People like Us

While reading the paper today, I came across several times, and in different articles, the same word: vulnerable. Whether it was somebody driving their daughter to school, or hanging around with friends in a pub, or having fun at garba celebrations, the people in this country have a new fear: that of terror.
Its somewhat new, atleast to people in cities likely Delhi and Mumbai, though some pockets of the country have been familiar with it for awhile… and has only recently reached a stage where the common man, ‘people like us’ have begun to feel unsafe in their very homes. Actually it is probably this attitude which has led to this situation. There’s no denying the fact that out country is multicultural, with cultures sometimes so different that it becomes difficult to completely identify with each other’s problems. And that probably is why in the fast growing, economically well off cities, where it was possible to turn dreams to reality, even the common man chose to ignore and deny the problems of his fellow brother. Everytime there was a massacre in Kashmir, or a killing in Bihar, or a rape in UP, or burning of a Christian missionary in Orissa, or a sati in Rajasthan, or a naked protest march in the North east, or an earthquake in Bhuj, or tribal lands taken away, or riots in Godhra, or the depletion of the ground water table in Kerala because of a multinational soft drink company’s irresponsible manufacturing practices, or farmer suicides in Vidarbha, or the floods in Bihar… the list goes on… we treat it like it’s someone else’s problem. We convince ourselves that we are helpless to do anything anyway, and don’t even so much as raise our voices even when we see a tragedy, or injustice being done in front of our own eyes. We further push the marginalized to the very edges of society, while we are busy with the important business of earning our livelihood, or getting a new haircut or buying car, or discussing the even more important implications of Saif Ali Khan’s tattoo, or Prakash Karat’s opposition of the Nuclear deal with the US, neither of which we can claim to understand. We have informed opinions about how Mamata Banerjee is a hindrance to development, without fully understanding the implications of the land takeover on the farmers who she represents, about Narendra Modi’s criminal ways, without understanding what makes him such a popular leader in Gujarat, about the insurgents in the North east, without understanding why they choose to call their organization a ‘Liberation’ front.
We have been playing living room politics with these people and with their very lives for far too long. It was only a matter of time before they got frustrated at being ignored and sidelined and decided to walk into our very living rooms so that they may finally be heard.

How to spot a teenager...

A couple of days ago I read a shocking piece of news. While doing age determination tests on women rescued from prostitution rings, doctors realized that the ‘physical’ age of these women was different from their ‘mental’ age. I found the use words rather curious; it could just be a physical or mental deformity, right? It became clearer as I read further; these girls were in their teens but looked much older due to the introduction of hormones in their bodies, to enhance general growth and features such as breasts, leading to fuller bodies at a much younger age. In fact they are even injected with the male hormone testosterone to increase their sexual desire. However the level of testosterone in female bodies is minute, and therefore these practices often lead to an overdose, causing such abnormalities as hoarse voices and facial hair.
How sick are these practices, of flesh trade and forced prostitution? As if all the physical and psychological abuse that these women are subjected to is not enough, there are now ways to physically alter their growth… their adolescence is all but lost anyway, even the tell tale signs of age, that which would allow the more compassionate to interact with them the way it ought to be, is now being messed around with… not even the mirror would be much of a friend anymore.

The next day there was a news item about the increase in flesh trade following the flooding of the Kosi river. Apparently relief camps have become hunting grounds for pimps looking for fresh ‘maal’. A people in distress would indeed be easy to manipulate.

Cinema of prayoga

Attended this very interesting session yesterday… it was said to be an evening of cinema of prayoga (http://www.expressindia.com/latest-news/New-pinch/321754/), films by Ashok Sukumaran and Shaina Anand, curated by Amrit Gangar and held at the National Centre for Performing Arts. Their works however can’t be called ‘films’, in the strict sense of the term, even if one were to widen the gamut by terming them experimental. Though experimental and imaginative they certainly were. Their works can perhaps be described as media interventions or interactive/ installation art. And much like art, they seemed to have little ‘relevance’ though the inherent ingenuity and yet simplicity was marvelous.
Since they presented several projects, its difficult for me to write about all. I found Ashok’s (http://0ut.in/) interactive roadside installations involving electricity rather heartwarming. The connections and interactions they necessitated between people, mostly strangers, and often from entirely different socio cultural backgrounds was wonderful to see. Since this was public art, with free access for anyone who chose to stop and be a part of it, it led to a cross section of people reacting and interacting with the experiment as well as among themselves, united only by their curiosity and sense of participation.
Shaina’s (http://chitrakarkhana.net/ ) works were less obscure and rather more ‘useful’ in many ways. Certainly easier to analyse and use to one’s advantage, though precisely such interference by the State in the public life of the common man, was probably her provocation for the ‘surveillance’ camera series of works called ‘Khirkiyaan’ (http://chitrakarkhana.net/khirkeeyaan.htm). I found this series very interesting. This was more direct interaction, with both sound and video. She hooked up four cameras and television sets with split screens showing images from all four cameras. These were installed within a 200m radius of each other, in different neighbourhoods in Delhi. There were also mikes, allowing real time interaction between the people in front of the camera. Depending on where the cameras were placed, this led to very interesting conversations among the people involved. This was local reality tv with a twist…
I’m not sure of the inspirations or provocations behind their works. But they certainly are doing some fairly interesting stuff.

Shoppers, Stop!

Shoppers’ Stop advertisements never cease to amaze me.
They are distinctive, black and white images with a tag line, and you can make one out from a distance. The brand recall for Shoppers’ stop is amazing.
Several of them are also brazen and in poor taste.
Sometime ago I had seen one with children playing with toys. ‘Keep them quiet, avoid noise pollution’ or something to that effect, ran the tagline. And today I saw one which showed a woman sitting by the side of the road in a micromini and high heels, with a guy in a motorcycle in the background, who had stopped and had turned around to look at her. The tagline read ‘Wear a short skirt. Hitchhike. Save fuel.’
I fail to see the humour in either. If at all they encourage dangerous trends. The first one encourages parents to fulfill a child’s needs and demands by gifting her toys, an easy way out, and potentially very damaging to the way the child learns to view relationships. The second is totally out of context in India. If a girl tries to do what is suggested in the advertisement, she won’t just get a ride, she’ll likely get abducted, raped, and murdered. One could argue that they are not to be taken seriously just as Sardarji jokes are not, but somehow I find them in poor taste.
Unfortunately the whole Shoppers’ Stop campaign is beautifully executed. It’s simple and classy, and I suspect, pretty much a success. That’s what makes it even more disturbing. Just like the Pond’s White Beauty campaign.

As an aside, let me mention that I have a renewed sense of respect and admiration for all those Sardar boys and girls, who grow up listening to Sardar jokes, and learn to take it sportingly, even when they know that they are some of the smartest people around. A dear friend of mine who is a Sardar with a razor sharp mind and a sense of humour to match, often refers to it as a form of racism. He’s got a theory that I have come to respect. He says that one of the reasons why Sardars are able to do so well in foreign countries, even in the face of extreme racism is that they have learnt to deal with it, because they have faced it in a different form all their lives on their home soil.
It’s something to think about.

To each what he deserves...

