Victoria Falls : Mosi-O-Tunya!

RANEE'S SOUTH AFRICA DIARIES: JOURNAL 6
May 22

Breakfast is buffet and quite basic—cereal, squash, toast, eggs, baked beans and bacon.

At 8.30, Paul is back with his white van, ready to escort and guide us to the Mosi-O-Tunya—The Smoke that Thunders—and there could be no name more appropriate!

We wear the same kind of disposable raincoats that we had been given at the Niagra Falls, only these are much-used and come from Paul’s van. We are warned that we’d get soaked to our thighs. Paul rolls up his trouser legs to his knees and changes into flip-flops. We trudge along in our sneakers.

Our first sight of the eastern cataract on the walk—a little look at the corner of the falls with a brilliant rainbow emanating from it and dancing skywards in the spray—already has us gasping. Then we walk away from the falls to look at the Zambezi in its last restless vastness, skipping over rocks in its way before it takes the plunge. Here there is a double rainbow and we get a tiny glimpse of the immense width of the river—and the imminent falls. Then on we walk again, this time up and down, winding to viewpoints that show us tantalizing bits of the colossal falls, piece by piece, hidden in a shroud of ever-changing spray.



We can never see into the gorge. A solid-seeming, gigantic white wall of water hits with such force that the spray obscures almost the entire ravine. As it moves up the canyon, the stiff breeze makes the spray rise into the sky—so high we can see the falls reversed!



Here, at eye level, the thick spray thins a bit and begins to dance—sometimes mist, sometimes dense fog, sometimes in rainbow colours but always there –ever-shifting, restive, agitated, impatient. It is extremely difficult to reconcile this constant shape-changing spray in perpetual movement with the still smoke we see from the hotel’s jetty.

The power, the energy, the stretch and the rumbling, resounding expanse of the Mosi-O-Tunya can never be imagined until you’ve stood there, facing it, feeling ant-like in strength, size and importance. You have to hear the echoing, bellowing, gushing roar; you have to feel the sting of the misty spray on your cold skin, you have to smell the vapour, taste the force that turns a river of water into cloud. Only with all your senses engaged can you even begin to grasp the enormity of the phenomenon before you.


This event that Nature throws up around an innocuous corner so carelessly is perhaps the most awe-inspiring wonder I have seen so far in our world.

After the falls—I cannot comprehend why anybody, however patriotic, would name this marvel in the name of his queen, when the natives have such an appropriate name for it already—we are all quietly pondering. The experience has not penetrated our skins yet. We have not yet absorbed the totality of what we have seen, smelt, tasted, felt and heard. It hasn’t quite sunk in. When it does “hit us,” we know it will be a whammy!


But now is not the time to wallow in what we have seen. There’s a craft market just outside the gates of the falls that lures us. The kids have been out with Paul for a while already as we make our way back slowly savouring the falls again on our way out. They have made contact with young Charles and seen his wares. We walk the entire market, “negotiating” prices and finally buy some trays that seem lacquered but are actually buffed with tan shoe polish from Philip’s stall and a stone hippo soap-dish and “tom-tom” from Charles, the kids’ newfound friend.

We like a lot of the carvings, but they are either too tall or too heavy for us to carry. And we figure that we have enough time and area to cover in the next few weeks so there’ll be enough opportunities to buy things we like as we go along. The damage at the crafts market is 150000 Kwacha at Philip’s and 25000 Kwacha at Charles’—175000 Kwacha equals a princely total of about $44 or 2000 Rupees.

These Zambians sure know how to be hospitable. On our way back, Paul offers us ice-cold coca colas and water from the cooler in his van. We are back at the Zambezi Waterfront by 11am.

The rest of the day is relaxed. There is no where else to go and we can’t walk out of the gated, armed-guarded hotel premises so we eat and rest and I write and put the photos and videos into the laptop, charge depleted batteries and just generally chill.

In the evening, we leave the kids in the room as we explore the hotel grounds and have a couple of before-dinner whiskeys at the bar at about 10000 Kwacha per 30 ml.

Wishful Thinking

Let me be an instrument that plays in harmony with the music of the Universes that are and that will be and that have the potential of becoming.

When I die, let me become the spectrum.

