The train goes running along the line....

When my house got caught in a flood back in... 2005, I think it was, one of my possessions I most regret losing was a trunkfull of books. A lot of them can be replaced, but there are some, especially books I read as a child, whose names or authors I can't remember. Just a memory of their covers, or a story or a poem written inside.

I woke up this morning with a line from a poem running in my head, one I'd last read in an anthology of interesting little poems. So I googled it, and it turns out to be The Engine Driver by Clive Sansom, an English poet. I remember reciting it for a competition at school when I was about 8 or 9 years old. It is probably the only poem I've completely remembered all these years and I've always liked what to me is its quirky oddness. And of course, the train travels.

A lot more research than my basic googling skills will be needed to find out the name of that anthology, and unfortunately, Clive Sansom has not warranted a Wikipedia entry. But it does provide an interesting project for my free time: tracking down these books and others like them.

Two other books that I now want to find and own have incredibly useful titles: 365 Bedtime Stories and 366 Bedtime Tales, or something to that effect. What I can remember about the first one is that it had extremely beautiful, colourful illustrations with every story, and a fairy tale called The Goose Girl that isn't the Grimm Brothers' version at all and one I haven't come across anywhere else. I could be confusing the story's title, of course.

All I can remember of the latter is that it was passed down to me from one of my cousins on my father's side, and that it was old and smelt of old books and cookies. There was a story that involved a character called Sammy the donkey, who sang, a birthday song I think, for the farmer along with his other farm friends. Again, it had interesting little illustrations for each of its stories, and these stories were definitely ones I'd never anywhere else before, nor have I found them anywhere else again. No Grimm's fairy tales in this one.

So, if anyone does have any idea where of websites and such where I could search for these, it would be lovely if you dropped a line. Meanwhile, here's The Engine Driver by Clive Sansom:

The train goes running along the line,

Jicketty -can, Jicketty -can.

I wish it were mine, I wish it were mine,

Jicketty -can, Jicketty -can.

The engine driver stands in front

He makes it run, he makes it shunt;

Out of the town,

Out of the town,

Over the hill,

Over the down,

Under the bridges,

Across the lea,

Over the bridges,

And down to the sea,

With a Jicketty -can, Jicketty -can,

Jicketty -can, Jicketty -can,

Jicketty -can, Jicketty -can…

Untitled

Why is that sometimes

peace is found only

at the edge of a cliff

overlooking a vast panorama

with green hills in the distance

and boundless blue sky beyond?

Why is it that sometimes

the body yearns to be in

five different places at the same time?

Patagonia, Morocco, the Amazon,

Santorini and the Stonehenge.

Is it restlessness?

Is it wanderlust?

Or is it just the call of the pagan temple?

Why is it that, sometimes, you worry

so much that it could cleave your soul

though you know there is no such need?

Why is there no calm in prayer

even in the holiest of holy temples

but comes when you touch ancient rock?

Why is there no refuge in writing,

that which was once the only escape?

Why does the heart not find what it seeks?

And why is it still so hard to let go?

Why does it always feel

like you’re living on the wrong side

of the thin line that divides

reality and imagination?

Why do you keep searching

when you know there are no answers?

Yes, I (used to) write stuff like this.

Cross-cultural gastronomy

Peter Mayle’s A Year In Provence introduced me to food writing. The stop-and-start-and-redo rhythm of a newspaper office meant I could spend the short gaps between endless periods of frenetic and frantic work reading about travel and food from all over the world. I painted this fanciful picture in my head, of one day being a successful travel journalist who got to see the world – and maybe even eat my way around it.

Sometimes, a well-written article, full of interesting information about amazing food is enough for me to make a beeline for the kitchen, usually to forage for something in the refrigerator and nuke it in the microwave. I am no great chef and so have absolutely no expectations from myself; despite coming from a family of Indian Cordon Bleu-type chefs, I know it will be a while – and a mountain of effort and skill – before I manage anything close. I’ll stick to my writing.

Which is why I have to write this. This year has probably been the most gastronomically fascinating of my life, despite living in a country that seems to have adopted food from its former colony as its national staple – curry and chicken tikka masala. The former colony in turn is of the opinion that British food is bland. They use no spices, you see. My opinion? It’s not bland, not really. Different maybe. But not bland.

But I digress. The thing is, you don’t have to be a Michelin-starred chef to recognise good food. And for me, one of the best things about studying cross-cultural communication – after my friends, of course – is that good food is usually in abundance. As my Austrian friend Alina put it, we CCC students have an affinity for food. After all, no cultural experience is complete without it. And what could be more cross-cultural than dinners with cuisines from different parts of the world?