I have been meaning to write about the recent controversy regarding Jaya Bachchan’s remarks, and its aftermath, but for one reason or another, didn’t get around to doing so. In hindsight, perhaps that’s exactly how it needs to be treated. The emptiness of Raj Thackery’s argument is apparent to any sensible and responsible citizen of the country. Why repeat what has already been said umpteen number of times. This attention is exactly what Raj seeks… perhaps a better strategy would be to deny him what he knows he badly needs: press. Report what needs to be reported, but give him as little coverage as possible. That might be a real blow to him.

Bhutan Diary 11: Onwards to Paro

(Back, after a rather long break...)
Back in Thimphu, and this time we ran out of luck with the Centre Lodge. We parked ourselves in Tandin, a hotel we had checked on the very first day. We decided to eat there as well, for lack of a better option, and I am happy to say, were pleasantly surprised. We sat at a corner table, away from the loud talking Indian crowds that seemed to be the most common of all travelers to Bhutan, and ordered a vegetable sizzler and vegetable fried rice. I remember being very happy with both dishes, so much so, that we ordered another plate of the fried rice, which we could not finish. This is mostly unthinkable for me, for I hate wasting food, and Ramya too had begun to respect this thought and all through the trip, mostly finished all but the most inedible of things on his plate. But we really were greedy that day, and paid a price for it with a heavy sense of guilt.
Over dinner Ramya told me stories of his earlier travels, most of which were undertaken alone, and were singularly unplanned. In the absence of any financial management, he had frequently run out of money, and resorted to all sorts of measures, such as borrowing from friends’ families, traveling in unreserved compartment on trains, and going without food! This trip of ours was proving to be luxurious in comparison, with me taking care of most financial management. He was occasionally piqued by the division of ‘duties’ that I did all the time, but mostly put up a brave, even smiling, face. Another interesting thing about him was how he always managed to find cigarettes. When we had started this trip, he had been most disturbed about the fact that the sale of cigarettes is banned in Bhutan. However, as far as I can recall, he never had a problem finding them.
Our next plan of action was to head to Paro. This we thought we would do by a shared cab or a bus. The next day we headed for the bus station, bag and baggage, and had no trouble finding a bus to Paro. Big mistake. The buses are mostly for the locals, who get on and off the bus anywhere, and all along the way. I lost count of the number of stops we made along the way, or the number of times I cursed myself for the unnecessary inconvenience. On the upside, it was a slice from the life of a regular Bhutanese, and to that extent, interesting. We witnessed (possibly) the first argument between two Bhutanese, the conductor and a passenger over the charges for carrying a wooden box on the bus.
Once in Paro, we started our customary search for a decent accommodation. Ramya waited with the luggage, while I looked around, but the best I could find in the deadline we gave ourselves was the Hotel Perjoling. There was another, cleaner, more spacious hotel, but it had no heater. This, as I mentioned before, was just unthinkable. We dumped our bags, and promptly headed out to grab a bite.
Paro seemed even more spread out than Thimphu, with the town centre, which is where we were at, smaller than Norzin Lam. Like Norzin Lam, there was one main street here as well, lined with shops and hotels on both sides. And needless to say, all around us in the distance were the mountains.
We looked up our printouts, and settled for the first place we saw that featured in the list. This happened to be Sonam Trophel, on the first floor, in the main street. There was little choice for vegetarians, and the gum chewing hostess seemed less than interested in serving us, even though we were the only customers in the restaurant. But the vegetable noodles, when they arrived, made up for everything. It was a delicious meal; its reputation is obviously well earned. And we finished it with tea as usual. While we were there, a big, noisy joint family came in and occupied several tables, and seemed to order every non vegetarian dish on the menu, which miraculously took no time at all to appear. Our order had taken a good fifteen minutes. Ah, I guess we were simply out of place.


At the Sonam Trophel. The restaurant had cheerful interiors and excellent food

We decided to walk around, as usual, and headed out towards the Paro dzong. Someone mentioned that it was walk-able, though I wouldn’t advise it unless you have a lot of time on your hands. We weren’t in any hurry, and it being Sunday, the Museum next to the dzong was closed. So our trip was not going to take us long anyway. We walked along the road until we came to a small wooden bridge full of prayer flags. Across the bridge and up a narrow paved path, we were directed to go by an old man hanging around. The walk up wasn’t much but it tired us out, and we had to stop along the way. I was already getting the jitterbugs just thinking about Taktsang.




Asking for directions to the dzong... one of my favourite pictures

The entrance to the Paro dzong, much like the one to the Punakha one, was up a long flight of steep steps. I suppose it was a sort of statement to build dzongs at a height and make people climb up to reach them, as these were seats of power. It was also probably out of security considerations, for the dzongs that we saw (personally or pictures of), were invariably perched on cliffs with only one point of access from the ground. The walls were high revealing nothing of the interior, and painted white, while the window frames were usually combinations of a deep brown and black, interspersed with bands of drawings in earthy shades such as ochres, oranges and reds. The entrance itself wasn’t ornamental, just a pair of huge plain wooden doors, though the long flight of steps did give it that sense of exclusive authority.












This small door was to the right of the entrance to the dzong. Beautiful view of Paro town


View of Paro

Paro dzong is smaller than the one at Punakha, but similar in every other way. Once you step through those huge wooden doors, you are immediately greeted with bright, intricately painted walls. There’s a wealth of stories on those walls which, unfortunately, we could not understand. It has a staggered entry, like in Punakha, in that when you enter you first encounter the aforementioned wall, while the door to the inside is placed to the left, out of sight if you are standing outside the doors, looking in. You enter a courtyard, which is lined on all sides with rooms on the ground and first floors. The colour scheme is the same as the outside, white walls, with wooden door frames, steps and balustrades, all painted a dark brown or black, with bands of earthy shades. In the transition spaces between courtyards, and inside the prayer rooms however, the walls are covered from floor to ceiling with paintings, depicting incidents from the lives of their mythological figures. There were monks here as well. We tried talking to a young boy monk, but he didn’t seem to understand Hindi. This seemed strange, for most locals do. Or maybe not…

