Stories

"I am enslaved to fate, of all else say no more..."

~ Rumi

Hidden
one inside the other
the other inside another
petal after petal
whorl after whorl
living in one another
a lacy latticework of lives
Fate sits by the window
her divine, deft fingers at work
greedy and tireless
weaving stories
secretly but surely
from the womb to the world

Sandstone diaries

It had been quite a while since the ardent mountain lover in me craved for a place very unlike the blinding green, dewy fresh and effortlessly charming state of Washington. I longed for some place dramatically different, one where nature has taken surprising turns, one that would sooth my eyes and quench the thirst of my soul. In short, a place that had a distinct character and oodles of it. We looked no further since it had been sitting stubbornly on the top of our must-do list from a long time - the American Old West. Rough and tough, and mesmerizing like no other. Stay with me, dear readers, for I must ramble on for quite a length, whichever way I can, to bring to you my sandstone diaries.

Though we visited a handful of the scores of canyons and cliffs that the old, wild West boasts of, I shall restrain my narration with the two highlights of our trip. Our caravan started in the Bryce Canyon National Park of Utah, the spectacular home of the legendary hoodoos that date back to the prehistoric times. Sculpted from sedimentary rocks by the perfect harmony between air, water and wind, they stand with a fixed and aimless gaze as if stupefied by magic, just like their legend goes. The Native Americans believe the hoodoos were people who were stunned to stone by a wicked Coyote. One can almost see this story come alive in their vacant expressions and mystifying orderliness as if actually punished by a cruel taskmaster. A very striking allusion that scurried past my thoughts were spells from Harry Potter - 'Petrificus Totalus' and 'Stupefy' - which when used correctly, petrifies or stuns the opponent. One just needs the proper wand of course!

The rocks that redden here, whiten there and are orange elsewhere are a sheer delight to comprehend. The unique hollows and arches, bridges and hammers, are just a handful of the popular rock formations of the Bryce Canyon. The natural bridge is probably the most majestic spot in the entire park where an arched hollow of sparkling orange gapes at you with a colour coordinated background of dark green pines. Its cave-like structure reminded me of the "cave of swimmers" from Michael Ondaatje's much acclaimed novel, The English Patient. A weaving of part reality and part fiction, it is a historic and spiritual journey of finding oneself - in life and love, as well as in the abysmal vastness of the Sahara desert. It all came back in flashes to me - the red sand, the arid topography and above all the enigmatic rock paintings. I could not help but compare the novel (particularly its brilliant, must-watch movie adaptation) to my experiences. Like its lost hero Almassy, I too, could feel reality loosening its tight hold of me. Or was it I who lost sight of it amid all that hypnotic beauty?  

Before I digress any further, there was more amazement in store for us. When the last rays of the setting sun kissed the hoodoos, they turned a magical pink. Under a stretch of lavender sky and with their bride-like blush, the landscape oozed drama and grandeur. Of course I couldn't have enough of the camera and behaved like an unruly child to the hilt. And of course the husband had a hard time managing me!

The Antelope Canyon in Arizona comprises the second half of my sandstone stories. Glued to my thoughts ever since we had been to the Grand Canyon three years back, we did not consider it worth paying a visit due to a fatal combination of ignorance and lack of time. Like the traveller who broods over an incomplete journey, I lamented our decision when I later saw some breathtaking photographs of what happens to be the most visited slot canyon of the American Southwest. Therefore it had to happen, one day or the other, come what may!
Located on Navajo land, a trip to the Antelope canyon is always a guided tour where the guide is a Navajo local. Since we opted for the photography tour, which is also an hour longer than the normal one, the guide was just the man we needed to show us the best nooks and crannies. After a fifteen minutes ride in the back of a rickety mini truck, through a desert of red sands and being thoroughly sand-washed, there we were - the upper Antelope Canyon, which the Navajo call 'Tse bighanilini' meaning the place where water runs through rocks. What looked like an ordinary cave from outside, turned out to be the most astonishing experience once we entered it. That something this spellbinding actually exists was beyond our comprehension. The wavy patterns on the walls created by flash floods looked as if a thousand magical fingers, in one fleeting moment, have run along them. A curve here, a twist there and the countless illusions the moody patterns create made us forget the muggy suffocation from the collective effect of the sand, the crowd and the outside temperature of a good 100 degree F.

The most prized moment for which everyone waited with skipped heartbeats was the appearance of the entrancing light beam through the openings on the ceiling of the canyon. That was a moment of lifetime, surreal and fragile, and to some extent divine too. Yes, all at the same time. Enveloped in a rapturous murmur of sighs, time and space froze into eternity. There was a strange and haunting silence, when one could hear only nature speak. A thousand shimmering grains of sand danced in that ray of light, as if once it is gone the trance would break.
Sandstone of every possible earthy tone - orange, rust, brown, chocolate and sometimes even a faint purple - greeted us from every inch and corner. In actuality the elusive beams of light play this colour trick but when surrounded by all that splendor and nature's glory, does it really matter? The brochure we got while purchasing the tour ticket read, "It was and still is a spiritual experience". It couldn't have been more true.

It has been a fortnight since our return home but the stories keep coming back, in images and sounds. How a palimpsest of worlds dance in front of my besotted eyes and how I keep shuttling between the past and the present. Just like that! I might have just left a piece of my heart etched on the canyon walls and my head wandering in the dreary, dusty desert paths.