I will be black and absorb all colours
I will be white and reflect all colours
I will be red and glow with the energies that fuel the Universes
I will be blue in agreement between the oceans and the skies in all the Universes
I will be green as the tenderness and vulnerability of the birth of every new universe
I will be yellow and shed my warmth and light on every soul in every universe that is and that will be and that has the potential of becoming.

A Sermon

Assume Earth is the womb of an organism we have named “Universe.”

Each living, breathing creature, every natural phenomenon, then, is a cell within this organ of the larger organism that is our Universe.

Each cell, of every colour, shape, size, capacity and talent, has a very specific and vital part to play in the grand scheme of the birth of new generations of Universes.

When the cells perform their tasks in harmony, the Universe hums in contentment and new Universes are born, each perfect in its potential for being and becoming.

When the cells become hostile to each other, when they show aggression towards each other, when they assault each other and kill each other, a cancer is formed. Organs are affected. Systems are diseased. The womb is weakened. The potential foetus is damaged. The gene pool is diminished.

The Universe loses a child, a line, a possibility, a potential…

Cells beget cells. Creatures beget creatures. Life begets life. Worlds beget worlds. Universes beget universes.

There may be a tremendous difference of scale between cells and Universes, but a single defect in a single cell ripples in effects and consequences not only through the Universes that exist but also through those that have the potential to exist.

Every chirp, every bark, every rustle, every waterfall, every chant, every rhythm, every song, every tune participates in the vast, everlasting symphony of the spheres just as every soul of every being participates in the spirit of the Universes that are and that will be and that have the potential of becoming.

Every whimper, every groan, every cry, every slap, every voice raised in anger, every curse given in hate, every howl of pain, every uproar, every gunshot, every explosion, every detonation blasts a false note, a discord, a disagreement, a friction and participates in adding disharmony to the everlasting Universes that are and that will be and that have the potential of becoming.

I believe...(for now, at least!)

I have no fixed and codified self; no identity that has a permanent design.

I am a kaleidoscope of multiple identities; a shifting composite of little, fragmented, brilliantly coloured pieces of all my experiences, all the cities I have inhabited; all the diverse lives I have lived.

I believe there is a precision intelligence behind and beyond the universe.

I believe all forms of being, however nanoscopic, are whole and universal in themselves and that they are all constantly caught in a continuous process of becoming.

I believe each becoming whole is an integral and organic part of some other, bigger and becoming whole and so on, past the becoming universe. Ergo, the universe is intelligent, living, expanding and forever becoming as are the stars, planets and we who inhabit them, bacteria, viruses, algae et al.

I believe it is our duty every moment to desire to find our changing roles in the changing universes and discharge those roles to the best of our capacity as long as they last.

If we are cancerous cells in the kidney of our universe and it is our role for this moment to cause renal failure in order that a nephritic cure might evolve for other universes, then we must fulfill that potential.

On Walking Behind Your Man

There is absolutely no denying or disputing the fact that our Indian society still wants women to follow their men.
The wife, by her very definition in our culture, plays supporting role to her husband who is the hero:
She is अर्धांगिनी (ardhangani), one half of her husband.
She is सहधर्मिणी (sahadharmini), an associate in the fulfillment of his human and divine goals;
She is सहकर्मिनी (sahakarmini), a co-worker in all his efforts
She is सहयोगिनी (sahayogini), a helper in all his ventures.

This has been true from the time of the Vedas:
“I will be the Saaman (music) and may you be the Rk (the Vedic text being cast into music).
Let me be the heavens (the upper world) and let you be the Bhumi or Mother Earth.
I will be the Sukla (life force) and may you be the bearer of that Sukla॥
Let me be the mind and let you be the speech.
May you follow me to conceive children and gain worldly as well as spiritual wealth."

It has been true through Manu’s description of the ideal female partner for a man—who, by the way, should be about one-third his age—
" karyeshu dasi, a slave/servant in her work
karaneshu mantri, with the administrative powers of a minister
bhojyeshu maatha, who can feed you like a mother
shayaneshu rambha, and please you like Rambha in bed
kshamaya dharitri" and who has the forbearance, the patience—the sahanshakti—of Earth

It has been true through Kalidas, who said:
“Women go the way of their husband as moonlight follows the moon or lightning the cloud”
And it is true as propagated by all our immensely popular television serials that begin with the letter 'K'.

Much more, it is still true as lived by millions of women all over India.

