The Enchanted Woods

“I don't believe in things like that - fairies or brownies or magic or anything. It's old-fashioned.'
'Well, we must be jolly old-fashioned then," said Bessie.

- Enid Blyton, The Folk of the Faraway Tree

It was a cold comforting glow, a speck of light blue that sat still. 'Glow-worm' came the helpful explanation from somewhere. It was difficult to stop staring at this 'ineffectual fire'. This speck was the tail end of a fairly large worm, half a finger large but the body was invisible - dissolved by darkness in the mushy blackness all around.

We had just started on the forest trail to Rajmachi with Trek-o-phy, a Mumbai based trekking group. The day before had seen the first showers of the season drenching Mumbai, the Met and private forecasters were still debating if it was monsoon or pre-monsoon. The showers had still to reach Uttarakhand with their devastating impact. Our currently worry was their immediate effect on Rajmachi woods.

In pitch darkness, our group of fourteen was taking slow careful steps around the beautiful valley from Lonavala. The holiday homes of the rich and famous had been left behind with the dusk, giving way to a dark moonless night in the forest. Night sounds were seeping in. Frogs had started croaking full throated. Here and there, you could hear the sounds of water flowing, last nights showers draining off, punctuated with the prittle-prattle of 28 feet. Bobbing torches were being switched on.

Then, we saw the first yellow twinkle, a shine in a bush nearby: a firefly. Everyone gathered round and soon there was another flash and again another - flying yellow dots were increasingly visible. As the night grew darker, the dots increased in density - glowing in large numbers with stunning periodicity.

The woods it seemed were waking up in another magical land. All tree-tops were lined with magnificently shining cold glows. It seemed the forest was decked up for Diwali (which reminded of Chinese lights and how fireflies look like Chinese lights). At each nook, you could feel you would run into gandharvas dancing, goblins celebrating or leprechauns collecting the golden lights. Vast arrays in trees - thousands strong - would go on blinking relentlessly, unmindful of our fascinated eyes staring with a deep sense of the fantastic. The stars had decided to decorate the earth for a day.

Lights would start at one end and move on to the other. These were also friendly creatures - easily captured in a hand, you could notice the tiny speck between fingers as it crawled out from the palm and tried to walk outwards. They were also either too lazy or naive - you could run after one to catch it. Catching a firefly and releasing it into a blinking mass is the closest to Harry Potter that I have ever actually come. Seeing a lot of them captured in a bottle (with holes for oxygen) is the easily the most fascinating array of live night lights I have seen in a room.

It was hard to believe in the actual reality - that these were fireflies gathering for a humungous mating festival - lasting 2 - 4 weeks. Most of them would die within days - now that the rains were here.

Ruins, Rocks and Stars II

We return to the guest house in anticipation. This is by far the clearest sky we have ever seen. The Bear, the Crow, the Hunter, the Whale, the Scorpion and many others are engaged in a most amazing celestial dance. Hercules and Perseus stood proud while Cassiopeia was sitting haughty on her chair. Hidden everyday of our quotidian lives by the lights of Mumbai, in Kutch the curtain is finally off and we can see the universe. This is the place where you can visualize infinity, touch it and feel it.

Infinity immediately also reminded us of our empty stomachs. We had a wonderful home cooked dinner by the caretaker. He was genuinely pleased to serve - not used to many people everyday. This was by far the least busy place he had been posted to in Gujarat - except in November when people dropped in for long and tiring daytrips from the Rann Festival. His pet dog strolled around with a large thorny collar. This is for protection from wolves, he helpfully explained, they go straight for the neck.

We decided to rest our tired backs. At 2.00 am, I finally realized I could not sleep. Disturbed by all the silence, I stepped out and glanced up, standing in hushed silence. I woke up the the other two also and we stared together in disbelief. There, right up above us was the most awe - inspiring celestial specimen, our galaxy -  the milky way, shades of wafting cotton rising in the night sky starting from the swan and encompassing the archer, Sagittarius. Binoculars could detect here a vast treasure of nebulae, clusters - blobs and patches in the night sky where stars held congress, new ones were forming and old ones flickering  out.

You can see the lightest of stars and this was the way they were visible 4,500 years ago in the land of the Harappans. It seems almost surprising, how long humans took to reach astrology. The ancients experienced divinity daily, night after night in fixed patterns from the shimmering Pleiades, Honeycombs and Butterflies to the gigantic cotton ring of the Milky Way. Linking this to inconsequential human fate was but a tiny leap.

