiting for the tiger to get up. Because if things went as they were going, the tiger might not only get up but pounce on us!
So we made a move and a few dozens of deer, antelope, peacocks, wild boars, and monkeys later we spotted a sloth bear — one animal that is even more difficult to find in this forest than a tiger. So the Canter stopped and the bear started walking towards us munching leaves. I was keeping my fingers crossed that it would come close enough but more than that I was hoping that the babies doesn’t start screaming or the crowd does not try to pull any trick on the bear. Sloth bears can turn extremely violent if provoked. The forest guide was trying his best to keep the noise level low. Suddenly an affectionate voice: “nosey dikhao beta” ah of course I forgot the moms! Surely how can a doting mother give a damn about a sloth bear when her child has finally managed to identify his nose! And that was followed by ‘papa bolo papa’ and also the surreal ‘doggy kahan hay doggy’ (doggie? in the middle of the forest? WHY? I was almost suicidal by then). Of course after so much love the child started crying at the top of his voice shocking the sloth bear who made a face and walked away. For the first time in my life I absolutely hated kids and noses and doggies and was glad that the safari was over.
International travel channels have given this national park a ‘hip’ tag and thanks to the Canters, safaris have become affordable and as a result Ranthambhore has become to Delhites what Digha is to Kolkatans — a picnic spot. Tourism department is reaping good profit but what suffers is what a national park aims to protect — its wildlife.

Once upon on Sundays!

Finally the ordeal was over. But once I checked the wall clock and my heart sank. I was late. As I walked out, the road was almost empty and all I could hear was a dog barking at some distance. I clutched my bag and started running as fast as I could. I was still a few minutes away from my house when suddenly the eerie silence was shattered by a shrill sound....
MAHABHARAT...atha shree Mahabharat katha...aaa
All the television sets of our locality had started singing. And I am yet to reach home. “Why does this always have to happen with me? WHY? How can anyone even think of drawing oranges and apples (I was never too much into Cezanne really) while Arjun has already arrived for the swayamvar? ”
As I scurried towards my house I kept praying that I would make it before the Kaalchkra was over with its ‘Main samay hun’ flashback—they surely won’t show Arjun or Krishna before I reach the television set, I assured myself. These two breathtakingly handsome men were the best things that had happened to me in the seven long years of my life on this planet...well...apart from the gorgeous box of coloured chalks that ma got me last week.
Sunday was more than just a holiday then. The day dawned with Rangoli which was followed by some amazing serials like Ramayan, He-Man, Space City Sigma and Indradhanush, Bharat Ek Khoj, Chanakya, Mowgli, Ducktales, Talespin, Captain Vyom (which had the absolutely droolicious Milind Soman) and not to forget the never-ending Chandrakanta and its bushy eye-browed ‘Yakku’ Krur Singh. However, I missed most of these thanks to my drawing class (in those days Sunday morning drawing classes were mandatory for almost every child).
However, Sundays were not only about Doordarshan. After an early (but elaborate as would suit a Sunday) lunch it was playtime! Most of us did not have telephones but we knew how to make optimum use of something that we all had — lung power. Whoever was the first to arrive at the playground was supposed to go to each building and shout the names on top of his voice until the concerned person came down (and strangely enough, in most cases this ‘concerned’ person would only hear his name after you got scolded by almost all the grown-ups of that building for shouting so loudly). After the full cast assembled, it was time to take the big decision—would it be ‘ais pais’ (I Spy) or lock and key or hide and seek.
Usually it was hide and seek which would most often end with people leaving for their homes as the person who was supposed to find the rest, kept counting with his eyes shut. There were also times when we would keep hiding at one place, sitting still as a log, only to find out that the person who was supposed to find us had left as he was too sleepy from the counting part (well numbers do tend to have that effect on many!).
However, on the dull summer days, when it was too hot to play outdoors, it was time to turn creative. I would bury myself in crepe papers, marble papers, beads, wires, crayons and what not. And then, there were times when ma would sit with the Rabindra Rachanabali and read out poems or letters or short stories. During summer vacations, Doordarshan would have special programmes for children in the afternoons as well.
In the evening, we would again gather at the playground or the club house but with strict instructions to reach home by 7pm. As we grew up, the deadline extended and instead of ‘ais pais’, lock and key and hide-and-seek, the guys found their calling in football and cricket and we girls in antakshari, dumb charade and so on. But Sundays were never complete without a long adda session.
Winters were for badminton. And the sessions went on till the older group arrived and threw us off the court. At times, the kakimas and jethimas would also indulge in a game or two before starting with their late night adda sessions mostly revolving around para scandals!
Sundays were also for various cultural programmes (and there was some occasion or the other almost every month!) and rehearsals! We would finish our studies early and assemble at the club house. Usually it would be some dance-drama and the most crucial and difficult thing would be to land a role where you get to play a girl. As the guys were too ‘unruly’ and ‘unmusical’, they were not allowed to take part in these hallowed plays and so it was up to us girls to play the role of the male characters as well. All the taller girls were given male roles and I regretted my height.
Later, when we graduated to dramas, the boys also joined us in playing boys (as there were a mere one or two female characters in these dramas, only the most ‘beautiful and slim’ girls got to play ‘girls’ and I was neither!). And even while playing the male characters I would never get the lead roles as I was shorter than the real boys and again I regretted my height.
Another thing I eagerly waited for on Sundays was the hawker who sold puffed rice, door-to-door. Although he came across as the most uninteresting fellow selling one of the most uninteresting items under the sun, his jhola contained many hidden treasures and like a magician he would bring out small packets of badam chaak, tiler naru, chirer moa, aam shotto and other such delicacies!
However, everything was not that rosy. It can never be if you have parents who are obsessed with theatre. So at times my parents would make it their mission to spoil my Sunday by dragging me to the ‘Academy’ to watch people dressed in rags either shouting or crying hysterically over some kind of land dispute or labour strike.
I wanted to grow up, especially on such Sundays. So that there would be no drawing classes and home-work and theatre and I could watch all the cartoons, and play as long as I wanted, have long adda sessions and return home real late. So, I eventually I grew up. But by then it was too late. Doordarshan is now merely a shadow of what it used to be and among the 100+ other channels, none air anything special on Sundays. Instead of Sunday’s Disney Hour, now we have multiple cartoon channels, but Pokemons and Powerpuff Girls can never be a match for the good old classic Disney characters like the crazy Mr Scrooge McDuck and his three nephews Huey, Dewey and Louie or the clumsy pilot Launchpad McQuack or the adorable duo of Tom and Jerry.
As for the playground, it has been converted to a parking lot as the younger generation has no interest in any kind of games apart from video games. And as for the adda, it is mostly on Gchat or Facebook these days as we seldom get to see each other. But as for returning home late on Sundays, I guess I got lucky with that! I get to return home as late as 2 am these days. Well, I work on a night shift and I do not have a Sunday off!