Therefore, let’s take that part for granted.
Society desires women to walk one step behind their men.

But does higher social approval come to the women who follow in their husband’s footsteps? Who do not deviate? Who never challenge the norm? Who do the done thing, so to speak?
Therein lies the rub.

Society may expect a woman to be one way, may prescribe a woman’s ideal, but it reserves its approval—its esteem, its appreciation, its recognition, its awards, its admiration, its praise, respect and acclaim—for those women who flout all the expectations and defy its prescriptions.

Think of any Indian woman who has had any impact through myth and legend and history:
Durga, Kali, Draupadi, Rani Lakhshmibai, Indira Gandhi, Mother Teresa

Think of any contemporary Indian woman who has achieved social recognition or appreciation—Rekha, Sushmita Sen, Arundhuti Roy, Mira Nair, Kiran Mazumdar Shaw, Sania Mirza,

You will find that they are all women who do not recognize any social limits on their beings. They are all women who stride way ahead, or go away, or create their own difficult road.

They are all women who do not follow the beaten path.

On the other hand, think of the women who did the done thing:
Sita did every single thing by the book. Did it get her her society’s approval?
Madri was the perfect wife who even committed sati with Pandu. But who gets all the attention? Kunti, a woman with a curious past and her own mind.
Krishna’s wives committed jauhar after him. Do we know their names? The names we associate with Krishna and celebrate and adore are of two of the most deviant women in their society—Radha and Meera.
Littérateurs like Kalidasa and Tulsidas became men of learning because of their wives. Do we know who they were?

It’s very simple, really.
When you follow behind, you remain unseen, unsung, unnoticed—taken for granted and therefore uncelebrated.
When you walk ahead, or walk away, you are seen, followed, recognized, validated.

So ladies:
By all means, walk a step behind your husbands.
Do it so you can support them and prop them up to give the world the illusion that they have a spine.
Don’t expect social approval for doing it.

Feel free to follow in your husband’s footsteps.
Do it so you can clean up his messes and do damage control.
Don’t expect society to validate your hard work and celebrate you for it.

Take the backseat when your husband drives.
Do it so you can drive him where you want to go.
Don’t do it for any respect or rewards from society.

Zambesi Sunset Cruise

RANEE'S SOUTH AFRICA DIARIES: JOURNAL 5

May 21:
After a little glitch with bus seats, we were off to go around the corner for all of 4 minutes to reach a jetty where a small platform vessel with a bar and tables and chairs would take us for a ride on the Zambezi for 2 hours between 4 and 6 pm so we could look for wild life on the shores and ogle the spectacular sunset on our way back.

The Zambezi was immense, wider than any river I have ever seen and reminiscent of the infiniteness of the Sunderbans waters as they make and re-make the delta. The river was segmented, with islands between its channels. Our two-hour journey took us the length of a 4km long island in one of the channels.




Like the Sunderbans landscape, the banks of the Zambezi were eroded, eating up land-pockets and creating curved marshes, swamps, tunnels around many rounded bends. Trees lay half-submerged and dying among reeds and water-ferns and creating a water-land, mystic, mysterious green-blue world that became the perfect habitat for wild-life.

We didn't really see much of that wild-life, just a couple of groups of hippos in the water and one humungous tusker that swam across a channel in front of us. From the shape of the shadow in the distance, we started off thinking it was a herd of elephants, given our mental impression of the girth of our own elephants. Then we modified our estimate to two when the shadow came closer and finally realized that it was just one animal! This was our first sighting of the huge African elephant and it was quite amazing.

Wild-life or lack thereof notwithstanding, the Sunset Cruise gave us more than value for our money. All drinks--no limits-- and delicious snacks are on the house (or the boat!) so the kids had their cokes and we continued with our beer and platters of mouthwatering appetizers kept coming our way.

Suitably satisfied, we watched the sunset! The sun was a gigantic red orb that just liquefied in seconds and left the world dark orange and red—breathtakingly Nat Geo!


At dinner we paid in dollars and got our change back in Kwacha and by then, we were quite adept at the exchange. 1$ was taken to be 4000 Kwacha. A typical lunch/dinner entrée was between 40000 and 60000 Kwacha and it was quite filling. Water was 4000 Kwacha a small bottle and Castle Lager was 7500 Kwacha. A small peg of was about 20000 Kwacha.