At 4.00 we finally decided this was enough. We woke up later than planned the next day to visit the ancient city. Raojibhai, the ASI appointed local had promised to take us around. Unlike most other ASI caretakers, Raojibhai knew the site like the back of his hand. He could understand common sense archaeology and had worked with R.S. Bisht when the site was being excavated in the 90s. We could also see him showing villagers around.

A brand new plastic signboard directed us to the 'castle' - past two gigantic reservoirs. The Sarasvati was already in it's dying phases when Dholavira was erected. The residents here knew the value of water. Two fresh water streams fed the city and their water was stored all around. To this day, Raojibhai informed us, in the monsoon the streams could feed the city.  





Right now though, the reservoirs were the reserve of the jungle rat - not the grey sewer bandicoots roaming a city but the brown rats of the the Kutchi desert. The archaeological digging was deep and had rendered the soil soft - the rats had easy pickings.

Archaeologists had graded the occupation of Dholavira into various stages, however, even untrained eyes could recognize two - the early city dwellers and the later squatters. 

The early city dwellers lived in an amazingly planned city with a central authority. The 'king' would have been living on a raised platform - with a grand entrance - enough to awe any oncoming traders and the general citizenry around. The 'bailey' and 'middle town' housed probably the aristocracy and noblemen. Here, gems were fired, pots were made, grain stored and bazaars held whose precise right angled streets survive even today. These city dwellers dug wells, trained water to their large stone - carved tanks at which experts still wonder, executed a sewerage system unparalleled for years to come, made truck loads of steatite beads, fired carnelian, agate and all sorts of precious stones and were experts in stone buildings living amongst mud brick building contemporaries.

Then somewhere around 3,500 years ago these people disappeared, quite suddenly if we consider archaeological timespans. Why and how is still a matter of speculation that troubles archaeologists to this day. Some blame the environment, others a the fall in trade and still others point to unsuspecting immigrants. Some dinosaurs, fit to be under archaeological study themselves, blame invading Aryan armies.

The second phase of squatters could perhaps make sense of the ruins that lay around them, the way we do today. They were of limited means - using the earlier wells and tanks, building round huts on top of the 'citadel' ruins, transforming early drain covers to welcome mats and letting their sewerage out what was once the main entrance. The signs of early occupation and the conveniences of traditional life - water, dry land, sufficient stone would have attracted them in the first place and had given a second lease of life, though a fumbling and heart-broken one, to this ancient land.

On one of the steps of the citadel's entrances, taking us to a large rectangular 'stadium', we came across a large tin shed filled with rubble. Around it could be seen the signs of earthquake. One of the pillars was tilted. We stopped by the tin-shed and called out to Raojibhai who had walked ahead by now. He looked back, smiled and told us a story of astounding bureaucracy. When the site was being excavated in the 60s, the archaeologists found a specimen without comparison in the history of the subcontinent. We could almost imagine the conversation:

"Wow! Let's take this to Delhi !'

"And how do you exactly plan to do that ?"

"Load this on a truck.."

"And if the truck driver gets too drunk or too smart..."

"I get the drift.. we can't risk that!!"

"Yup"

"So if we don't take it to Delhi. What do we do ? We can't just leave it lying here. It's too precious for that."

"Lets just cover it with plastic, lots of mud, stones and build a shed around it."

So there, in that shed lay the largest inscription of the Indus-Sarawati Civilization we had ever seen. Three metres and 10 characters long, it was carved in gypsum on wood and had served as a large signpost over the stadium visible from all 'middle-town' and even the 'lower town', while the wood had decayed over time, the gypsum characters remained embedded in the ground.


Source: The Dholavira Signboard

I and Sohil walked around the site a bit while Frenil captured random Kutchi birds in his camera. The archaeologists in their zest had created another class division infested replica on the ground. Brick houses for senior archaeologists and mud-huts for the students - all unused since 2005, when the last season of excavations had happened.

The site museum was surprisingly well kept, with artifacts, pictures and also a polished ancient wood fossil - around 180 - 140 million years ago when this fossil was tree, Dinosaurs still roamed in India, the Himalayas were yet to be born, Madagascar was a small boat trip away and the Deccan traps with their giant volcanoes had yet to rock peninsular India.