Our first cross-cultural dinner, soon after term started, was just an excuse for an ice-breaker. We needed no ice to be broken; by the time we planned it, I’d already become good friends with people I know now will be the closest friends I’ll have ever had. Not only did I get a taste of their home-cooked food, I realised – to my joy and slight alarm – that they’re all great cooks!

There was the traditional German rouladen (bacon wrapped in veal), kartoffelgratin (potato bake) and kartoffelpuffer (potato patties), Italian melanzane alla parmigiana (aubergines with tomato and mozzarella), French crêpes, Japanese sushi, Austrian kartoffelkaese (potato cheese spread), cauliflower bhaaji and Maharashtrian bakarwadi (a kind of dry spring roll) – my contribution, haggis (Scottish), cottage pie, and a variety of British cheeses including Stilton and Gloucester.

And there was wasabi, which, since I’d never eaten it before, gave me quite a surprise. Only the years of eating the family recipe of healthily spicy chicken/mutton curry saved me from becoming a red-faced, perspiring, running-nosed first time taster. That stuff sure is potent!

Desserts included banana cake, brownies, tiramisu (Italian again) and Austrian mozartkugeln – the famous Mozart chocolates. We also had different kinds of beers and local ales, one of which tasted like smoked bacon! It wasn’t one meal, more like several meals together – the kinds that leave you greedy for more, making you search for place for just one more bite even though your stomach is vehemently protesting. It’s like making a journey to several countries at the same time!

While eating so many different kinds of food at one time allows you to experiment with hitherto un-thought of combinations, sticking to one kind of cuisine is enjoyable too. It lets you explore more than one dish and you realise that there’s quite a bit behind why things are cooked a certain way or eaten with a particular something else.

Since we’re living in England, one must-eat was, of course, the full and proper English breakfast. Paul, who’s from England, cooked for us bacon, sausage, black pudding, fried eggs, baked beans, boiled tomato and fried mushrooms. We began at 11 am on a Sunday and kept eating till about 4 pm!

We had to have an Indian night, of course, and I must say I add that “of course” with pride. My friends wanted authentic home-made Indian food, and I wanted to cook for them. It involved meticulous instructions and recipe-dictation over Skype by my mum and involved confusion and heated arguments over proportions. Her “pinch of salt” or “dash of masala” does not equal mine. I rued the day that I introduced her to Skype.

After much cooking, a lot of help from Susi that I couldn’t have done without and me almost burning Susi’s stove, the rotis (Indian bread, like naan), daal (lentil soup), chicken curry and cauliflower bhaaji (cooked vegetable) were ready. The most amusing (for me) and the most adventurous (for the others) part was trying to eat everything by hand instead of using knife and fork. What I'd always taken for granted, they saw as a skill, something that needed as much dexterity as using chopsticks! We also had rasgullas (Indian sweet dish), which Paul very aptly compared to eating sweet bathsponge!

Another time, Isadora, who’s from Italy, treated us to ragù – authentic Bolognese. Apparently what we’d been eating so far wasn’t just a pale imitation, it was just plain wrong.

Even more fun than just eating the food is helping to prepare it. We helped make Chinese dumplings and Vietnamese spring rolls (besides other stuff whose names I’ve forgotten!) on Lunar New Year at Yan’s house. We ate a good portion of what we’d made even before we sat down for proper dinner. But I learnt how intricate traditional methods of preparation are, and not just in my own country. It reminded me of the amount of cooking Ayi (what I call my mum), ajji (grandma), maoshi, mami, my many kakus and atyas (all different kinds of aunts) do for our traditional festivals, especially the one where we have some 36 different dishes for one meal.

A short two-day trip to Edinburgh with Susi was when I had my first taste of Mexican food at a delightful little crowded restaurant - something straight out of a picture in my head. Unfortunately, I was too busy enjoying it all too much to note down the names of what I’d eaten.

Of course, no gathering of university students is complete without a barbeque or two. Since this isn’t possible for most of the year, we quickly took advantage of the rain-less days in the short British summer. On the day that Paul invited us to his place for the barbeque, the whole of Jesmond seemed to be enveloped in the aroma of smoky outdoor cooking.