Livingstone, Zambia

RANEE'S SOUTH AFRICA DIARIES: JOURNAL 4
May 21:

To Livingstone airport, then—small, one-hall-ed, under-secure, slow because of one tiny carousel serving 3 flights in quick succession—we got in line for immigration, passed the kiosk in no time and out we came into the other side of the same, open hall.

On this side, the miniature carousel was still struggling with the luggage from the British Airways flight that had landed before us. Here there were 2 lines of Japanese tourists with neon-belted suitcases; little groups of western tourists in twos and threes; an Indian-Gujarati family group from Calcutta –including a lady who proclaimed to the many boisterous and ill-behaved children in her group that Iberia was a “place in Africa”-- much to Rubik’s amazement and amusement—and the four of us.

On the flight to Livingstone, the air-crew had a hard time getting these abovementioned brats to stay in their seats at take-off, meal service as well as touch down. When we were leaving the aircraft, one of them looked at our two and remarked to the other, “Now those were the only two children on board who were really well-behaved.” The she looked at me and said,”You have such well-mannered children. You must be very proud of them.” “Thank you,” I said. “I am.” And the Indian mother in me glowed tickled-pink!

Zambia was full of beautiful glowing-black faces with high cheekbones, thin lips and doll-like upturned noses; stunning smiles that were genuine and infectious; innocence and simplicity and names like “Precious” and “Happiness.”

Yet we were constantly warned against walking anywhere, even in broad daylight. As we drove into town with our escort, Paul, from Safari Par Excellence—a pleasant, round-faced, sweet-smiling hulk of a man—we see ample signs of extreme poverty battling with the tourist-dollar-boosted town full of modern malls and beautifully restored old buildings.

In 10 minutes, we were at the Zambezi Waterfront hotel right on the mighty Zambezi. The hotel was clean but basic, with individual chalets strewn around a swampy, open area.

Our all-wood family chalet was No.7, on the first floor of a house on stilts. It was basically a large, sharply A-framed African thatched-roofed room with 4 single cots, each with its own ringed-mosquito-net. Out of the room had been carved a spacious en-suite bathroom with a half-wall that didn't reach anywhere near the ceiling.

The entire back of the chalet opened to a very roomy wooden deck with low and deep hardwood slatted chairs that were quite comfortable once you sank into them. The deck overlooked a swamp with a couple of dead trees right in the middle. The swamp was ringed with a lot of lush greenery including palms and ferns and was vibrantly alive with multi-hued insects and birds.

We left our luggage in the chalet and went out to explore. We found a little jetty next to the bar/dinner deck that jutted out into the Zambezi. We discovered that we coulod see the spray of the Victoria Falls from the jetty. The spray was in 3 spurts as far as we could see, with the middle one going up furthest.

It didn't look like water at all, but like white smoke, quite still, with bits of it breaking off from the main column on the top and rising up like a cloud in various sizes and shapes and finally vaporizing into the clear blue sky.

By the time we'd finished exploring the resort complex and been to the Activity Centre to check our vouchers, we had figured out the value of the Zambian Kwacha and thus, we opened our account with a couple of Mosi beers at 6500 Kwacha each.

Before we finished our Mosi, it was time to go for the Wild Horizons Sunset Cruise on the Zambezi.

Views of the Mother Continent

RANEE'S SOUTH AFRICA DIARIES: JOURNAL 3
May 21: The Flight to Livingstone, Zambia


First impressions: Africa is just like I have imagined; just like the Nat Geo documentaries; but so much more real and tangible and just so much more than what we have already seen on film.

The land I see below me is of a different colour than the earth I have seen before on other continents.

This land is a dry, dark, rich terracotta-burnt vastness punctuated sparsely by dwarfish trees. This land is moist mahogany brown-black where it is dug and turned. The grass here is not green, it is sand coloured, arid-looking yet lush and tall and wild.

The green I see is not the tender-rice paddy green of Bengal or Kerala; it is not the bright, spring green of the Gangetic plain; it is not even the darker-mango green of the greater trees back home.

The green on the trees here is more mature, more olive and tinged with a shadow, somehow more “knowing” and experienced; seeming to me the leaves of an ageing continent, fully fruited and tiring into over-ripeness.

Africa overall seems big, dry, bare, poor, ancient, primitive, wild.