The right to life and such matters

There was this furore sometime ago about Harsh and Niketa Mehta’s right to abort their child. It died down after the miscarriage but left a few questions unanswered. The couple wanted to abort the pregnancy because of medical test reports that showed a high probability of the child being born with a heart defect that would necessitate the use of a pacemaker from an early age, thus effectively ruling out a normal childhood, or indeed a normal life. The couple got to know this in the 24th (if I’m not mistaken) week of pregnancy, way after the 20 weeks deadline that the abortion law in India allows for. This made the Mehtas appeal in court, asking permission to abort the foetus in view of the circumstances. The court asked for a second medical report, and eventually rejected their appeal. Sometime later Niketa had a miscarriage.
That’s the story.
The court’s ruling and the logic behind it, is beyond the scope of this piece. I simply wanted to pen down my thoughts on the matter. And they are really rather simple. The logic against taking away a life is indisputable. However in circumstance such as the one that the Mehtas found themselves in, facing a lifetime of pain at seeing the misery of their child, and the impossibility of a normal life, for both child and parents, it seems to me that an exception could have been made. It’s unfortunate that the Mehtas learnt of the defect after 20 weeks of pregnancy, otherwise there would never have been this controversy in the first place. But in light of the situation, it seems logical to grant their request. I come to this conclusion from the following line of thought: What would I have done in the same situation? Not an easy decision at all. While it seems criminal to take a life, let alone the life of your child, it seems equally unfair to have a child who will surely be chronically ill. One can argue that some defect might have surfaced after the birth, which of course is true. And we all live with that reality anyway. Who’s to say if a medical defect will not show up, or an accident occur and incapacitate a close one at any stage in life. We don’t abandon people then, but to know in advance, even before birth, puts the matter in a different light.
Then again, I am not able to reconcile with the idea, at a humanitarian level, that abortion is okay till 20 weeks, and not after. It’s a legitimate life being taken away, even if it is before 20 weeks, how does a few days here and there make a difference? (Maybe a doctor can shed some light on the logic behind 20 weeks?) And if both acts are equally criminal, and yet one of them is legal, why not make an exception in a special case? One hopes that it’s a well thought out and responsible decision on the part of the parents or mother, as the case may be, in either scenario. It’s a decision that may well have life altering consequences for people. Certainly it’s difficult to imagine that it would rest easy on anybody’s conscience. Of course I also concede that the world is full of all kinds of people, making it essential to have all kinds of laws, but then such people have little regard for the law in the first place. Must be have laws that are designed to bring genuine offenders to book, while ignoring how simple law abiding folk can get affected by it? It’s tricky for sure, for after all, the people writing the laws, defending them and passing judgments based on them, are not always in the clean… have I gone completely off track here??
Anyway, this made me think of another case that had surfaced some years ago, and which was equally controversial, if not more. It was the death sentence for Md Afzal Guru, one of the prime accused behind the attack on Parliament in 2001. This isn’t about Guru, it is about the right to take a life, however heinous the crime committed by a person. In my personal opinion, I am against the death sentence, though of course he deserves the worst punishment possible. I realize that I am probably in a minority, but my argument is not in his favour in anyway, it’s just against playing ‘God’.

Attaboy Mr Ramadoss!

One of the front page news items in the TOI today took me completely by surprise. I had all but formed an unfavourable opinion of our Union Minister for Health, Mr Ambumani Ramadoss. In the last few years he has caught on my attention several times, but most notably for his stand on two matters.
The first concerns the depiction of smoking in films, which he wanted to remove altogether irrespective of content and suitability to the story, a rather bizarre take on the matter. Needless to say the film community was united in its protest to the idea. (I also remember him publicly advising Shahrukh Khan to give up smoking and to be a more responsible actor, like Aamir, referring apparently to Om Shanti Om as opposed to Taare Zameen Par. Now I am no fan of Shahrukh the actor, but what he does in his personal life is his business. And why make any such comparisons? Aamir has his place in the industry as does Shahrukh as does Govinda as does the last extra dancing behind these leading men. Maybe he should launch a tirade against Govinda’s pelvis thrusts as well? There I might even support him!)
The second was a public spat with the Director of the AIIMS, Dr. P Venugopal. I don’t remember it too well, and in any case it was difficult to react to. Enough details about such cases are often not available in the media, to really form an informed and unbiased opinion, and even if they were, is it really possible to do as much reading and research about every story one reads in the papers? But given the negative light I already saw the honourable Minister in, courtesy his earlier stand, I remember sympathizing with the good doctor who was Mr Ramadoss’ target, and being more than a little pleased when he was reinstated in his position in spite of Mr Ramadoss’ efforts at dislodging him.
But his latest comments about legalizing homosexuality come as a pleasant surprise. Is this the same man talking? It was while addressing a gathering during the International AIDS Conference in Mexico City that Mr Ramadoss spoke about Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code which criminalizes homosexuality, and said that it must be repealed. Such a statement, welcome as it is, is sure to invite public ire, and have long term political consequences.
I hope he sticks to his stand in the face of all that he will surely have to face. For now all I can say is, attaboy!

Lead India: bad billboards, great TVC

I had written earlier about TOI's Lead India campaign, criticising them for the hoardings they had put up all over Mumbai. In hindsight I don't blame them, in this country right now, everything from cars to paints and chocolates to sanitary pads are being sold by cricketers or Bollywood stars, or occasionally, both. So why not an initiative such as Lead India. On the plus side, their TVC is a delight to watch. Here's the link.

Monsoon clouds over Kerala

Here are some pictures taken while driving through Kerala, just before the monsoons hit. I was there on an assignment and we were travelling from Calicut to Ezhimala. There was no time to stop, so all of these have been shot from the car, while on the move.

Oh so un-fair!

There is this strange obsession Indians have with fair skin. I should know, I spent most of my growing up years thinking that I was ugly, and feeling somehow inferior to cousins and friends who were fairer. Even now the feeling hasn’t completely left me, I still take compliments with a pinch of salt, but atleast it no longer has anything to do with the colour of my skin.
I don’t know where I picked it up from, for we had no such discrimination in the family. I guess it was, as it still is, the larger perception in society that had fed my insecurities. Sadly this continues to be the case, now more than ever before, and taken to new heights by the aggressive advertising by rival cosmetic companies.
Cosmetic products, like any other consumer products, need to constantly redefine themselves, with better packaging and catchier by lines, even if the basic message remains the same. The most widely selling face product in India are ‘fairness’ creams, products that promise to make you fairer over a period of time. So while this ‘get fair skin’ theme has remained a constant over the years, the advertising for such products has had to come up with new and innovative ideas to emphasise its importance. The latest in this series, currently on air, is the Pond’s White beauty ads (here are links to episode 1 and episode 2).
Now this is not a simple ad. It’s a series of ads, that apparently has a name, the ‘novella’, and a definite storyline. It is episodic, with one episode released every fortnight. The first time I saw it, I thought it was a promo for a film, given its cast, (popular Bollywood actors Saif Ali Khan, Priyanka Chopra and Neha Dhupia) and production value (its very slick, shot like a Karan Johar film) and Pond’s was just riding along. It took me a while to realize it was a short film showing on TV, in small capsules, specifically to advertise a product by Pond’s. Talk about big budget advertising!
The product is a fairness cream that claims it can transform your skin to a ‘pinkish white’ (or a ‘pale white, you choose’.) I am stumped by this claim. Though I must admit I admire the audacity. Can you imagine pinkish white Indians?!
What makes me write this post however, is neither of those two sentiments. It is instead a sense of alarm. The ads are really well done, and the stars are current favourites. Even a skeptic like me can see how well it will be received by the general public. (I would not be surprised if this series is a big hit, and leads to a number of such ‘novellas’ in future.) The implications of such a success are, to my mind, frightening.
Such reckless and irresponsible advertising is nothing new. But irresponsible advertising that is also effective and successful is certainly something to guard against. Question is, how?

Walking around in fading light...

... on the roads of south Mumbai, rushing from an exhibition to a screening, I couldn't help but stop a few times...

The Mumbai local

My friends keep asking me why there are no pictures on my blog. A cinematographer, and only writing? I my defense I say, well, I am more than just a cinematographer. But they do have a point, so here goes… a few pictures on one of my favourite things about Mumbai, the local train.