Overwhelmed, we left Dholavira and headed to Bhuj, on to the next leg of our journey. On the way back to Rapar, we passed the Little Rann Sanctuary and with a large car and clicking cameras, disturbed a family of Neelgai resting peacefully, that ran away kicking dust into the air.

Ruins, Rocks and Stars I

(Warning: Lots of rambling ahead of a trip in May 2012)

We could see a weakly swirling mass of dust in the foreground with bits of paper and plastic. "That's a twister", pointed out Frenil and with it started our trip. A trip to explore one of the hidden gems in India's western corner - the great ruins at Dholavira, located between the large white salt flats of the Rann.

After three failed attempts at planning the trip and being muscled out of the tatkal reservations, we finally managed to snare the last three sleepers in a bus to Bhachau. Our morning was spent in Ahmedabad, the city of 24x7 eateries and the Siddi Sayyid's Jali. The Siddi's are African communities in India, mostly slaves brought in by monarchs - a digression for another day.

Ahmedabad is curiously small and surprisingly clean for a Mumbaikar. The Sabarmati riverfront, forever under construction, is emerging beautifully. Camel carts dot the sides of the bridge.  Narendra Modi posters are ubiquitous. On a side note, purely from posters, his personality cult seems far behind those of our competing UP leaders.

Around 50 - 100 kms outside the city, our horizon starved senses could feel a singeing 360 degree view. We were on wide plains. Though the Rann had yet to start, it was sending us feelers. On both sides were large salt pans, fed by small creeks, arms of the sea that burrowed landwards. This was where most of India's kitchens sourced their taste. Far afield were the outlines of almost endless windmills churning in tireless beauty. Wagons upon wagons of rail were carrying containers and coal. A signboard indicated their provenance as Kandla  and Mundra Port. Our bus left us on the gates of Bhachau - and trundled onward to Bhuj. Our cab, a Vertio, or a Logan if you prefer original names, had been chasing the bus for half an hour. We saw the twister as we got into the Logan.

Our chatty driver filled us up on facts: we were going around 140 kms beyond into the heart of Kutch, which gets its names from 'Kachhbo' - Gujarati for tortoise. If you look at the map, Kutch looks like an inverted tortoise shell. Driving through a gate that welcomed us to the Harappan heartland of Dholavira (Dholavira -  122 km), you could sense an eerie quiet. Few vehicles passed us by. After Leh (which I have seen) and the Northeast (which I have not), perhaps Dholavira is one of the few roads to nowhereland in India. The last outpost Rapar, where the BSF camps, is still 76 kms away. Here you can stock on a limited paraphernalia of modern life. We got a cup of tea and a day's stock of fruits - just in case. 

The small island is Kadir Bet and around it is the sea / white salt flats (Courtesy Google Maps)

The salt flats up close

The Rann is a vast salty desert, India's very own Uyuni. Some call this the mouth of the Saraswati. This river, like a dying parent, over the last 6000 to 4000 years, partitioned its water to the Indus and the Yamuna. The sea claimed what the river abandoned and the delta turned into a desert. In the Rann, every monsoon, the sea, full of salt, brims onto the flats and with water, migrate birds - by the thousand. Flamingoes, pelicans, egrets and bird-watchers of all variety flock the place. In summers, the water starts drying and leaves in its wake miles of crystallized salt. This sublime whiteness is bordered by small pickled fish. It's so salty that the fish and insects do not decompose. Hordes of bird feathers lying on the shore stand testament to their avian owners.This year, it rained hard and it rained long. In April, the Rann was yet drying with parts of it becoming giant mirror.

Pickled fish of the Rann

Dholavira is located in an island, the ‘Bet’, between this salty madness. Around you, signs of hinterland abound. Old men are herding goats in the traditional dresses and old women, many-a-times wonderfully tattooed all over, cross your path. The younger men dispense with the dresses and the women with the tattoos. We overtake bullock carts pulled by frighteningly large and hefty bulls with intimidating horns. One look and you understand why many cultures, including perhaps the Harappans, thought of bulls as the ultimate alpha males. The bigger houses in the scattered villages or hamlets are made of stone, the smaller ones are circular huts, essentially unchanged for thousands of years.

