The Assam Trails: An Acquired Taste

Waking up to the sound of rain isn't exactly 'normal', nor is being up at six thirty and having the world around you already in motion.

It's been two days at 'The Ant' for me. And if the appetizer is anything to go by, the whole meal promises to be pretty unforgettable. And very out of the ordinary. The Ant (the Action North East Trust) is a voluntary organisation set up by Sunil Kaul and his wife Jenny near the town of Bongaigaon in West Assam that focuses its work on the poorest and most disadvantaged sections of the northeastern region of India. It works in several ways and on several levels, and I'm currently interning with its daughter organisation 'Aagor' (meaning 'design' is Assamese)- which is a weaving enterprise that aims at providing a sustainable livelihood to disadvantaged women by engaging them in several weaving projects that incorporate local traditions and aim at making them marketable as modern apparel. The collaborate with several other organisations, including FabIndia, to market their products. So if you see a gorgeous translucent silk stole at FabIndia, it might well be made of Eri silk (or what they call non-violent/ahimsa silk) manufactured in these very areas.

One of the biggest things that strikes you about the campus (where the main office and hostel is located- and where I stay) is its quiet, unassuming beauty. There is nothing about it that's been decorated for the outside world, but it pulls you in through it's rickety wooden gate- into it's dedicated, hardworking world. The smiling faces of the staff, most of whom don't understand a word of Hindi but are eager to let you in, welcome you. There is a river at the back that quietly flows- and which I'm determined to dive into several times before I leave this place.

This morning, my initiation into it's working began with a tour around campus and especially the weaving block-- where about 24 women work away at the looms from six am to six pm, creating a familiar, comforting drone of wood softly hitting wood. This morning is also the weekly coordinator meeting of Aagor that I'm expected to attend and absorb something from. These coordinators are the the ones who connect a specific set of villages or a specific geographical area (called a 'cluster') to the main tailoring and marketing departments of Aagor. They take it upon themselves to distribute the yarn according to the order, and collect the fabric from these clusters to give them back to Aagor.

To further understand the intricacies of the system, I am asked to accompany Abo Bina- the coordinator of one of the clusters. 'Abo' means 'elder sister' in Assamese and is usually used as a term of respect. As a result, I now have to quickly get rid of 'didi' and 'aunty' (usually met with blank stares or I-don't-know-what-you're-saying-but-you're-sweet smiles) from my vocabulary.

The next question, that of how to get places, is quickly taken care of before my mind starts wandering places. I'm handed a pair of keys to a bicycle with a smile and a "I hope you know how to ride one!" Getting all excited about possibly riding a bicycle on these beautiful roads, I quickly dash, get my camera and my ever-trustable jhola. And with that, we're off. The bicycle ride is more heavenly than I could ever find words to describe. As we go along the road, a gentle breeze blows across the lush green of the paddy that surrounds us, and the joy of riding on a road without worrying about any kind of traffic is just indescribable. The sun peeps through warmly on occasion, but it is mostly overcast in the most wonderful way. This, in the peak of the the afternoon. Thinking of how we'd be hiding for cover in Delhi at this hour, I chuckle to myself.

We soon wander off the road into areas with a thick undergrowth and a small trail leading us along. Seeing all the moisture and the grass, my first question to her is almost instinctive, "Are there snakes around?" She laughs. "Too many," she says, "But they're harmless if you don't do a thing." A slight shiver passes down my spine as I think of the unwelcome slimey reptiles, but thankfully the surroundings are overwhelming enough to drown the worry for the rest of the ride.

We start with visiting several houses and the resident weavers. Weaving, I'm told, is intrinsic to the Assamese culture. Everyone has at least one, if not more, weaving looms in their houses. They weave their own clothes at home, and lead a very self-sufficient existence overall. I notice this as we stop from house to house. Everyone works on these looms-- with colours that can catch your eye from a distance. Pink, yellow, blue, green, purple. Each in several shades, with several confusing local names. Each helping create a piece of fabric that entices customers to buy it nationwide.