A minor issue

I had one of ‘those’ arguments with a friend (let’s call him X) yesterday. The kind that I’ve had with myself an umpteen number of times, and in which somehow or another I am not able to defend my stand convincingly, not even with myself.
So here’s how it started. We are on our way back home and take the local train. We decide to stand near the door. The train starts, gives a jerk and starts again to pick up speed. The whole thing is over in a matter of seconds, but for us it is the beginning of a conversation that lasts for most of the 20minute journey.
The jerky start reminded me of a thought I had sometime ago on a similar journey, when I was forced to travel during rush hour. Rush hour traveling in local trains in Mumbai is a nightmare, especially for someone not used to it. Apart from the obvious discomfort of traveling in a train packed beyond capacity, there are the unwritten rules and etiquettes of train travel that separate you from the regular crowd, so that to the seasoned eye you stand out like a sore thumb. I have stopped trying to fight this, I no longer try to blend in. I am an outsider and refuse to be apologetic about it. But that’s a subject for another post.
So on this particular occasion, I was standing near the window, in the space between the seats. This is the best place to be if you are traveling a long distance, because you can stand in one place, and nobody asks you to move right or left or further, and you don’t get jostled around when people behind you try to make their way to the door. However the problem with standing here is that there are no overhead handles to hold on to. So you end up holding onto the grill in the window or maintain balance with a hand flat against the wall. But mostly, and especially if you have a reasonable sense of balance, you end up standing with your feet a little apart. This is what aggravated my problem that day.
What was my problem? My problem was the jerky start. Every time the train started from a station, it started with a jerk and then at least one more before it began a smooth pick up. I might have noticed this before but it stayed at the back of my mind. On that day however, I was forced to think about it at length, because of how I felt every one of those jerks in my knees. On that day, given that I was traveling from Borivali to Churchgate and there are 19 stations along the way, that’s a good 19 times in the space of about an hour. I’m not saying that I have bad knees, or that the jerks were so bad that my knees started hurting. I’m just wondering about the men and women who do this every single day.
Local train is the lifeline of the city of Mumbai, its chief and most convenient mode of transport. I am definitely a fan, and that has as much to do with the efficiency with which it is run, as it is to do with my leaning towards public transport in general. Every day millions of people travel by local trains, to work and back. And they do this for years on end, possibly all their lives. And given how crowded trains are at rush hour, there are about twice or more, people standing as there are sitting. Imagine the number of jerks, however small, an average pair of knees goes through in a day, and then a week, month, year and so on. I’m no expert, but I would imagine it would be doing some amount of damage, especially as one grows older.
How difficult can it be to start a train more smoothly, to be more careful, in the interest of all those passengers? I have a feeling it’s not impossible, it’s just that the drivers have not thought about the damage they might be doing. It’s a matter of expertise for sure, but it’s not an expertise that cannot be developed. It’s just that nobody has pointed out to them that they need to develop it.
And that brought me to my next observation, how is it that something like this has not been looked into? Or has it been, and I don’t know about it, in which case I stand corrected. But of all issues that I have read about concerning public transport in the city, and specifically local trains, while the quality of travel has been discussed, and new trains are being designed, this particular concern has never even been voiced, let alone addressed. Is it that nobody has noticed? Is it that nobody has noticed because we have got accustomed to accepting things as they are, grateful if they are going even half right, and attempting to improve only after something goes drastically wrong? Is it something to do with our very attitude as Indians? Is it related in however indirect a way, to our complacency about all the deaths in accidents related to local trains? If human life can be of such little consequence, surely human comfort has no place in our minds and our busy schedules.
This was pretty much the argument offered by X. He asked me to look around me, at the people traveling with us. Did they care about a measly little jerk? Unlikely, I admit. The average Indian, and certainly the average Mumbaikar, has a thousand other things to worry about. Not to mention the fact that he is perfectly aware of how much worse it can be. After all almost everyone has traveled by State transport buses, on rural roads at some point or another in their lives. Compared to that, the local trains in Mumbai are sheer luxury.
And herein lies my confusion. I know X is right, but I believe, so am I. Just because things could be worse, are indeed, much worse in most of the country, should not mean that it is improved where there is scope for improvement with minimal effort. Just because the common man has learnt to accept his plight with such resignation, and for so long, that something like this doesn’t even occur to him anymore, should the experts continue to ignore these apparently minor issues?
Is the collective damage to millions of pairs of knees every day a minor issue, and thinking about how things can be made more comfortable for them, such a waste of time for officials and experts designing and running our public transport now and in the future?
Was it a waste of time to even have written this post?

Bhutan Diary 10: The Punakha Dzong

Our next stop was the Punakha dzong. Dzongs are forts that used to be political and administrative centres. Some dzongs still function as government offices, and almost all functional ones also have shrines and monks residing within the premises. The Punakha dzong is beautiful, and this being our first visit to one, we didn’t know what to expect. We were stunned and awed into silence.
Here I shall let the pictures speak. They were not shot for the purpose of this blog, so they’re far from adequate. But they still speak way more than any words of mine possibly can. Suffice to say that we spent way more time here than we intended to, and dropped the idea to travel to the Wangdue Phodrang dzong.
I could however mention one little thing here. In one of the rooms on the first floor, we found a shrine. This is different from the one in the picture. Those were huge idols in a big hall. This was a lot more modest, a room with a shrine, and a monk quietly at work. He was making one of those decorative pieces with multicoloured concentric circles that we had seen in every temple we visited. We were curious about it, but the monk did not seem to speak Hindi or English. In fact he didn’t seem interested in speaking at all. What was really interesting was the material he was using, it seemed like white butter. That’s what made it so soft and easy to mould. He mixed it with colours (don’t know what he used for colours, but I could see coloured sticks lying around) to get the pastel shades. He would squeeze out a small piece from the coloured balls he’d made, and work it into a circle with his fingers. He made several of these in different sizes and colours. And then he put them together one over another in decreasing size. They stuck easily. And then would attach it to the main sculpture he was designing with a toothpick.
I wanted to stay awhile longer, spend sometime by the clear green water, but it was getting late. As I mentioned earlier, drivers in Bhutan don’t like to travel after dark, and sure enough the traffic reduces considerably as the sun goes down. We went back to Punakha town to see if we could find some more passengers to Thimphu. While the driver scouted around, Ramya and I looked for something to eat. But it was too much to ask for a sleepy little town like Punakha. One small restaurant that we found had a fixed menu that they were serving at that hour, and it was non-vegetarian. Being vegetarian really can be a huge disadvantage in some regions.
The driver hadn’t found any passengers, so we left, an uneventful drive back to Thimphu. How I missed Toshi!