The colour-palette of the land ranges from dark-earth to red-terracotta to orange to olive to yellow. Bright, light blue skies, white wispy clouds and brilliant red sunsets over the mighty, mysterious, dark blue Zambezi River complete the picture.

Johannesburg-Livingstone

RANEE'S SOUTH AFRICA DIARIES: JOURNAL 2

May 21

Anthony was in early, to make our breakfast, wearing 5 layers and shivering. The cold front could come in from Cape Town once in a while, he said, and stay for a few days. But this was highly unusual weather for May. In fact, according to Anthony, it may even have been record lows for the time of year. That did not help us as we froze in the chilling morning breeze, getting ready to leave for Livingstone, Zambia.

Anthony had brought his breakfast provisions in a red, soft-backed suitcase of all things! Out of the suitcase came cereals and eggs and cheese and bread—the 5 grain variety that I don’t quite like—and fruits and yoghurt. He went about his business cooking and laying the table as we went about ours, packing and making use of the 3G card to check e-mail.

At exactly 8.20, we were out and on our way to the airport again. It was Monday morning and we got a taste of the traffic as we crawled our way out of Sandton and into the highway. People generally leave home as early as 5.30 or 6am to get to work in time and until about 9am, the traffic didn’t seem to move. Once on the highway,though, things were much faster and to our surprise, we reached the airport well in time.

As we got out of the white van and waved goodbye, Anthony was distracted by an old man in the driver’s seat of another white van parked next to ours. The old man was obviously very sick. We couldn’t wait, so we went on. Anthony told us later, on the 23rd, that the old man was having a heart-attack and Anthony stayed at the airport for about an hour while he was given emergency medical attention, stabilized and taken to the hospital.


At the Terminal A Nationwide counter everything went smoothly and soon we were hanging around our gate no. 24, watching planes and waiting to board our CE202 flight to Livingstone. Things took their time, as they do in airports, and in due course, we were on a little bus taking a long journey to our aircraft, a 777-200.

The flight was all of 1 hour and 25 minutes and during this time—almost from the moment we took-off to the moment we landed—we were served a juice, then a full meal, then drinks. In between, we stared out of the window at the African landscape below.

CALCUTTA-BOMBAY-JOHANNESBURG

RANEE'S SOUTH AFRICA DIARIES: JOURNAL 1
May 18-20




May 18
CCU to MUM on 9W616 arriving into Bombay ( I am not ever going to call it Mumbai!)around 8.45pm. Sinha picked us up at the airport (where we were also met by a concave little ineffective-yet-officious man called Joshi who told Sinha to “get the car to the airport entrance” for Sahib), fed us a good “5 Spice” Chinese meal, organized an “adda” with Partha and put on some good “old times” music to get us all into nostalgic mood.

The kids played video games on Sushmita’s laptop or watched TV. Partha’s kids came. Kittu is 3 months older but much bigger than Rubik. Jeet is much younger and both seemed quite shy and didn’t talk too much. Overall, they didn’t quite seem very happy to spend time with our bunch.

It was past 2 before we went to sleep. Bombay was so uncomfortably humid and seemed much hotter than Calcutta (y'see--no Kolkata for me either!) has been since the pre-monsoon showers.

May 19
Sanjib went and got “Vada paos” and “Jalebis” for a typical Bombay breakfast for us. Then Sinha and Sanjib went to the fish bazaar to get some king prawns.

Next, all 4 adults went for a long drive to see Hiranandani near Pawai, a post-modern, very European “colony” for the rich Mumbaiya world-citizen. The heat and humidity were suffocating and Sushmita had the brilliant idea of cooling off with some Natural ice creams—with flavours like tender coconut, chikoo, malai, sitaphal etc. The ice-cream comes in normal cones, hot waffle cones and plastic cups and actually has chunks of fruit. Really delicious and really pertinent on this particular day!

Eventually returned to the Sinha residence to a sumptious lunch of hot rotis and fried Surmai (Rubik was very happy!) along with dal and subji.

Then a little rest and we were off again to South Bombay where we drove around seeing all the landmarks including Dhirubhai Ambani’s Sea Wind; bought “Russian” binoculars (probably made in China or Taiwan!) from a dingy, first-floor, “Canning Street” type of shop for all of Rs 650, came back home, had dinner of Jackfruit cooked with King Prawns, bathed, changed and adda’d until it was time for Joshi to arrive (12.30 am, 20th May) and for us to proceed to the airport in two cars.