The first thing we're offered as we approach a house is freshly-cut betel nut and some betel leaf to go along. At first, I find it peculiar, and not having ever been a fan of desi pan, I hesitantly make myself a pan with elaborate directions from Abo Bina (take a leaf-apply the white powder- fold it- but some betel nut into your mouth- and eat the leaf next). As soon as I eat it, the bitterness of it floods my senses, and I wonder what hit me. The pan made in the cities, even the non-sweet ones, have more condiments put in to cushion the impact of the betel nut. All I have here is a flimsy leaf, and some barely-there white powder! Even as we drive away after chatting with them for a good ten minutes, the taste of the pan refuses to leave my mouth, practically having coated it with a nonperishable layer (or what seems like it at the time). It's an acquired taste, I tell myself. It'll take getting used to.

My next opportunity to 'get used to' comes soon enough. The next house we stop at offers us the same. And the next, and the next, and all the ones that follow. The only thing that varies is the container- often indicating how well-off a family is. Otherwise, it's the same overwhelming bitterness, the same flooding of the senses. After a couple more, I decide I'm done trying to 'acquire the taste', and start politely refusing. It works well, and my stomach stops grumbling as much as it did earlier.

As we get back, I start quizzing Abo Bina about the various designs on the textiles. She informs me- in very adorable broken Hindi that starts getting hard to follow when you lag behind with your bicycle- that all the designs Aagor does are inspired by nature. There are the hills (Pahar), the wink of a peacock (Daorei Mekhrip)- and even the fern (Dinkhiya). Apparently, these are not kept just to the weaving looms- and sometimes carry over into the kitchen. As I sat for lunch earlier in the day, I was served suspicious looking green vegetables (I thought they were beans, initially), and was informed they were actually the locally available ferns. Having only seen these growing in wild abandon everywhere-- and between the pages of the thickest books in our library back home (Mum is incredibly fond of pressing these pretty things to later use to make cards etc), you can only imagine where my shock was coming from. I reluctantly ate some, and it tasted nothing like anything I'd eaten before. Acquired taste, I told myself.

As we came to the end of our long cycle ride-- over bamboo bridges, through open meadows and flooded fields, and on endless concrete roads-- I was almost sad it had to end. However, my stamina was telling, and I knew I couldn't stretch much further. It had been a good three hours of cycling, and I walked back with a surprising spring in my step.

However, now that I'm here, finally on my bed, I can feel my calf muscles groan and complain. They need some getting used to of their own.

The Assam Trails: Love at first sight

[Disclaimer: The build-up, I realise, is a tad bit long and dragged out. Feel free to skim over the rant and get to the substantial part]

By the time I had barely gotten through 12 of the 36 hours I was to spend on the train, the train ride had already begun testing my limits. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for long train rides all by myself, I go advocating them with the annoying enthusiasm of door-to-door sellers, complete with the perma-grin and the cliched “You should try it once and you'll be left begging for more” dialogues. But this one was getting especially difficult to bear.

The start was to blame I guess. The whole thing began on the most annoying note. As soon as Brahmaputra Mail noisily rolled into platform 1A of Old Delhi station at 11pm on the 24th of April, it looked like a situation tailored for chaos. The compartments were either not numbered, or haphazardly so- so that S3 came after S8; and so forth. In the resulting clamour, I ended up traversing up and down the platform, looking for someone who could give me reliable information. Finally, I chanced upon a TT (Ticket collector), and asked him where S10 would be. He confidently pointed to one of the compartments and strode off without a second glance. I then managed to gather up all three of my bags, and made my way to one of the doors. I had assumed getting on would be fairly difficult, given my experience with Indian Railways in the past. I hadn't accounted, however, for the agitated, ruthless young men who were milling around the same door, almost climbing over one another to get on first. The fact that the lights inside the compartment weren't switched on wasn't helping the cause either. Finally, somehow, after major amounts of hustling, cursing, elbowing and stink-eye-giving, I was on board. I quickly harnessed my new-found energy and almost steam rolled over to my seat-- with a God-help-whoever-dares-come-in-my-way attitude. Once there, I realise I'm in the company of seven other very lecherous looking men. Tired, frustrated, and now scared, I'm all but on the verge of tears. Just let this damn train start, I tell myself, I'll climb to my seat (a side upper, quite thankfully) and be dead to the world. Not to be so, apparently. After the train finally sped off and out of Delhi, the chaos refused to die down. The constant traffic of people ruthlessly trampling all over my feet and bags had now driven me to a point of infuriation I didn't quite know I was capable of. And just when I thought things couldn't get worse, a man nonchalantly walked up to me and said “That's my seat.” Working hard to prevent myself from punching his face, I ask for his ticket. It's the same seat number! Then, some rational part of my brain asks me to check for his compartment number. S8. Big sigh.