The latest cuisine on my platter is Austrian, courtesy Alina, who carted a suitcasefull of it from home. There was essigwurst (sausage salad), Brettljausn, which is a selection of different sausages and cheeses on wooden chopping board, liptauer (spicy Viennese cheese spread), kaspressknödlsuppe (soup with cheese dumplings), Linzer torte (Linzer cake), punschkrapferl (punch cake), Mozartkugeln, Schwarzbrot (Austrian bread) and a variety of Austrian chocolates. We also had Mozart liqueur – three different kinds: dark chocolate, white chocolate and something very much like Baileys.

And that concludes, for now, my foray into cuisines of the world. Hopefully, I’ll add more to this article, or write more like this one. Bon appétit!

Glory engraved

This is an article that I wrote for an assignment back when I was studying journalism. I don't think I got marked very well for it, but this is me in full description mode, and very much my style of writing.

Glory engraved

The sun glinted off Sonam’s silver bracelet, the flash blinding me for a moment. I felt myself stumble, and stopped. Turning around, I looked at the panorama in front of me. Just about a quarter of the way up to the Gingee Fort, and yet I could already see for miles around. The summer heat obscured everything in the distance in a blue haze. The hills around appeared fuzzy, blurred. The sky was a vast expanse of bright, light blue. Not a single cloud marred its facade. It was hard to believe that such a cool, delightful blue could beat down that relentlessly hot.

Situated in the Muttakadu Reserve forest area, 37 km from Thiruvanmallai, Gingee Fort is one of the most famous forts of South India. Nestled on three hills, Rajagiri, Krishnagiri, and Chakkilidurg, are the outposts. It is not hard to imagine why this site was chosen to construct the fort. From the watchtowers, at an impressive 800 feet, one would be able to see the enemy coming from far and wide. The British called it the ‘Troy of the East’.

The kings of ye olde were not incredible geniuses, just incredibly crazy, I decided fifteen minutes later. Dragging myself up another flight of indomitable steps, all my thoughts of artistic fort-building were forgotten. Why did they have to build it all the way up here? Surely no one in their right minds would want to take over the hill after such an arduous climb! I was out of breath, and from the heavy breathing of my friends behind me, so were they. We all staggered to a stop under a roofed gateway, relieved to be out of the sun and under cool shade. “Water!” someone gasped, as sounds of our inconsistent breathing filled the air.

“Mad kings!” muttered Morshed, echoing my earlier thoughts.

Though most of the Gingee fort’s history is shrouded in mystery, it has seen a long line of rulers vying for its control. For whoever ruled this citadel, ruled the countryside. Historians have pieced together from sketchy details the story of the fort’s past.

The site was an important outpost even as far back as the 7^th century. The Chola kings in the 10^th century probably built what was the forerunner of the present fort. But the most significant rulers were those who built it: the Konars. Ananda Kone built the Rajagiri fortification in 1200 A.D., and so it was also called ‘Anandagiri’.

The Rajagiri fort soared above like a silent sentinel guarding its domain, even though the people who manned it were long gone. Huge black beehives hung from the overhanging rocks like bags. The first flat bit of the path was obstructed by a large uprooted tree that slept across the trail, which we had to walk around. There was also a temple, and a rusty trident stood struck into the ground before it, each of its three prongs covered with bangles of every colour. “That is the Kamalakaniamman temple,” our guide later told us. “There will be a ten-day festival there next month. Cows and bulls will be sacrificed.”

Opposite the temple, visible through the thick profusion of trees and surrounded by craggy rocks and shrubbery, was a big pond. A sick slimy green, yet it looked inviting in the scorching sweltering heat. We left it behind and continued up the steps that wound their way up the hilltop in a serpentine path.

The steps were all cut out of grey rock, most probably granite. My father, a geologist, had once explained to me how the stone was actually cut back in those times when they had no electrical tools like saws. “Rocks were cut by boring holes into them,” he had said. “Wooden wedges were inserted in these holes. Water was then poured on them so that they expanded, and cracked the rocks.” They cleaved into a very symmetrical square pattern, I thought. They almost looked machine cut.

An hour’s tramping later, we were at the top, and when the drab bastion came into view from around the bend, I forgot how exhausted and thirsty I was. It was a history buff’s dream. The rough walled edifice, though in ruins, stood just as majestic as it must have been when the armies of rival kings fought to lay claim over it.

“More than twenty kings have ruled here at Gingee,” said the guide proudly, almost as if he was one of them. “And the fort has been built over four centuries”.