The Doll House

It was a Sunday and the Hooghly River was blushing from the subtle flirting of the morning sun. I was taking a lazy stroll along the Strand Bank Road watching the city slowly wake up. Lined with old dilapidated buildings, time seems to have come to a standstill on this narrow stretch between Sovabazar and Kumortuli. I have walked this walk many times but never noticed what I did on this winter morning. Half hidden behind trees and other ruins, like a mirage, was a lone man standing with one arm raised amid a bunch of fragile women on an ornate terrace — all frozen in time.

The statues had something sad and eerie about them and it seemed they were beckoning me to their world. But there was no door!

I asked a man brushing his teeth on the street: “Dada oi baritaye jabo. Rasta ta...?”

“O putul bari jaben! Eito edikey,” he grinned flashing his lather-laden teeth.

Putul Bari! Doll House! Interesting I thought!

When I reached the half-ruined building I wasn’t much impressed. It looked like the other multitudinous dilapidated structures. I was not too sure if I should go in. I knocked on the door:

“Is there anybody there?’ he said.

But no one descended to the Traveller;

No head from the leaf-fringed sill

Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes...,”

But, I was luckier than De La Mare’s traveller and the door was not locked! As I pushed the door it screeched and a strip of light made its way to the dark cobweb-laden wooden staircase. As if in a trance, I started climbing the stairs and it was then I realised how dilapidated it was. At certain points the wood was crumbling and with each step it screeched, piercing the dead silence of the house. But the sight

that greeted me when I reached the first floor almost took my breath away — a courtyard hemmed with elegant Corinthian arches oozing baroque grandeur. And the mellow chiaroscuro was lending it an ethereal charm.

As I stood mesmerised at the middle of the courtyard, I started feeling increasingly uncomfortable —as if there were people staring at me from all corners. I looked around. There was no one but a strange bearded man peering from each of the arch. There was something eerie about the face. It seemed he was keeping an eye on trespassers like me. I tried to shrug away the feeling and concentrated on the intricately designed figurines perched on the columns. Although the elaborate detailing in stucco and plaster has fallen prey to the ravages of time, I could discern almost all the popular members of the Hindu pantheon from amid thick layers of moss.

As I explored the ‘shadowiness of the still house’ I realised that the house, tagged as a heritage structure by the Kolkata Municipal Corporation, is not inhabited by ‘Phantom listeners’ but with real people! Makhan Lal Natta, an old man who owns a more than the 140-year-old Natta Company, acquired the property in 1978 and now the third floor of this grand mansion doubles as his office. The rest of the rooms are occupied by ‘tenants’.

It is hard to believe that this magnificent building which served as a shooting location for Roland Joffé’s City of Joy and which Desmond Doig tagged as ‘a perfect example of Calcutta rococo’ was built as a warehouse. The Hooghly River was navigable then and barges laden with spice, jute and such like would dock in the ports nearby. Hence several warehouses were built in this area to store imported goods. But why such an elaborately decorated structure for a warehouse? Well, the answer is surely lost in the mists of time.