With a benevolent smile I go, “You're on the wrong compartment, bhaiyya.”

And he goes (practically yelling- so much for the benevolence), “Hello madam! Get your facts right first! This is S8.”

Holy crap. “Which way is S10?”

He point it to me. And I drag my weary, sleepy self there- with my three bags in tow- each becoming heavier by the minute.

However, the night adventures seem to have stopped by then. The TT comes, checks my ticket, and I plonk my luggage on my upper berth and quickly fall asleep cuddling it.

The miseries seemed to transfer on to the next day, however. By the time I wake up, my entire body is lathered in sweat, and I feel like I'm being cooked alive in an oven with no escape door. My stomach grumbles, reminding me there's more to surviving than just lying there waiting for the heat to pass. I decide brushing and generally cleaning up might help the cause, and I walk to the sink, splash the boiling hot water on myself and rinse up a bit. Getting back, I realise lethargy has set back in, and looks like it has come to stay. I forget about the whole hunger thing and try to fall back to sleep. No help. One part of my brain also tells me I'm probably dehydrated and need some ORS (in whatever form) at the earliest. I wait (not so patiently) for the next vendor to come along. And soon enough, one does. Buying a lemon-based aerated drink, I let him go. Its temperature matches that of the surroundings, but I gulp it down in a hurry, and instantly feel better. The wonders sugar can do! The next couple of hours follow the same pattern-- stopping vendors, buying whatever drink they sell, and sustaining myself till the next one comes along. A call from mum also reminds me I need to eat something substantial. And so begins the next stage of project 'Keeping myself alive'. Now, every vendor selling everything is stopped. And so my stomach ends up at the receiving end of everything healthy and unhealthy; tasty and 'ugh' that passes through compartment S10.

Thankfully, evening finally comes along and takes with it the unrelenting sun. And also my general irritation. I brighten up a little, finish reading one of the three books I brought along for company, and make phone calls to apologize for all the collateral damage (read foul conversation) the heat had caused. I then sit and wonder why I'd ever want to get myself in this situation. It was filthy, hot, uncomfortable and (to my mind at that time) absolutely unnecessary. I mope around a little more, eat a lot more, and then troop back up to sleep. Halfway through the second book, I'm fast asleep- with dreams of mum's food and my bed calling out to me.

The next morning, I feel like I've woken up on the wrong train. Or am still in some fantasy. There is a cool breeze coming in through the same windows that were spewing fire the precious day, there is no sun-- or at least not the unrelenting kind, and there's a nip in the air that makes me cover myself with the blanket that's being used as a pillow so far. I spring up, my embarrassing equivalent of pinching myself, and try to figure out what's wrong-- or finally right.

I jump down and look out the windows, and pleasant green paddy fields dancing in the breeze greet my eye. The slight moisture in the air fills my senses, and I rush to the door. I catch the therapeutic wind all over my body, and look out at the surroundings. Dozens of paddy fields interspersed with little bodies of water accumulated from the frequent rains, little thatched huts cozily nestled between an overgrowth of palm trees all around, and the faint outlines of hills in the very back. I rush to get my camera, wondering just how beautiful nature could get. Without realising, the next two hours were spent clicking away and generally taking in the loveliness that surrounded me. Nothing seemed enough. I lapped up more and more of it as it came, growing more delighted by the minute. I finally realise I am overwhelmed. And in love. It is as fitting an example of 'love at first sight' as there could be. I cannot tear myself away. It finally takes a police-man, concerned about this girl hanging on the edge of the train for such a long time, to come and drag me away. Even then, I get back to my seat with a smile that refuses to fade, and an impatience to get to my destination and get working.