Bhutan Diary 9: Punakha-a temple of 'fertility'

We woke up the next day to a beautiful morning view of Punakha. And no water!
(My lousy net connection no longer lets me upload pictures to blogger. However the pictures can be viewed here, uploaded through the Google uploader for Apple. Love Google. Love Apple. Love Canon (not relevant here, but what the hell!)
The next hour and a half was spent waiting for water, over cups of tea and coffee (I had to switch to coffee, which I felt was a safer choice, after a disastrous cup of tea), and a couple of trips to the kitchen, but mostly hanging around in the pigeon-shit infested balcony. It was a beautiful, peaceful morning, as I suspect most mornings in Punakha are. The air was clear and crisp, and in the distance, in the compound of the local temple, we could see a couple of monk boys fooling around with a hosepipe. They were probably supposed to be watering the plants, but were busy chasing each other. I was a little upset about the water situation, or atleast I wanted to be, but with each passing day I was realizing how difficult it was to be angry in that country, and indeed with its people.
Rather delayed, but well fed with a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, we set out to explore Punakha. Our first stop was Chimi Lhakhang, a small 15th century temple, sitting on a hillock shaped ‘like a woman’s breast’! On the way we crossed this board with posters of election candidates. Bhutan, as you might know, recently became a democracy having held their first ever election last week. This change was ushered in by none other than the King himself, another indication of the sensible, far sighted man he appeared to be. No wonder the Bhutanese dote on their King.
Our driver, this time a Nepali fellow, dropped us at the foot of the hillock at the entrance of a narrow, kachcha path. We walked through a small village and then some fields and soon enough had lost our way, which was strange because we could see the temple and so knew the general direction we were supposed to head in, but it was such a narrow path, that it was easy to get misled. There was nothing to distinguish the paths made by the villagers who worked in the fields, from the one that would have led up to the temple. Ramya realized we were off course, and we retraced our steps until we reached what we thought was the correct way. The walk up could not have taken us more than 35-40 minutes, but city bred, or should I say city spoilt as we are, breathing polluted air, and doing little by way of exercise, we were a little breathless on our way up. But the beauty of the surrounding landscape more than compensated. As we climbed up the small hillock, we realized it was surrounded by hills on all sides, and far in the distance we could see a river, on its leisurely, meandering course, while closer home in another direction was the picturesque little village we had crossed. Between the village and the hillock were stepped fields. And of course the hillsides were dotted with small white houses.
Chimi Lhakhang is a temple dedicated to fertility. It is frequented by childless couples or those who have suffered miscarriages or early deaths of their children. It is believed that the blessings received help in conception and in keeping children safe. A wooden effigy of a Drukpa Kuenley’s male organ is used to bless pilgrims. (This part I read on my way back from the temple, otherwise I would have asked to see it for sure. We weren’t ‘blessed’ with any such thing of course.)
As is usually the case, the most beautiful part of the trip was the journey, in this case, the climb up and down. We spent some time inside the shrine, but were mostly outside, walking all around the temple. While we were there, several other people came visiting, including an Indian couple that looked distinctly Bengali. We had no intention of making any polite conversations, so we steered clear of them. What fascinated me were the Bhutanese women who were walking around with complete ease in their high heels and half kiras. They weren’t exactly walking on paved roads or flat land!
Soon enough we were on our way back. This time we didn’t lose our way. We reached a little early though, our driver who had taken other passengers in order to make a little extra money while we were at Chimi Lhakhang, hadn’t yet returned. So we looked around for tea at the few small shops at the beginning of the path. Strangely enough they didn’t have tea, but a giggly young girl at the first shop offered to make some black tea. ‘No milk,’ she apologized. Ramya was happy with this too.
Then came a memorable experience for me. I wanted to pee. I asked her if I could find a toilet. She giggled some more, and told me I could use theirs. Their ‘toilet’ was a small shack at the side of the house, made with wooden planks, with gaps between the planks, and a couple of positively gaping holes. It stood on top of a pit some six feet deep, with some more planks thrown across. Below I could see the muck, though incredibly it didn’t smell much. What was a bigger source of consternation for me was a boy in the distance who had seen me enter and was looking at the shack for sure. I could see him through the damn gap, could he see me? I wont ever know of course. I took a leak as quickly as I could, and ran.
While Ramya had his tea, I took out my camera, for a beautiful shot that I didn’t get. An old man had come and parked himself on a bench right next to the window of the store, and was playing with a child, while the woman looked on from the window. But as soon as she saw the camera she backed off. No amount of persuasion worked, ‘Not interested,’ she told me emphatically.

Bhutan Diary 8: Onward to Punakha

We had started walking back already when Ramya mentioned that he would like to learn one of those instruments, and wondered if they would admit an Indian. So back he went to find out details, while I went on to the Bhutan National Bank to make enquiries about the money transfer. This turned out to be a bit of a wild goose chase because the bank had closed for transactions by the time I reached, and then I had to see the manager who sits in the corporate office in another building (which was, fortunately, a short walk away) and he was on leave. But I was helped along by the ever friendly Bhutanese, and a phone conversation with the manager later, I had the solution to our financial woes. In the meanwhile, Ramya found out course details, but could not find out whether he would be allowed to join because the RAPA head was away. But he got the email address, and so it seems Ramya might well be back in Bhutan for a longer stay!
Back at Centre Lodge, we picked up our luggage, and headed towards the bus station. We had been told that we could get shared cabs to Punakha for 150/- per person. This is what we thought we would do. As it turned out, cabs to Punakha were not as frequent as we had been given to understand, and the one of two that we found was willing to take us for not less than 250/-. We gave in, and headed off with a friendly couple, whose name I have forgotten. I say name because what I do remember is that they both had the same name. It made me wonder how weird it must be to have the same name, if they were actually married or seeing each other, which seemed to be the case. We also realized why we were being overcharged. We were leaving really late, and most of the journey was going to be in the dark. That is always a risk given Bhutan’s mountainous terrain and hence the higher charge.
The drive was pretty, especially because of the changing light. Punakha is in a valley, at a lower altitude than Thimphu, but to reach it one has to cross mountains that are higher. It got rather chilly on the way, and there was frozen ice by the sides of the mountainface. It was all very thrilling. The high point of the drive however, was undoubtedly the driver, Toshi. He was the most talkative fellow we came across in Bhutan. The man was full of energy, and talked non stop for the three odd hours that it took us to reach Punakha. He was smart, his English, which he spoke with an unrecognizable accent, was better than that of the other drivers we had come across, and he had some attitude! All this made him great company. He spoke about a variety of things, ranging from the behaviour of women in Bhutan (incited by my willingness to sit on the front seat, which I didn’t eventually do, but which met with appreciation from him, for apparently the Bhutanese women didn’t), his family, his work, his many years driving a taxi, and his gradual shift from a hired hand to owning his own car, weather, music, tourists, places to see in Thimphu and in Bhutan, the difficult climb up to the Taktshang monastery, the recent influx of the newly rich call centre young crowd from India, party hotspots in Thimphu, places to get weed… you get the picture. This is apart from the parallel conversation he carried on with the Bhutanese couple, in Bhutanese. To top it all, he was a very safe driver. It certainly was one hell of a drive.
In the middle of all this I got him to promise that he would help us find a decent hotel in Punakha. This he did; although we rejected the first hotel he took us to for the room didn’t have a heater, and I could no longer think of an existence without it. At the second hotel, we heard the word ‘balcony’ being mentioned in the conversation, and Ramya and I smiled at each other. Yes, it had a balcony which looked out to the small town that was Punakha, and the mountains beyond. That settled it for us. I don’t even remember anymore whether we had a heater in the room.
We dumped our luggage and decided to eat at in a different hotel. Mistake. Punakha is tiny and it was the off season. It was only 9 o’clock, and the rather big restaurant that we had crossed on the way, and decided to eat at, was simply not serving food. What is very sweet about the hotels and restaurants in Punakha, as indeed in many others all over Bhutan, is that they are all family run enterprises, with the family often staying in the same premises. What it means is that its common to see a family sitting around a heater and watching television or chatting in the reception. This is what we found in the two hotels and one restaurant we were at in Punakha. It gives a very homely feel to the hotel.
Back to out hotel then, and we requested them to make us some dinner, while Ramya and I tried to guess the young girl’s age. We had met two women and one boy sitting in the reception, and while we waited for the rice and another datsi preparation, this time with spinach, to arrive, we tried to figure out what their relationship might be. I couldn’t tell whether the girl was the boy’s sister or mother, and Ramya thought I was mad. He said she was younger. Obviously I had not taken as good a look at her as he had, for he was right. She was a young, pretty girl called Sonam (again!) and was aware that she shared her name with a Bollywood actress who was being launched in a big budget film called Saawariya. Ah, the reach of good old Bollywood! It was her family that owned the hotel, and the boy was a cousin, a journalist who was working elsewhere but was visiting them for a few days.