We reach the government guest house Toran, surprisingly well maintained but completely empty. The guest book tells us we are the second group of vistors to dare venture here in the sweltering April heat. November to February are busy months - remember the bird watchers? Around the complex we see the modern ruins of a great plan to turn this place into a tourism hub. Remains of a fountain, an amphitheater, an earmarked area for a handicrafts bazaar lie abandoned. The hotel, however, has tasteful rooms modeled on traditional round kutch huts and has, with some measure of irony, thatched roofs.

With some time on hand, we try taking the car to the nearby Park and fail miserably. On the advise of the site caretaker, we hire a local jeep used on farmland. While the jeep was about to start, a small boy, around 6 - 7 years old, a bundle of energy with green eyes and shining teeth jumped in. He was going the same way and was visibly excited on getting a ride. Sohil spoke with him along the way. This boy was delivering tea, food and a strong stick to his brother who lived an almost permanently pastoral life. The stick was to keep away wild animals (wolves?). He would return in the morning with goat milk. These here, I thought, were some of the last pastoral communities of the world. 

Also visible with the agro - pastoral life was abject poverty. Having seen and heard a little bit of the Indian countryside, I found the level of poverty here to be, if we search for a word, more endurable. In the middle of nowhereland, it had access to an excellent motorable road, a school to the 7th class and 24 hour electricity connections - if you could pay for it. This was definitely not the state I had seen  in Bengal about an year ago. While returning by car, others started discussing in kutchi. The topic was of rising farm wages, not so high prices for produce, lazy labour and so on and so forth. They were chatting on progress and one thing of concern was education - grassroots aspiration and capitalism asserting itself ! As an interesting aside, you sense them converting a lot 'S's into 'H's, like 'Samjho' was 'Hamjho' - a fragment perhaps of a Central Asian ancestry (remember Sindhu = Hindu). 

As we returned, the slimmest of all moons was setting in twilight. Orion, the hunter was visible on the western  sky. 

We return to the guest house in anticipation. This is by far the clearest sky we have ever seen....

The Election Results

Sneak peek at an 'eminent historian' viewpoint of the the election results. To be taken with a pinch of salt ;).

"The Indian electorate has once again confirmed the constraints of a bourgeois democracy and its remarkable susceptibility to capitalist conspiracy. It has voted and it is a vote against social equality, against women's liberation, a vote that brings us brushing close to the prospect of American Slavery. The only saving grace is also a vote against fascism.

The biggest setback from this vote is to the rise of an inclusive social reality in India particularly in the northern states. Messiahs of the lower castes, warriors for the poor, and advocates for their rights find themselves defeated on the flimsy issues of governance. In the past 50 years of independence, these are the states that have seen a rise in the status of poor masses and their liberation from the hands of the feudalists and the capitalists. And for the first time, we also have a parameter to help us measure this rise - the combined net worth of the leaders and their families. Where else, but in a socially conscious state can leaders of the lower castes grow this rich, while throwing a boot on the capitalist face. We can use this measure to confidently say, that if efficient allocation of capital leads to growth, efficient distribution of a cut on the capital leads to inclusive growth.

In a fitting reply to the critics, and a proof of good governance most of the free-market fundamentalists have shut shop in this part of the country. Governance should not be growth that roughshods on a section of society but inclusive growth that enriches our measurable parameter. Governance should not focus on moronic restraints like fiscal discipline but be more clearly defined, like the number of times, the word 'comrade' is uttered. It was the responsibility of the people to elect those of our comrades, who like their forbears in the Great Soviet Civilization could direct the nature of this growth. But the people failed.

Governance, is also something that should keep in mind national interest, the national interest of China. This government, unshackled and dictatorial, may be very much on its way to give India a say in the world affairs, something which would not be in the national interest (of China of course).

This vote has also negated all the progress the nation had made in improving the condition of half of its lot - the deprived women of India. It was said that the future of the country is in the hands of the three ladies. And yet, rudely ignoring all the sophisticated psephologists, two of the ladies have seen their power remarkably curtailed. The most frightening loss of perceived power was of Behenji. She had the vision to imagine a makeover for Tajmahal - making it accessible to the common man and not to forget, woman. It was she who, as our comrades in the media report, built, like Mandela's rainbow coalition, a party of Dalits and Brahmins. It was she, who with her lavish birthday parties and her cronies extorting 'donations' for the party turned the male-dominated world upside down. Yet, what do such progressive views get ?