And, with the same intensity with which I wondered why I ended up here, I wonder how I will ever be able to wean myself away.

I am head over heels.

Dholavira and its tantalizing allure

As my family and I drove by the endless stretches of barren land, over the wide expanses of salt of the Little Rann and though the many families of camel lazing on the roads towards the tiny desert island of Khadir, we all thought we had a fair idea of what to expect once we got to our destination. In the preceding few weeks, we had poured devotedly over Gujarat tourism brochures, looked up all possible links on the internet and stocked ourselves with enough History books to last a lifetime. We were ready and raring to go. But nothing- none of any of this- was to prepare us for the impact Dholavira- one of the most recently excavated Harappan cities- has on an individual.

As we entered the village of Dholavira- which gave the site it's name- it seemed like any other settlement in Kutch- the rounded huts, the beautiful 'geri' work adorning the mud walls, the stunning white murals with dancing mirrors- simple, elegant, hardly awe-inspiring. We wondered where the ruins lay- the much-promised grand dilapidated structures of the ancient metropolis of nearly 5000 years ago. After going through the paces of putting away all our baggage, and washing away all traces of the nine-hour drive from our faces, we were ready- camera, notepad, et al.

When we were greeted by our guide- Jaimal-bhai- at the museum constructed at the base of the site, we expected this to be like just another guided tour- full of pre-prepared speeches with a dramatic flair and empty, error-ridden facts that just sounded good to the ears. It turned out to be anything but. Jaimal-bhai, despite having studied only up to seventh standard and being essentially monolingual (he spoke a fair bit of Hindi, but was most comfortable in Gujarati), spoke of Dholavira with the kind of authority and depth in understanding that could match up to any scholar. His story too unfolded as he led us through the ruins. Apparently, when excavation began in 1990, the director of excavations at ASI (Archeological Survey of India), R.S. Bisht took him under his wings and employed him in the careful excavation of the site over the next nearly twenty years. Jaimal-bhai was one among the many picked from the village of Dholavira itself, but one of the very few who remained to see it through till the very end. It is for this reason that as we walked across the site, he would point to places as if they were alive and bustling with people like they would have been five thousand years ago. He saw the city as a live, three-dimensional area-- while we stared at the flat, seemingly incomprehensible ruins with bafflement. He had seen this city- every tiny square millimeter- and it now practically ran through his blood. The flair and passion with which he talked about it, one could see how much love and sweat he had poured into aiding its rebirth. It was thanks to this man that we saw Dholavira for what it is- a remarkable desert-city far ahead of its times; and an absolute miracle- considering its geographical location.

For about 1500 years, between the 3rd and the 2nd Millennium BC, Dholavira was one of the five biggest cities of the Harappan Civilization. It was a city of many firsts. Embraced by two rain-fed rivulets- Mandsar and Manhar- on either side of the city walls, and situated on a desert island surrounded by endless stretches of parched land, the Dholavirans built up a city with a water management system so intricate, it's ingenuity remains unmatched even today in the desert state of Kutch. One gets the sense that, out of necessity, every single drop of water on this parched land was saved. Out of the 100 acres of area covered by this site, the reservoirs take up nearly ten- stretching along all four city walls- sixteen of them laid out end -to-end and connected with tiny channels to keep the water flowing and prevent stagnancy. Among these is the famous rock-cut reservoir in the south of the city- cut into living rock- probably one of the first of it's kind in the world. But the water management does not end with these awe-inspiring, yellow limestone structures. Every other building in Dholavira reflects an acute consciousness for the need to preserve water. There is a well laid-out drainage system throughout the city- and collected rain water from all over the city- including from little ducts in the fortification walls. All other drains also show remarkable sophistication. They are covered, well-connected and large enough to enable regular cleaning- usually big enough for an entire person to walk through! This understanding of how to conserve and channelize water enabled them to create a metropolis that, at its peak, is said to have supported a population of nearly 15,000. Even today, five thousand years hence, we do not find a city that matches it's scale and grandeur in the arid lands of Kutch.