In the restaurant


The food was just about edible and the ‘local wine’, which turned out to be the same Bhutanese sake, or rice beer, was worse. But our spirits were high and we had a nice little chat with the boy, who joined us at the table, and offered to drive us around the next day in case we were not able to find a taxi early enough. In fact we were so excited, sleep was a long way off, so we actually ended up having multiple cups of tea.

And I travel by the same trains...

It was a news item that was both shocking and frustrating. The headline in HT today spoke of a young man who had had an accident at a railway station, and had to wait for over 45 minutes for an ambulance to take him to a hospital.
Before I go further, here are a few facts, all quoted from the same article:
‘The railways do not have a single ambulance available at any of their 103 stations.
There used to be 18 ambulances run by a concerned citizen who himself lost a limb in a rail accident. He withdrew the service after the railways demanded that he pay them parking fees and regularly commandeered his vehicles to go vegetable shopping.
About 25 people are injured and 10 people killed on the suburban railway tracks every day, as a bursting- at- the- seams service struggles to accommodate a third of the city’s 18 million people.’
This, in Mumbai, the commercial capital of the country and a city modeling itself on Shanghai. This is the state of the ‘lifeline’ of the city, the suburban railway. On the one hand the city administration talks of a multi pronged approach to develop Mumbai and turn it into a ‘world class’ city. On the other hand it can’t provide basic amenities to its teeming millions. What is even more shocking is that it is unable to support the efforts of citizens who try to make a contribution. And this is the sort of dichotomy that people seem to have learnt to accept.

What has always struck me as odd is all the hullbaloo that is created about the ‘spirit’ of Mumbai every now and then. When the serial bomb blasts happened in local trains a couple of years ago, everyone was talking about the spirit of the people of Mumbai, who were back on their feet the next day. Well, I ask you, do they have a choice? Everybody has compulsions, responsibilities, jobs to get to, errands to finish, and at the end of the day, families to feed. Not working or taking the day off, are prerogatives of the well to do, not of the common man who travels by train.
What might be more impressive, or perhaps disturbing, is that the people of Mumbai continue to travel by trains, without raising a voice against the conditions under which they travel, and the lack of safety and first aid mechanisms.
At the time of the bomb blasts, the number of deaths was a huge issue. Mumbai had lost many of its hard working, promising citizens to terrorism. What about the hundreds it loses every month to the apathy of its leaders? If we were to do the mathematics, guess who would emerge as the bigger evil.
And yet people have learnt to accept things as they are, because that’s the way they have always been. And because the common man is too busy earning his daily bread. Where does he have the skill or the time to write letters, sit on dharnas or file public interest litigations?
He is content as long as the trains run and he gets a foothold…

Bless One Tree

This should have come several days ago, but what the hell!
When Chris first told me about the One Tree festival, I was less than enthusiastic, courtesy my pathetically low knowledge of music. But he was thrilled, and his excitement rubbed off on me. Even if it hadn’t I have a feeling he would have dragged me to the festival anyway. Either way, I would be eternally grateful to him.
Thankfully my ignorance does not hamper my ability to appreciate. And that is why I was blown both days, listening to the musical geniuses that are Robert Cray and Jose Feliciano.
Robert Cray has a voice like honey, and is a complete performer. I am told the music he plays is the blues, I couldn’t care less about categorizations and genres. He played the guitar beautifully, and was crooning and whispering to the audience with as much ease as full throated singing. And it was amazing. Chris and his friend Suhel tried to get him to play a number called ‘Don’t you even care’, but he didn’t, possibly we figured, because of a lack of his full band. However to repeated shouts of ‘Don’t you even care’, he replied, ‘Of course I do. I care very much. I’m trying to do my best here.’ The man is such a performer!
Jose Feliciano, who played on the second day, is another whiz with his guitar. He is an interpretative artist, which means he also performs other musicians’ songs. And how! His interpretations, while deriving from the originals, are just so brilliant, some of them sound better than the originals. I knew only a few of the songs that he performed, and I was able to appreciate his genius at reinterpretation for only those. But it made me realize how much I was missing out by not knowing the others. For listening to the ones I did know, performed so differently, blew my mind. His own compositions were good as well, especially the instrumental piece that was inspired by the book ‘Autobiography of a Yogi’, a book that ‘changed his life’.
Maybe I should mention here that Jose is visually impaired, though it’s something that he doesn’t like to play up, so people miss it. Suhel for instance, who knew his music, didn’t know this. Not that it is in the least bit important, he certainly has not let it come in his way.

Bhutan Diary 7: More Coffee, no conversation, some disappointment

Having realized that we needed to plan our trip a little more than we had earlier realized, we began the next day by a visit to the bus station. This was when the bubble burst for us. There were several things we realized over the course of the hour that we spent there. One, for instance, was that there was indeed only one bus going to Bumthang and it didn’t leave until several days later. Except that we didn’t have several days. We had a very limited stock of cash. There was also the fact that buses in Bhutan usually left early morning, or latest by afternoon, depending on the distance to be covered. It made perfect sense, Bhutan is a mountainous country, ofcourse they prefer to drive during daylight hours. No matter what the length of the journey, even a 12 hour drive would begin at 7 in the morning, rendering meaningless our plans to sightsee by day and travel by night.

The bus station is across this bridge

The buses weren’t very frequent and were usually booked in advance. I could go on, but the gist is that we realized that going to Bumthang was not a possibility anymore. We took down notes about bus timings and went across to the Art Café to discuss the next course of action.

I sulked over this changed scenario for awhile, while a rather amused Ramya shot a million pictures of me in this quiet, unhappy mood, three of which I am posting here. Ramya is like the sea, always calm, atleast at the surface. He might have been upset too, but he didn’t really show it. His response was ‘Well, I’m coming back to Bhutan!’ So a couple of coffees later, I concluded that we had better make the most of the few days we did have, which could not be achieved sulking.