The only gains from this elections have been the distancing from power, of the proponents of that juggernaut of the most imposing and divisive religion in history. They, horrors of horrors, attempted to distort the sacred truth of history books. Theirs was a government that encouraged regressive policies and acts like FRMB Act and Electricity Act. While reducing the government control on infrastructure, they also frittered away legacy businesses of the Government. Some say the companies were loss making, but then, you don't sell family silver because it requires polishing.

While fascism has been stopped in its tracks one can only hope that the bourgeois democracy would not endanger India's social progress. Otherwise, as they say, a people deserve the government they elect."

All of our children will be President of the United States

"Doctor, we've taIked about a good many things...but there's one thing we haven't talked about. Have you given any thought to the problems your children will have?"

"Yes, and they'll have some.And we'll have the children. Otherwise, you couldn't call it a marriage."

"Is that the way Joey feels?"

"She feels that all of our children will be president of the United States (Italics mine)... and they'll all have
colorful administrations. (pause)Well, you made her, Mr. Drayton. I just met her in Hawall."

"But how do you feel about that problem?

"Well, frankIy, I think your daughter is a bit optimistic. (laughs) I'd settle for secretary of state.(Italics mine)"


The year is 1967.
The movie, "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner Today".
The conversation was between Spencer Tracy and Sidney Poiter.
The topic is the future of children from a mixed race marriage.
The couple met at Hawaii.

The year is 2009.
Barack Obama: First 'Black' President of the United States.
Son of a Kenyan father and American mother.
The couple met at Hawaii in 1959.

Times do change in a lifetime I guess. :)

(Already commented upon by a lot of people, but just escaped my eye before this. http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/02/opinion/02rich.html)

Cold Feet

'Everyone should make at least one. I am sure you will enjoy it.' My landlord sounds encouraging. It starts almost as a joke.

'The snow seems good. Its been there the whole day. We can almost make a snowman.'
'Not interested yaar.' My roommate muttered.

'The snow really is perfect for a snowman you know. But it will melt by the evening.' That was where my landlord comes in. Again, 'There's lots of shoveled snow outside.' And then finally, 'Here is the carrot for the nose. And here are the eyes. You can make one on the porch'.

There i a snowstorm, as I like calling it, the night I from Toronto. White powder falling from the sky. I trace my footsteps from the bus stop, watching them disappear, reappear. An ephemeral coat. A flake settles on my fingertips, melting away. I hold my tongue out and feel a few drops from the black freezer up in the sky. The yellow streetlights faintly the streets, reflected by the white. It does not seem night. It does not seem day. People, many of them are not happy with it. I am in the seventh heaven. 'It's getting worse'. I just smile and trundle along, watching the white hooded cars, the empty sagging seats at the bus-stop and the drains bemoaning their uselessness. Sometimes sinking beyond the invisible boundary of the sidewalk. But that was the day before.

The next day the kids on TV make snow animals. I wait inside, watching. And then it hits me. I have never made a snow man, ever. The decade old attempts at Rohtang were stillborn. With feet after tourist feet mutilating the virgin snow, it had turned into ice, tired, resistant and intractable. It had met the ultimate fate of all snow in India. Now is the opportunity. Hey, even the kids on TV have done it !

My landlord considered it almost a crime, a deprived childhood, one that had never seen a snowman. She made sure I march out armed with carved carrots, round onions, marginal enthusiasm and Calvinistic ambitions. The porch seems too public. What if someone sees me. The sole kid on the street has built a castle. Guarded by a plastic owl and a white dog which disappears into the walls.

My creation will have to stand guard at the backyard, where wandering deer venture in sometimes from the dundas wildlife reserve. Cautious steps, wooden ones, almost at level now take me down the backyard. The same backyard which welcomes all seasons, green in summer, yellow, orange and dark red in autumn and a dry white in winter. The floor is covered with a thick carpet of grass and green wall of shrub both of which feed the deer. It also hides the squirrels, big black ones which enter the house if the window is left open, to try their hand at everything from cupboards to boxes to trash. My landlord always thinks it is the work of raccoons. Now the green carpet is white.