May 20
Early morning—1am— we were at the Mumbai International airport; Joshi was doing his stuff at his ineffective best, more getting in the way than helping, but insisting on carrying our papers around with him so very officiously and “’umbly.”

The terribly rude Kenya airways counter-guy had mistakenly given us great seats. We found ourselves with ample leg space on row 33—the emergency exit and beginning of the 3rd major section in the belly of the almost-new 777—individual screens and all!

Obviously, the kids were re-settled onto the last row of the 2nd section (a move they liked because then they could we away from us!) and the rest of the ride was smooth.

Changed planes at Nairobi (putting our feet for the first time on the African continent but just rushing past without savouring it) with almost no time to spare.

Conveniently, a smoking zone materialized en-route, just before our own gate. This time we got an almost-too-old aircraft with not-so-good seats. Still, JNB was only 3.5 hours away, so it wasn’t too bad.


At Jo’burg’s Oliver Tambo Airport, we walked through immigration before the luggage had come rolling in. Soon enough, the luggage came through and we were out looking for Anthony Colia who turned out to be a 24 year old white kid contrary to my expectations of a 35-ish black man.

Sanjib did the usual exchange rate inspection without satisfaction and then we were off to Anthony’s place in Banbury Cross in Sandton in a white van. A cold front was supposed to be coming in that night, Anthony told us with a grin as he steered us into the traffic leading out of the airport.

As we travelled to Anthony’s apartment, the huge expanse of land that Jo’burg occupies finally hit us.

Johannesburg was huge, frenetic-paced, spread-out over many, many miles and reaching into Pretoria, chaotic, traffic-snarled, crime-infested, dangerous—all of those things we had heard and read when we were doing our travel-research.

We saw black people crammed into illegal SUV taxis—sometimes more than 20 of them together—and flouting traffic rules with impunity. Corruption was rampant among the traffic cops, said Anthony. According to him, the cops stop people only in the hope of a bribe (sounds familiar, huh?).

There’s integration now, but most black people still live in the old “townships”—ghettos made for them during apartheid—that have now been assimilated into the city. White people live in gated communities with electrified fences and gun-toting 24-hour guards. The murder rate is the highest in SA—and that’s saying something—and most people have been victims of crimes.

"You can be mugged for as little as your shoes," an old-time Johannesburger-turned-Miami retiree told us on our way to the Kruger a few days later. All Jo’burg cars have GP on their registration plates and when the kids asked Anthony what GP stood for, he only half-jokingly quiped: “Gangsters’ Paradise.”

We reached Anthony’s place at about 1.30pm. It was a 2-bedroom first-floor apartment in a gated community called Gleneagles. There was a fully equipped kitchen, washer, balcony, 2 bathrooms—thoughtfully provided with fresh towels, shampoos, bath-gels and soaps—all we could ask for and more.

Anthony was very sweet, offering us use of everything in his kitchen cupboards and his 3G card as well. Finally, Anthony left and we left too, after toilet breaks, to walk to the Banbury Cross Centre KFC for a latish lunch. Fulfilled, we walked back, showered and slept.

I stirred at 6pm to find everybody fast asleep. It was very cold, so I lazed for a while more. Then I finally got myself out of bed around 7 and rummaged around Anthony’s kitchen looking for stuff that I could cook into a reasonable meal. There were no real spices, but I did find a packet of Hake in the freezer, some basmati rice and a few red-potatoes (“rangalus”). I defrosted and marinated the Hake to shallow-fry later, put on some rice and made a make-shift potato curry with the sweet chilli sauce that I found in the fridge.

Finally, at around 10, I woke up the family for dinner, which was wolfed down in no time. Sanjib took over the washing as usual, while I pottered around packing the stuff we would take to Livingstone the next morning. Most of our stuff, thankfully, would be left at Anthony’s. The cold front had kicked in completely and the temperature was in the minuses, it would be -3 in the early hours and already felt like -1 after dinner. Freezing, shivering, feeling completely under-prepared for the weather, we were worried about the rest of our trip. Our first night, though, would be comfortable enough because Anthony had thoughtfully laid out some extra duvets for us.

And after dinner, amazingly, we fell asleep again.