Sulking at the Art Cafe


Back to the hotel, and phone calls to Tsomo at Yamphel and Kuzang, the driver who had taken us to the Changangkha temple. I enquired about making a trip to Punakha. Both suggested a day trip to Punakha, leaving early morning and returning by evening, but given our propensity to rise late, I thought leaving the same day would be a better option. This I discussed with Kuzang, who was nice enough to drop by to talk to me, and brought a thin but excellent guide to Bhutan, published by the Bhutanese government.
We were keen on making our afternoon in Thimphu a productive one, and of the many options listed in the book, we chose the Royal Academy of Performing Arts. This isn’t exactly a tourist spot, but we were very interested in seeing any local performing arts, even if it was only students practicing. A quick lunch at Chopsticks later, we were on our way.
RAPA has four divisions, the Mask dance, Music, Folk dance and Drama. We reached towards closing time, so we only managed to catch a couple of those activities. There were some students playing a local musical instrument and some others dancing in the lawn. It wasn’t the season, and there didn’t seem to be any cultural activities on at the time we were there, but we were told that in the summer, around their festival time, there are a lot of performances all over the country. Of these the mask dance is perhaps the most popular, and best recognized. The masks worn at these occasions can be seen in all handicrafts shops. They are very colourful and feisty. It must be a sight, to see so many of these, and with equally colourful costumes, dancing along the streets.

Bhutan Diary 6: Coffee and conversation in Bhutan

Back to Norzin Lam, which was feeling more and more like home ground, and we decided to try Khamsa again. We were freezing, and that seemed like a good reason to have a cup of coffee, while enjoying the ‘views over the surrounding mountains’. We reached Khamsa at six, and found two girls there, getting ready to close shop. At six? Unbelievable. It didn’t take much pleading though to convince the giggly girls to serve us coffee.



The book I am bent over is the coffee scrapbook at Khamsa. Its an indoor cafe, but it does have a wonderful view

Check out the kiras that the two are wearing. That coupled with the jacket on top is the most common dress for the women. Stripes and checks are very popular for the kiras, while the jacket is typically of a single colour

Khamsa is located on the top floor of a building called Cham Lam Plaza, and it does indeed have a wonderful view of the surrounding mountains, which at that hour were pitch dark, and dotted with lights. It was a nice enough view at night, and must be prettier by day. The coffee was good too, though I preferred Art Café’s fresh ground. Khamsa had a scrapbook full of coffee trivia, articles on coffee, its history, popularity, types etc and a whole series of cartoon strips. Interesting!
On the ground floor of the same building, we found a shop selling North Face jackets. We walked in to enquire. We were expecting to go to Bumthang and had to pick up warm clothes for the trip. The lady at the counter was most friendly and helpful. She showed us North Face jackets, told us what kind we should pick up for the cold we were likely to encounter and then talked us right out of buying anything… she and Ramya were united in their opinion that we should pick up local stuff from Bumthang. Well, I was all for local wear, so I was delighted by the idea. At this point, I should probably mention my consistent but as yet failed attempts at picking up a half kira for myself. I wanted to get something that was traditional, without burning a hole in my pocket, but it seemed just too much to ask. I hadn’t walked past a shopping street without checking out all the kiras on display, and had stepped in to a few shops, only to be disappointed by either the choice, or the price. We still came away with dirt cheap woolen socks, ‘imported from Bangladesh’. Most things in the shops in Bhutan were imported either from Bangladesh or Thailand, and priced accordingly. I had for instance bought a muffler earlier in the day, which had cost me twice of what four pairs of socks together did. I was also forced by Ramya to buy a hat! It was a very daft thing to do, but then I have to admit it did look sweet, with a bow at the back and what not. I cursed Ramya then and threatened to make him carry it, but I bought it anyway. The helpful lady gave us a discount and a travel magazine, for some articles that she thought we might want to read.
Our next stop was this awesome handicrafts shop that we had passed along the way. We walked in to just look around, and ended up spending a good hour browsing through the things on display, and finding out about the significance of anything that caught our fancy. The shop was playing beautiful music, sung by Ani Choying Dolma. The shop had several cds of her music, and the lady there was nice enough to play several tracks for us. The music was simple, with few instruments as accompaniment, but haunting. It was also perhaps one of the most calming pieces of music I have ever heard. We fell in love with it immediately. But uncertain as we were of our plans, not to mention our finances to carry them through, we didn’t pick up any. That is something I regret to this day. We thought we would at the end of the trip if we had any money left, but as it turned out, when it was time to leave, we didn’t find the opportunity.
On the other hand, we did pick up other stuff. There were these wall pieces, faces of the Buddha and princess Tara, that I just could not tear myself away from. I kept going back to the same ones; it was as if they were telling me, with their calm faces and closed eyes, that they belonged elsewhere. So we left the shop considerably poorer, but very pleased with ourselves.
We decided to eat at Comifers that night, which wasn’t easy to find. We were aided as usual by friendly locals who walked us all the way up to the restaurant, even though it was a very cold evening, and they must have been in a hurry to get someplace warm.
Comifers turned out to be a big, cheerful restaurant. It was made merrier still by a whole bunch of youngsters, almost 30-40 of them, who seemed to be having a party. They had taken up most of the tables at the place, and there were few other customers. But we found a lovely place to sit anyway, a comfortable sofa next to the bar, which we plonked ourselves on. The man behind the counter was friendly and talkative. He had been to India on several occasions and studied in Bangalore, so he seemed to connect with us easily. While chatting with him about our travel plans we realized that traveling by public transport may not be easy, for its not very frequent. Buses to Bumthang for instance run only once a week.
In reply to our enquiries about local liquor, he recommended the Bhutanese sake, and dissuaded us from trying the ‘sonfy’, which he said was the poor man’s alcohol and most unavoidable. They didn’t serve either at Comifers, but he arranged a bottle of sake for us anyway. Sake is rice beer, and best had fresh. The sake that we had that evening was a little too bitter for my taste.

Eating at Comifers. The pictures on the wall are of the King and his son, both very handsome men. The Bhutanese seem to love their king. You will find their pictures everywhere, in shops, restaurants and hotels



The food on the other hand was excellent. He helped us with the order, so I’m not quite sure what we had. I believe it was thukpa and a tofu preparation with vegetables and rice. We were so supremely happy by the end of the meal, we just had to round it off with a coffee, which sadly was Nescafe.

Valentines's Day Mumbai style

Yesterday my maid walked in in the morning asking me about the situation in the city. Since I have all but stopped watching television news unless something positively drastic has happened (such as for instance, the assassination of Benazir Bhutto, which was the last time I switched on the television to see the news.) So I say I shall read the newspaper and tell her. I pick up the paper expecting to see headlines about the violence in the city and Raj Thackery’s latest moves. Instead I see a full page picture of Neha Dhupia sporting a dainty little piece of diamond studded jewellery round her neck. Ah, of course, it's Valentine’s day!
Could things be more ironic?
This whole identity thing has always intrigued me. If our politicians are not dividing us on the basis of religion, as does the BJP and Shiv Sena, or caste, as does the Samajwadi party, its region, as we are witnessing in Mumbai and elsewhere in Maharashtra right now. So what makes this sense of identity, this feeling of belonging to a group, so important? Is it just a sense of security, in numbers, for instance? No, certainly it’s more than that. People in a minority are often fervently loyal to their religion, caste or ethnic group, irrespective of what the consequences of such a stand might be. And then there are people who are willing to turn violent, to beat, steal, rape, even murder for what they consider is the cause of their brethren. But surely all these are against what any religion professes. Forget religion, surely it’s against basic human nature?