The triangular contour of the three hills is enclosed within a wall sixty feet thick. Rajagiri fort is surrounded by a moat eighty feet wide. The main drawbridge to the fort overlooks a drop of a clear 120 feet. It has now been secured, but could earlier be drawn up and taken down. No wonder the great Maratha ruler Shivaji considered Gingee the most impregnable fortress in India.

The first structure on Rajagiri hill was the Ranganatha temple, which, according to the guide, was dedicated to no God. Granaries and an audience hall stood close by. Next to it was the clock tower, where Harsha and Sonam proved their ‘rock-climbing skills’ by fording a wall with hardly any hand and footholds to get to an inaccessible staircase that took them to the top of the clock tower. They collected quite a crowd, mostly children, who were as impressed as we were. And just as fascinated with the rest of us.

While Smita chatted with the small group, one teenager broke away from the pack and came over to where I stood, angling for a photograph. “Which country you are from?” he asked.

I was taken aback. “India!” I exclaimed. Surely that was obvious?

“Oh.” He paused. Then, “I thought you were from foreign…” He sidled away, leaving me feeling like a foreigner in my own country.

I pushed the thought out of my mind and turned to snap off a picture of the ruins on Krishnagiri, which lay some distance away. Along with the granaries, there is also an oil well on Krishnagiri hill.

Far below, within the confines of the inner fort at the foot of the hills, stands the seven-storeyed Kalyan Mahal, the marriage hall of yore. The big granary, the Elephant tank, stables, barracks and the prison cells are the other buildings in the grounds. There is also the Venkataramana temple built by Muthiyalu Nayakar in the 1500s, the biggest temple in the fort. The Sad-ad-Ullah mosque, built in 1717-18 A.D. during the rule of Raja Tej Singh, is another reminder of the fortress’s vivid and intriguing history.

Many of these structures were added by successive kings: the Vijayanagar Empire of the 13^th century, the Nayaks of Tamil Nadu, the Marathas and the Mughals. Gingee was also under the reign of the French, and then the British.

We spent a happy hour exploring the dilapidated citadel.

Castles and forts have a way of being very enigmatic, almost as if they were people. This feeling intensified as I sat on a crumbling wall, gazing out at the chequered handkerchief of faraway green and brown fields. If I tried hard enough, I could almost visualize the fort in its days of glory. A picture formed in my mind, of liveried soldiers, battle-ready steeds, the drawbridge being lowered, the fortified ramparts…

As the sun shifted from its zenith, we began our way down. Our plans of making it to town to take an early bus back home were thwarted by the myriad distractions that we had studiously ignored on our way up. Rocks and boulders balanced delicately one on top of another. Every nook and cranny looked like the entrance to a hidden grotto, full of secrets.

“What’s that?” Harsha’s question had everyone swivelling around to see what he was pointing at. There was a slightly large gap in the rocky hillside. It looked decidedly like the opening to a cave, and there was no voice of dissent when we decided to see where it went. While it didn’t need any acrobatics, we did have to squeeze our way between two layers of rocks, all the while hoping we wouldn’t get stuck. It was a tiny cave, and a small amount of scrambling later we emerged into the afternoon sun… to find ourselves where we had been exactly two minutes before we spotted the cave!

Surrendering all hopes of finding a real adventure, we trudged down the trail. My thoughts strayed to the one complaint I had so far: the fort’s maintenance. Even though Gingee Fort has been declared a protected monument by the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI), there are clear signs of vandalism and damage. Names are engraved into the sides of the fort, and in the rocks on the path. They jar with the ancientness of the monument, defiling a piece of our own heritage.

As we left the fort’s precincts, I looked back at it one last time. The ruins atop Rajagiri hill sat where they were, soaking up the sun and surveying their realm. They looked like tiny dollhouses from this distance. My eyes fell on a structure much closer: a huge rectangular raised platform. And I smiled as I recalled what the guide had said. That the king and the queen slept there on moonlit nights, under a canopy of stars.

The journey

More than twenty thousand meandering words. I write as they come, not knowing where they are taking me. I fill up reams and reams of paper, each word a jewel in treasure chest of my thoughts, my imagination. You probably would not understand them, or laugh at what I wrote. Which is why it will always remain unseen from your eyes. This time, I write for me.

Train of thought on the train to London

This is the latest in my attempts to chronicle my experiences in the UK.

1.30 pm. My first cross-country train journey ALONE! I'm on my way to Reading, and after four hectic days of assignment-doing and the resultant sleep-deprivation (yes, its one of my most-used terms!), I've managed to make it to Newcastle Station to take the train on time. The train leaves and soon, I've passed Newcastle city, with the houses slowly petering out into the countryside. I see the Angel of the North and Durham as well. Durham castle and cathedral look different from the train - two ancient monoliths surrounded by neatly arranged modern houses, a contrasting but picturesque sight.