Down, in the land of squirrels, deer, raccoons, shrubs, I glance around. A guy next door is practicing snowboarding. Down the slope, then up. Towards netherland again. He did not fall. I am disappointed. I scoop up a small heap of snow. Then stare at it. The winter cut through my leather gloves. Should I make two balls, one over the other like they draw in the cartoon strips? But it is no longer powder. The top layer had met the sun and melted brittle, stiff. The heap refuses to roll into a ball. It assumes the shape of a pyramid instead. This is going to be one big fat snowman with an over sized winter coat. I roll over another smaller ball for the head. It comes out oval, like a rugby ball instead of a football. The kids on tv had worked hard ! It is not as simple as it looked, I realized as I see the gruesome figure. It needs some hands now.

The shrub is not ready to come off and I am adamant. Slowly it gives way. The roots remain underground. Two branches in my hands, I stumble backwards. Towards the newly transformed birdbath-to-bird-ice-rink. Besides it were two pots, waiting for plants without soil. Not empty. Filled with powder. I see bright potential for a hat.

The sticks stand out like outstretched ghost palms begging for solace. The carrots and onions take places carefully carved out. I overturn one pot. There is an oval mound on the step. It is already non-powder. Hasty palm pressure made sure nothing came of it. Powder does not stay its own way for long. The falling snow forces that below it into ice. When it stops, the layer on top melts ever so slightly, coalescing. Snow cannot flow away. It collects, forming mountains everywhere. Smoke burns water. Black walls form on both sides of the sidewalk. The melting ice is slippery, so the roads and footpaths are salted. Every now and then, someone slips. But they need to reach home, to shovel all the snow out. In the fall you shovel leaves, and then snow which follows the leaves like a family of duck. Quacking away at your misery. Virgin beauty to monster madam.

I tried out the second pot. Another mound. But only a little bit of carving. The brittleness at the bottom is hidden. I place it on the head but it does not stand still. So I flatten the head out, thumping it, cutting the brains. Then make it top heavy. The snow has melted through my shoes. My capped head, squint eyed, begging hand man lacks shoes, I realize. I conjure up boots. One is large, another is a sad case of elephant legs. I walk back to the house, semi satisfied.

Next morning, as I wake up, the sun hazes into the room. Snow melts. Top heavy structures melt further. My snowman stands in the backyard. Hatless. Headless.

Kolkata Chronicled

'Taxi?', a fellow with a moustache and stubble enquires. As a rule, all such language is representative of taxi drivers scouting for passengers. The surprise here was, there was only one. No pack of hounds closing in on doomed prey. Calcutta looked hopeful.

The yellow ambassador taxicabs are an intrinsic part of the city landscape. The same way a black premier padmini is of Mumbai, a multicolored vikram is of lucknow and the yellow painted red seat shikara is of Shrinagar. Coming through the bypass via Salt Lake City, you see large tracts of green but in development land screaming from both sides. A site few cities can boast of. (The only comparison I could think of was Hyderabad with it's million year old rock strewn landscape.) The road is lined with Coconut trees. Something which stands out, especially when your airplane circles the city forgetting the fact that it was supposed to land.

As the car weaves through the narrow bylanes and the constantly overhead flyover, it feels like Lower Parel. Old dusty buildings, sundry people crossing roads and a jumble of cars maneouvering under flyovers. Buildings, ancient and creaking, dot the roads, lanes and bylanes, interspersed rarely with the modern. Sometimes, a jarring half-renovation leaves behind a comical (architectural) juxtaposition that escapes classification. Multi-storey relics of a bygone era also stand witness, watching the city sprawl outwards. Things which perhaps gives Kolkata an old world charm not present most places.


Malls and roads are not wide, accentuating traffic and plaguing parking. Branded outlets, while international inside, carry the look of a suburban market, when driving through. Between cars of all variety, two wheelers and helmets resembling miner's hats stand out. The boards everywhere are in English, the same way as in Mumbai, Delhi or Hyderabad. In fact more than Hyderabad, which denotes that it is a cosmopolitan city.

Chat stands, kulfi and the ubiquitous kwality walls cyclewalahs declare their presence with a crowd of connossieurs waiting to catch a bite. An assortment of cars wait by the sidewalk for a dip of the puchka and a bite of the chila. The especially enticing mango kulfi (it was kulfi literally in a mango) is a street delicacy not to be missed.