One More Reason to Dis-organise Religion

In religion and politics, fatwas are issued, tankhaiyyas made, idols broken, ancient mosques razed, missionaries burnt alive by mobs.

In real life, however, individuals interact with other individuals. Priyanka’s rich father will react one way to his daughter marrying poor Rizwanur. Anju’s father may react entirely differently.

In real life, Anju marries Husien and they both retain their religions and raise a wonderful, intelligent, sensitive child called Samir who is comfortable with both his mosque and his gurudwara.

In real life, Fatima Bibi runs an old age home in Chennai. She has a Ganesh idol at the entrance and performs Ganesh aarti every Friday and distributes prasadam to her 45 "guests."

In real life, my friend Hulya Celek of Selcuk, daily battles the custodians of her own religion so she can extend the boundaries of her existence just a little bit more.

In real life, Basheer the driver recites the Sikh “mool mantra” every day and that does not detract from his being a good musalman.

In real life, many Muslim women in rural Bengal wear the sindur, bindi, shakha and pala—so called Hindu symbols of a “sadhaba” (a married woman whose husband is still alive.)

Of course, in real life there is also Salim the carpenter, whose past experiences with Hindu households had taught him that water and tea would be served to him in “other” cups and glasses.

And of course, in real life there is Ali, my carpenter of many years, who is a brilliant craftsman and a man of tremendous integrity. But Ali will not eat in my house.

In real life, individuals meet and interact with individuals. In real life, communities are made of the people living in the neighbourhood or going to the same school or joining the same club.

If only the mosques, the temples, the gurdwaras, the churches didn’t form such a big part of real life.

LET’S DRIVE INTO THE SUNSET--WITH OUR KIDS!

My husband and I like driving holidays. We don’t have to count the weight and pieces of the luggage we carry. We can stop where we want to smell the roses or the cow-dung or the dhaba parathas. We can take potty breaks or detour on a side lane that beckons beguilingly and reach our destination earlier or later than planned. We can buy amazing things as we pass the small villages and towns.

For me, a long drive is one of life’s most tangible pleasures—smooth, unending highways fast-gliding under the wheels of your SUV as you and he drive speedily towards the setting sun. Your luggage is canvassed to the carrier and fresh breeze is whipping through your hair. A big red sun is about to melt in the sky and an old Muhammad Rafi song is crooning softly to you from the CD player as your eyes feast hungrily on green paddy fields on either side of the road.

It is a moment for your Most-Romantic-Moments memory files. You and your spouse shed your work-stresses and begin to savour your togetherness, quietly forgetting the world you’ve left behind.

It is exactly at that very moment that a fight breaks out in the back seat. Your two kids are bored and have begun entertaining themselves the only way they know how--with loud fisticuffs! You settle them with a bribe or a threat—whatever works—and return your attention to the landscape.

But barely five minutes later, a constant, rhythmic refrain plaintively drowns poor, already-dead Rafi:
“Mamma, when will we reach?”

Incandescent sunset moments lose their magic between fights and fidgets, boredom and bowels, whines and wheedles, pukes and punishments.

However, countless car journeys later, I still think driving is the best way to travel with children. Traveling by car is the best way for your children to know the rich geographical terrains, varied climates and architectures and glorious cultural differences of our country. Please do take the time to point these little things out to them as you whizz by. When you see something especially interesting, please do stop a minute and stare. Give them the opportunity to sample the tastes and smells of the places you drive by. They will get more real knowledge from the journey than they ever will from their text books!

Over the years, I have learnt some tricks that I am happy to share with those of you who like driving too. So get your car serviced and follow the Automobile Association’s checklist to a T. Map your routes and line your route-maps. Decide where to go and where to stop nights. And keep your children happy with my driving-with-kids tips:

Ready Ration
Here’s a checklist of things to keep close at hand when you drive with small kids. As your children get older, you can begin eliminating items from the list:
First Aid, toiletries, spare set of clothes, towels, wet tissues, a flask of hot water, bottles of drinking water, dry snacks such as biscuits, fresh fruits and cheese slices, toys—stuffed animals, dinky cars, travel ludo/checkers, music they like, some large print picture books and/or colouring books.

Personal Kits
Give each kid a small satchel with his/her own things and let the children use them as and when they like. Designate a shopping bag to be the dust-bin and ensure that all the wrappers and other debris are stored in this and not thrown out of the window! Empty the bag at your next rest stop.