Then the houses become fewer, the horizons bigger, the grass more verdant and farmhouses more isolated, reminding me once again why I am so fascinated with this country: it reminds me of a time long ago. Not that it isn't modern, no. Just that it has managed to keep and hold on to its ancientness in today's times - over a thousand years of heritage. I see woods. I see skies bluer than I have ever seen before (even with clouds, even angry grey ones!). And I don't see tall buildings!

First stop Darlington, just half an hour later, and I've already seen so much. I'm sitting in seat 59, and there isn't a man in seat 61 across the aisle, but a young French woman eating a sandwich and watching a movie.I turn to look out of the window again, the scene outside much more interesting. I see clouds.

Its funny how the clouds seem to close to the ground. They're in layers, the fluffy white ones peacefully floating away and the ominous grey ones hanging, almost suspended, above them - looking like they'll come crashing down to the earth any second, flattening the fluffy white ones beneath them. Sometimes the clouds hang in more layers, looking like steps to a place above.

I pass yet another cottage, screened by trees. Tall trees stand at the edges of fields like sentinels guarding the crops. Towns seem to come close and then move farther away as the train swerves along on its tracks. A lone black cloud drifts drifts above and a huge flock of tiny birds looks like a cloud itself. Sheep, lots of them. Occassionally, while passing a town or a village, you can see the spire of a church or a chapel through the houses and the trees. Everything looks serene, calm.

York in a couple of minutes. Ugh! Just saw HUGE industrial chimneys belching out columns of smoke! They look like they're making whole clouds and releasing them into the sky - almost as if the sky and the earth are connected by the twisting column of smoke. I pass more big chimneys, these ones looking like a line of huge empty vases, like forgottem decor under a gloomy sky.

The train pulls into Doncaster station, then out. I pass every shade of autumn possible. Teal-coloured fields. Trees of all hues - dark green, light green, bright green, lime green, yellowing, hay-coloured, orange, red, maroon, rust, brown - a melange of shades, like an artist's pallette.

Newark-Northgate. By now, sleep-deprived mind and body are clamouring for a nap and I doze off. Gratham comes and goes. I come awake as we reach Peterborough. Another hour till London. The landscape is still empty, devoid of the clutter of buildings. In Mumbai, an hour away from the city, you're already well surrounded by the concrete jungle. Stevenage. Next stop King's Cross, London!

Suddenly, a huge, impressive building almost glides into view - Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal football club. I'm no football fan, but I remember friends who are and who would have given an arm and a leg to see it, and feel sorry I didn't have time to take a picture for them. Next time guys!

Three hours and three pages from when I started, I'm at Kings Cross. Wanted to go find Platform 9 and 3/4, but have no time. I have to go and brave the London Underground!

England, finally!

I was supposed to be doing this a long long time ago, but I guess I've been having too much fun to bother! Well, here I am, finally in England, after dreaming about coming here for most of my life. Why, you ask? I'm not sure, really, but the most probable reason would be the staple diet of Enid Blyton books that I was brought up on as a child.

The England I see and experience today is no less fascinating. There's no other way to describe the feeling.... its just so very English! I suppose what struck me the most was this connection - almost like I knew I was going to come here, at least once in my life.

Millenium Bridge, Newcastle upon Tyne

Newcastle, my home for the next one year (hopefully for longer than that!), is one of the most beautiful cities in England. After Mumbai, its also very small - I can walk almost everywhere! When I mentioned this to Alina, my friend and classmate from Salzburg in Austria, her reaction was, "Really? This is so big compared to Salzburg!"

Just 15 minutes away by metro is South Shields and the coast - the cold cold North Sea. Apart from being my first trip, it was also when I realised the English obsession with the weather, and for good reason! We went on a beautiful day, when the sun was out and the rain stayed away.

Anil, Susanne, Phillip, Divyank and me at South Shields

South Shields beach

Ruins of the Priory on North Shields

Durham was next, one of the most ancient cities in England, and Alnwick Castle and the market town of Rothbury soon after.

Durham Cathedral

Alnwick Castle and the River Aln

My plans of turning this blog into a travelogue of sorts have had to be put aside, thanks to the growing mountain of assignments that I'd conveniently ignored so far, but this is a start and I do intend to write about it. So here's to more travelling in England!