Bhutan Diary 5: Permit Raj

It wasn’t my intention that there should be this long a gap between posts, but a long shoot came along, and work after all is work. Gotta make a living…
So I realized that I just about finished writing about the first day in Thimphu, and now so much time has transpired that I’m not sure I will remember all the details of the rest of the trip ☹

Day two began as lazily as usual. Throughout the trip, every single day I would resolve to make the most of the daylight hours, and that necessarily meant that we start the day early. But no matter how hard I tried, which in hindsight was not very hard, this remained a resolve. I like to pack a lot in a day when I am traveling, in an effort to collect as many experiences as I can, but the fact that I didn’t succeed this time around, says something about the laidback Bhutanese spirit, or perhaps the laidback spirit of my travel companion, or both.
At any rate, I gave in.
So we surfaced at nearly ten as usual, and made our way to the nearest travel agency, to figure out how we could make the most of our few days in Bhutan. From the material we had collected, we knew already that we wanted to go to two places for sure, the Taktshang monastery in Paro, and Bumthang, which was supposedly the ‘Switzerland’ of Bhutan. At this point I should mention the two crazy ideas that both Ramya and I had and were fairly excited about, but which we were soon to discard. We wanted to go hiking/ trekking, and spend a few days living in a monastery. The former was impossible because it was not the season, and for lack of time on our hands, and the latter because it is simply not allowed. So much for our spirit of adventure!
I should however clarify that Bhutan is supposedly an excellent trekking destination. Had we been there in the right season, and with time and money to spare, I’m sure we would have been spoilt for trekking options.
Anyhow, we landed up near the National Stupa, at a travel agency called Yangphel. The lady at the counter was most helpful, even though we made it clear from the start that we were not there to take one of their travel plans, but only needed some guidance. Hurrah for the friendly Bhutanese. There was a travel guide who chatted with us and gave us a lot of useful information. The most important discovery for us was that to visit the places that we intended to visit, we needed passes from two different departments, the applications for which were accepted only till noon. It was 11.30am. We hurried from Yamphel to the Tourism office, and filled up the forms for the road permit. Then we split and Ramya went to the hotel to put back our luggage (we had thought we would gather the information that we needed and split from Thimphu, so had checked out), while I went across to the Tourist Permit office for the individual permits for monastries and dzongs.
The Tourist Permit office was good long uphill walk away, and with every step I cursed myself for splitting duties the wrong way. I landed at the office out of breath and in a foul mood, but the friendliness of the chap there got me. Again! I wrote out an application. Even before I had finished, the man asked me a couple of questions and left the room, and returned ten minutes later with the permission letter. He then looked at my application, smiled and added a couple of more names by hand. Ofcourse I couldn’t understand a thing for the letter was in Bhutanese, but I got the impression I had permission to visit more places than I possibly could. He then showed me a book which was an internal documentation by the ministry, and which seemed interesting because it spoke about the history and culture of Bhutan. I flipped through it but realizing that I couldn’t possibly actually read it there, I asked him where I could pick up a copy. Next thing I knew I was walking back with the book tucked under my arm. By this time I was positively in love with the Bhutanese.
Lunch was at the Rice Bowl, another restaurant in the same building as our hotel. This was a recommendation too, but by one of the boys we met at the counter the first night when we had checked into Norling, who told us he was a waiter at rice bowl. We were experimental as usual with our choice of food, and most of it was interesting. A good meal can be such a mood elevator!
I spent some time checking out warm clothes while Ramya went to the Internet cafe. We had bought some in Guwahati, but not enough for a place like Bumthang. We were told it was probably snowing there.
I believe this was the day we went across to the Textile museum to kill time while we waited for the road permit. Its been a while now, and my memory is failing me about our day to day activities… needless to say I haven’t actually written an account of all this anywhere else, and I could kick myself for that!
The textile museum has samples of a lot of different kinds of textiles, most hand woven, from the 1600s to the present day. And ofcourse it talks in detail about the Bhutanese national dresses and how they are worn. There is also a demonstration room where people were busy hand knitting on small traditional wooden looms. I wonder if it can even be called a loom, it was just a wooden apparatus propped up by the women using their legs, while they sat on the floor. There seemed to be hundreds of threads stretched across and it seemed a miracle they were not all hopelessly entangled.
There was also a video room showing a short film about weaving, but the television had such a bad picture that we gave it a miss.
We collected our road pass a little after 3. With little time left before sundown, we decided our best bet was to visit someplace closeby. We chose to go to Changangkha temple. The taxi driver who drove us to the temple was friendly and seemed knowledgeable, so we took his number.


Described as one of the oldest temples in the Thimphu valley, it is dedicated to Avalokiteshwara, the Buddhist lord of compassion. The temple is on higher ground, and therefore offers beautiful views of the valley. We had to climb a flight of steps to reach the temple, and as in most Buddhist temples in Bhutan, the first thing we encountered was the prayer wheels.

Inside the temple compound were two small rooms filled with lit and unlit diyas. The main shrine was inside a bigger room on the other end of the courtyard. This temple, like a lot of others we visited in the days to come, had a side entrance. The main shrine is typically inside another room, or at the centre of one wall, and directly opposite this is a seat, with a low table in front, with some texts kept on it. This seat I assume must belong to the temple’s chief priest. The Bhutanese visiting the temple were bowing down in front of this seat too, just as they were in front of the deity. We never saw anyone actually seated on one of these, but these seats were in all temples. Perhaps they were used only on special occasions or during daily prayers, but we never had an opportunity to attend any. At any rate, it explains the side entrance. Photography was not allowed inside the temple, so there are no pictures of the inside.


The deities inside were beautiful as usual, and the temple colorful, with paintings on the walls, and the silk cloth hangings. These were made of metal though, unlike the Zangdopelri. Irrespective of the material used, the faces of the deities were always colored golden. In this case that wasn’t required, for they seemed to be made of a brass kind of material anyway. The Bhutanese have a peculiar practice, they offer just about anything in the temples. We were most amused to see packets of biscuits and chips lying as offerings. The other thing we found in this temple, and subsequently in all others were bowls full of water, typically five in number but sometimes more. Also to be found are little sculptural arrangements of lots of concentric circles, in white and pastel colours. More on this later, for after a few days, we ran into a monk making these. A peculiar thing about this particular temple was that I was not allowed to enter the shrine room. Apparently women are not allowed inside.
I did the customary turning of prayer wheels, and was marveling at the view of the valley, when Ramya disappeared down the steps. I followed soon after, only to realize that I had lost him. I went back up and found a path breaking away from the way to the temple, and leading to a small structure. From behind this structure I could hear voices and the sound of someone strumming a guitar. It was a pleasant enough tune, and I was curious to see who was playing it. It was a bunch of young boys, who promptly broke into ‘kuchh kuchh hota hai’ as soon as they saw me. One of them walked up and started apologizing for the rest. Ramya was there too, and after hanging around there for awhile, we made our way back. On the way, Ramya and I got chatting about the boys, and he asked me if I had noticed the cans of paint lying around, which indeed I had, and I had wondered what they were for. Apparently we had run into a bunch of junkies!