While in the city, it is impossible to miss the Havda brigde. Without any pillars, with an awe-inspiring view of the Hoogly, a broad promenade and pleasantly vibrating side-railings, it offers multiple opportunities for photographs. Primitive jute mills and red brick paint-peeled buidlings stand in wilful harmony with the red railway station. Boats float arcross the horizon and cars drive over the Rabindra Setu. The imaginatively named 'New Havda' bridge with private vehicles, lesser traffic, toll booths and sidewalk-less road stands in a wired contrast to its pillarless all-men-are-equal ancient neighbour. As the car approaches visible distance, you recall photo-albums of all your relatives who ever went to the Golden Gate. 'New Havda' however, is protected from the ravings of capitalist tourism. With a police fine.

People travel across the river. On jetties. 3 rupees each - that is the minimum fare for lazing across the hoogly on a white blue boat chugging smoke. Boys, perhaps employed by the transport, jump across from port to river to boat and the other way round. The Hoogly flows on - in slow sluggish currents buried under its own expanse, letting wooden boats float gently and be guided by the oars. The lights of eden shimmer on and gongs of the prayer to kali drift with the mellowing day.

A railway line runs near the havda. Ring rails. Empty rails. Rails also run in the city centre. Comfortably ensconced in northern calcutta, the trams of chitpur and bada bazaar welcome you into the arms of old calcutta. The change is gradual. The roads get narrower, the buildings dirtier, the traffic thins as the crowds bulge and then you even see the hand-rickshaws. In the land of equals, man rides on man, unconcerned. This is the Calcutta you see in the movies.

A tram follows my taxi. However, there is only one lane and no space to park. So it follows us for quite some time, trumbling on and humming a horn whenever we stop for directions. The road names mark all addresses. Perhaps a vestige of British planning, addresses in Calcutta are the preserve of streets, like the west. (e.g. in Calcutta you live on Russel Street, in Mumbai you live at Parel) Very few area names, fewer landmarks. Road names in Mumbai confuse, landmarks in Calcutta do so. The autorickshaw driver takes in five people - with a security rod near the driver's seat, so he does not fall out.

Vast tracts of gardens, especially near the Eden do not surprise you. They follow you right from the Victoria Memorial, a white mansioned, ancient-gardened Victoria Memorial. Protected by the Marble lions gruaring the gates, you can see the people walking, exercising. You can also see an orange beaked bird. I could not figure out its name. The sprawling gardens with grandfather trees, a throned queen with a pigeon piss crown and calm reflecting pools where ducks eat fish attract all kinds of tourists.

The memorial houses a history of India. A musuem. They story of class divisions, surprisingly, does not overwhelm the picture. Hidden vignettes can be found in the numerous life stories scripted (like a Britisher who died a troubled death advocating rights for the natives). Ancient portraits (the son of Tipu Sultan painted by a European, Siraj-ud-daula looking pretty foreign in a furred cap) and amazing landscapes ('A rock-cut temple on Salsette island' - my guess are the Kanheri Caves, Kashmir, Kanyakumari, Gujrat) from across India at the turn of the 18th century present a picture of history pickled, preserved.

Coming back to the parks, the land outside is marked with stalls and with horse-carts driven by half starved ponies. Ponies which graze in the parks under tall trees, yellow flowers. a searing sun and noon criket. As you near the eden, the parks turn into parking lots, especially on a day of the IPL. Parking for cars with stickers, blue, green, red, pink - multicoloured privileges of getting closer to the grounds. The grounds of full. As many people throng in to see the cricket as to see Shahrukh Khan. The pitch is slow and the white cheerleaders seem to be the only interesting thing around - the calcutta crowd shouts anyway, unfluttered with the dangers of moral turpitude. Even Shahrukh escapes the obligatory dance routine. Bored, the flash lights refuse to work. Nothing shimmers on the Hoogly.

Buses in Calcutta are small and cheap like all public transport. Glorified vans. They leave you at the landmarks, the streets, the street market of Chowringee with the un-named old building that features mandatorily in all tourist guidebooks. It also leaves you near the metro, as the crowds move to the underground. The metro seems small especially if you have experienced Delhi. The stations however, are lined with art like all good metros whould be. It is crowded but not crowded enough to evolve its own chaotic structure unlike the suburban railway of Mumbai. The city is sweaty, smelly, tasty, crowded and red. It is also a sightful. And something you cannot easily forget.