But the firsts do not end here. Dholavira is laid-out as a parallelogram within a parallelogram, with the 'Castle' area- the area where the ruler must have lived and ruled from- lying at it's very heart. Adjoining it is the 'Bailey' area where the officials must have resided. The Middle Town shares it's boundaries with both, and stretches out towards the North. The Lower Town is larger still, and covers nearly the entire Eastern side within the fortification walls. What is remarkable about these structures is how the ratios of their widths and lengths are so precise and can so easily be rounded to whole numbers. This is true for every single wall that was built in the city, and thus cannot be mere coincidence. It could have been achieved only by precise mathematical calculations and drawings which were then translated on the ground that was undulating by 13 m in gradient. It was indeed an engineering marvel!

The wonders do not end here. Between the Middle town and the citadel is a large open field of about 550 X 45 mts. made of sun-baked bricks and plaster. This place could have hosted large gatherings of people on its many grandstands surrounding the structure- and could, at a time, hold up to 10,000 people! It is still unknown what exact purpose it served- whether is was a sports stadium, a market place, or a ceremonial gathering place. It could be quite likely it played more than one role- but it has been named the 'stadium' by Indian historians.

Facing this grand stadium is the largest of the citadel gates- the Northern gate- which had what Bisht has dared to call 'the oldest signboard of the world' over it. It was three meters in length and contained ten characters from the yet-to-be-deciphered logosyllablic Harappan script. It was gypsum inlaid into wood, so the signboard has completely decayed, but the gypsum impression remain- for present-day historians to express wonderment and raise questions over. What did this signboard proclaim? Could it's entire population read what was written? What kind of a social organization does this point to?

The questions are endless. With Dholavira, one realizes, they always are. This, uncharacteristically, remains one of it's most attractive aspects of this ancient metropolis. The fact that so much about it remains shrouded in mystery lends it an allure that is quite unlike the other, more extensively studied Harappan sites. It is something that makes you want to go back and revisit the site, to wrap your head around questions of how and why it rose and declined as and when it did, to have an opportunity to chance upon broken fragments of bangles, buttons and other artifacts that got skimmed over in the initial excavations. What Dholavira gives us is that rare opportunity to actually demystify the symbolism of all that has been found- and is yet to be. It indulges the visitor with an inclusiveness that cannot be felt in areas where all the answers have already been discovered. Dholavira tantalizingly flirts with you, revealing only enough to keep you coming back.

The Upholder of Dharma

For some reason, most of the literature that's ended up in my lap in the last few months has been predominantly about the epic Mahabharata. And having grown up reading it, thinking about it, living it since I was a little girl- the number of new ways in which these interpretations forced me to look at the epic astounded me. The number of small intricacies that I had earlier skimmed over came together to give me new perspectives on the characters, their motivations, their value systems. And the most prominent among those that had escaped my scrutiny earlier was Yudhishthira- the eldest of the Pandavas; the 'upholder of Dharma'. Since the very beginning, I had slotted him away as being not much more than a wimp. The one who silently watched when his wife was being stripped of her dignity in the Hastinapur court, the one who saw the need to be the 'voice of reason' at all times in the name of 'Dharma', the one who possessed no real superhuman powers- unlike the God-like bowmanship of Arjuna, the brute strength of Bhima, the talent with animals of Nakula, the renouned clairvoyance of Sahadeva. To me, he was the ultimate party pooper. If it were not for him and his want to stick to the truth and duty at all times (and keep Bhima and Arjuna from doing what they really wished), I sincerely believed the Mahabharta would have been even more colourful than it was. Draupadi would have been avenged right there and then, Duryodhana would have been killed before he became such a tyrant and wrecked havoc, the Pandavas would have never gone into exile, and the great war wouldn't be necessary.