Boredom Busters
Give each kid a specific job to do along the way. Tell the older one to check and report milestones for distance. Tell the younger sibling to report all sightings of sheep and goats. This will keep them occupied for a while until they start fighting again:
“I saw a goat—you didn’t count it!”
“I’m supposed to see goats, not you. Why are you seeing goats?”
“Because you’re too stupid to see them, ‘Stupid’!”
“MOMMAAAA! He called me Stupid!”

Play short mind-games with them
“I went to the market,” with things that they can see on the road is, I've found, always a hit. We have made up our own games like “Rhyme Time” where we make them rhyme things that they can see; “Colour List,” where they try to outdo each other by being the first to spot something green, or blue or yellow. Of course, that game always leads to a fight:
“I saw it first!”
“No, I saw it first.
“Why were you looking out of my window? Keep your eyes on your side of the road” “Momma didn’t say we had to do that.”
“Momma doesn’t have to say everything, ‘Stupid’.”
“MOMMAAAA! He called me Stupid!”

So I’ve evolved that game into the “Spelling Spree,” where they have to spell what they see. Now the “I saw it first” fight doesn’t happen as often.

“Story Road” is another game idea where they have to make up silly stories, each kid adding a sentence in turns about things that they see. Start them off and keep tracking how it goes, adding your bit here and there.

A good game should last them about half an hour or so before they begin fighting. Then, you can bribe them with a chocolate or put on some music they like. Or yell at them and tell them to play with their own toys for a while. When the chant of “When will we reach?” begins again, start another game!

Rest Stops
When you travel with kids, it is a good idea to schedule time for short rest stops every couple of hours. This lets them stretch their legs and get rid of the excess energy they have accumulated while cooped up in the car. The back seat squabbles are bound to be much reduced if they know there’s life out of the car waiting for them after a while!

Travel Tummy
Many children feel uncomfortable when travelling by car in extreme heat or on mountain roads. If you’re like me and feel guilty sedating your kids unnecessarily, the following ideas might help:
· The front seat is better than the back of the car for children who feel sick. That’s probably because the front is better ventilated and less bouncy than the back.
· Keep windows open and let your child breathe in fresh air as much as possible.
· Keep some plain, thickish, brown paper bags handy to use as barf bags.
· A wet napkin or face towel dipped in cologne helps—don’t ask me how or why!
· Don’t give your kids a heavy meal before you travel. At the same time, don’t let them travel on an empty stomach. Keep them on a light diet and supplement this with toffees, biscuits, fruits and chocolates during the drive.
· If you can, try to ensure the child has used his potty before you travel. Many children feel nauseous if their bowels aren’t clear.
· Don’t bundle up your kids or have them wear tight, uncomfortable clothes during the trip. Start off with loose waistbands and light clothing and layer them up as you go along if and when you need to. Overheating definitely leads to travel sickness!
· If your child is prone to travel sickness, do not allow her to read in the car. Reading in a moving car makes some people nauseous.

Have a good trip. And take the opportunity of the long drive to talk to your children, teach them and learn from them. Being in close confines for hours on end is a wonderful way to be together as a family!

Why This?

Once again that same old same old.

"Why do you write what you do?"
According to some of my anonymous readers, my poems are weird and incomprehensible; my stories are twisted; my descriptive pieces are too detailed; my ramblings about life are really eccentric and in general my stuff is too complicated to read.

The experts, on the other hand, find my writing "really interesting" and advise that my non-fiction is "strong and vibrant" and that my poems are "gnomic" and "aphoristic" with "compelling visual imagery" and that I should leave everything else and concentrate on the poetry and descriptive pieces.

More believing of my anonymous readers, however, I ask myself:
Why do I write?

I can’t sing a sunset or paint my fears; I cannot dance my experiences or play the rhythms of my children on musical instruments. As a child in school, I used to envy my talented friends their natural gifts of expression. When Gargi danced Shiva’s tandav, my heartbeat changed to the pulse of her feet; when Amrita sang "Bridge Over Troubled Waters," my insides melted; when I saw Pinkie's “Rainy Day,” I wanted to pour black poster paint all over mine.

But I never envied anybody’s writing.

So I write because I can.

As for why I write what I do,
I write myself. That's why.