I realise now that the Mahabharata wouldn't have been the epic it was if it weren't for him. For, in being the upholder of Dharma in a world where Adharma was rampant, he held together the fabric of the story with the thread of truth. And in doing so, he did the most thankless and least heroic of all jobs. In sticking to his duty, he gave up on flamboyance and all the resultant glamour. He was happy to be sheet anchor- the side actor who goes unnoticed in the brilliance and glamour of the rest of the cast. But if it weren't for him, they each would have crumbled under the weight of their own brilliance. If it weren't for him, the epic would have been a cluster of utter chaos

As the rest of the world gasped and gaped as Sehwag took Sri Lanka to the cleaners on the second day at Brabourne, I found a reflection of Yudhishthira on the other side of the pitch. As Rahul Dravid took guard, a sense of serenity and peace prevailed. As he approached his duty, his Dharma- to keep one end up- with the single-mindedness only he is capable of, he lent some sanity to the madness that was unfurling at the other end. There it was again- the most thankless, least heroic job- being approached with assurance and an innate calm. Singles taken at the beginning of the overs, balls defended at the end-all with a mechanic precision and will that was almost other-worldly. Happy to be the invisible thread holding together the most brilliant of innings. Nobody noticed the seam. Nobody wondered what would happen if it came apart. Because for so long- time after time and almost without fail- it has held together the fabric of the Indian Cricket Team. So predictably, it is easy to take for granted. Much less be thanked, it is hardly ever noticed. But it- he- keeps going. Despite the flakiness of the selectors who can't decided between youth and experience, despite bad runs of form, despite the thanklessness of the job- for over a decade now- Rahul Dravid has kept going. Caring only about his call of duty all this while- he has been the upholder of Dharma on the cricketing pitch. And when he isn't there anymore, the battlefield is going to feel a lot less just. And no chariot will ride two inches above the ground anymore.

The Conjurer

My earliest memory of cricket is not the clearest. Maybe it had to do with the TV. Or maybe it had to do with me being all of eight. All I remember is a diminutive man- quite unremarkable really to any novice spectator- in the midst of a sandstorm. As that memory has evolved over these past eleven years, for some odd reason, the image etched in my mind has gone from the little man braving the storm to him actually whipping it up. Perhaps it has something to do with having watched him whip up storm after storm all these following years. Perhaps it's just my mind seeking poetic satisfaction. Either way, my clearest, and least hampered, aspect of the memory remains that feeling at the bottom of my stomach- that until this man did what he was doing- there was hope left in the world. The unreasonable belief that he could put no foot wrong. And then on, cricket has never been the same. Nor has my life. Call it love, if you may.

When I recently read that the man completed twenty years in international cricket, I was surprised by how unaffected I was. While the world harped about the greatness of the achievement, the genius that lay behind the longevity, I questioned myself over and over why this seemed like just another ordinary fact to skim over. It didn't even make it to my facebook status updates, for crying out loud! Wasn't it true that since that glorious day at Sharjah, I'd spent every day worshiping the man with the kind of devotion that would shame the most devout believers? Wasn't it true that every small landmark, every single quote was collected, recorded and repeated verbatim at will? Wasn't it true that every time he walked out to the crease my heart surged with hope and happiness- and every time he walked back, the same heart was smashed to smithereens? Wasn't it true that after watching one of his specials, I'd look like I'd slept with a hanger in my mouth for days? Wasn't it true that he single-handedly controlled my happiness for a decade? Why then, this apparent nonchalance?

I think I have the answer finally. In so many ways, to me, Sachin Tendulkar is forever. He is the game, and the game is him. To imagine a game- a world, really- where he isn't at the crease wielding his relentless willow, would feel strangely incompletely. And somehow just not right. So the challenge is not to imagine him playing for twenty, or thirty, or even forty years for that matter. It is not imagining him there that is.

I don't claim he's perfect. He's far from it. He hasn't the spectacular flamboyance of Bolt, or the prodigal genius of Phelps. At least not at all times. What he carries- though- is something special. He plays with heart, and a dedication that is other-worldly. He plays as though he was born to play cricket. And they don't make them like him anymore.

Someday, many many years down the line, when the world has transformed into an unrecognizable place, I will be boasting to my grand children about the single proudest thing in my life- that I lived in the times of Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar. The Conjurer of Storms.