Now that I've actually said much more that I had planned to, I must end this rumination with a befitting quote from The English Patient.

"I have spent weeks in the desert, forgetting to look at the moon, he says, as a married man may spend days never looking into the face of his wife. These are not sins of omission, but signs of pre-occupation."

And for those of you wanderers who are wondering how the roads look like, here is a fine glimpse -

Dhobi Ghat - lights, camera, reality!

Last week we went for Dhobi Ghat, Kiran Rao's debut directorial baby, despite the not so encouraging reviews. For me, the one hour and forty minutes was spent well, enwrapped in a poetic meaningfulness. What could be more rewarding than watching four real people, made of the same blood and flesh as mine, battling the whims of a big bad world in search of a life? And not once did it feel like I was there for Aamir Khan. Not this time.

Yasmin, in her quest for happiness, introduces us to Bombay - the crowd; the incessant rains; the fast paced individualistic life; and finally the sea, that omniscient secret-keeper. In an eloquent narrative shift, these regular details of the city blend in and get lost in Yasmin's existential angst. Trapped in a lonely and loveless marriage, her only way of escape from reality are the videos that she records as letters for her kid brother.

Arun, an upscale artist who takes up Yasmin's old flat, discovers her video letters and some rusty keepsakes in a dusty corner of an almirah. Curious, he begins watching these videos with a regularity that can be compared to one's cup of morning tea. Divorced and reclusive, her naivety unhinges him in a haunting way, so much so that he wears her trinkets as one would wear one's faith. He is drawn into Yasmin's little world and begins emptying her essence onto his canvas in colours of hope. It is only when he watches her last video, a suicide letter, he is jolted out of the reverie.

Shai, an investment banker from New York stumbles her way into Bombay for some soul searching through her camera lens. She meets Arun at one of his exhibitions which culminates in an unexpected impulsive night. Time passes but Shai is unable to forget the moment and longs for the enigmatic artist. In such desperate times, she turns to Munna, the shy dhobi who aspires to become an actor. Together, they explore the city - he as her guide and she as his portfolio photographer.

Munna gradually falls in love with his Amriki mem, although he knows of her fixation with Arun. Worse, he knows the improbability of his own dreams. Besides the matters of heart, his closest friend, the only sense of family he has ever known, is murdered in a gang war which leaves him disillusioned with the "big city". He realises Bombay, with all its money and glamour, is heartless. Only lifeless skyscrapers can thrive in its cold bosom. Surely, this is not the place for fragile human hopes.

Dhobi Ghat is an experience, a myriad of emotions, a lyrical portrait of reality. How far can one push oneself for that tiny flickering ray of happiness? It tries to answer this one question that has been throbbing inside every man's heart and mind. And it will continue to do so forever.

A darling pet python???

I remember odd bits of a childhood memory when father had once told me about a certain tennis star who had a python for a pet. I can recall the tides of fear and astonishment that had surged inside my little head then. Now almost after 20 years, Sam tells me about an American colleague of his who once had a pet baby python. At first I just brushed aside the conversation as another inscrutable aspect of the American culture. In India we do have domesticated snakes but once the snake charmers catch them, their poison tooth is pulled out which leaves them perfectly harmless. Over centuries and civilizations people have been fascinated with the domesticating of animals and birds, but a pet python simply sounds like a classic oxymoron. But eventually the incident turned out to be quite riveting. This particular python, while a baby, would feed on mice and infant pigs. But as it grew older it refused food and sulked inside its glass cage for days. Its concerned owner took it to a vet to check if everything was alright with the otherwise healthy and happy creature. The vet observed that the python was growing up and wanted more food to satiate its equally growing appetite. As a means of food mechanism, the python scales an image of the shape and the size of its prey as a comparision with its own bulk. This hungry python was actually starving itself so that it could feed on its owner!! The horror struck man was advised by the vet that he should leave his prized pet at the care of the zoo keepers. After this appalling end I could feel a little chill down my spine. Perhaps it's one of those little culture shock moments.

This episode further rings a bell about a certain short story of Khushwant Singh "The Mark of Vishnu" where Gunga Ram, a domestic servant dies a painful death from snake bite. Gunga Ram was illiterate and was therefore unreasonably religious and superstitious. He considered all life forms as sacred, especially the snakes. He regarded the snakes as the choicest of God's creatures and therefore they should not be harmed or attacked. And thus he revered the King cobra that lived in the house yard and every night left a saucerful of milk near his hole. The young boys of the house would often poke fun at Gunga Ram's absurd ways for they knew their science lessons well enough to be fooled by such blind beliefs. One fine day the boys manage to mangle and finally capture the King cobra in a box with the intention of parading him as a mark of their bravado in school. When the science teacher unfastened the box, the hurt and angry cobra darted out in a hissing fury. Gunga Ram, aware of King cobra's fate, had followed the boys to school in order to beg for forgiveness from the snake god. He presented the frenzied snake with his usual saucerful of milk and bowed down as an apologetic gesture. The cobra, furious in its urge to freedom, hissed and then frantically bit Gunga Ram all over his head. Ultimately his veneration for the deadly snake cost him his dear life. Before I digress once again, I would like to observe that it is logical for any creature, when provoked or denied its need, to adopt a defensive behaviour. It is in their very nature to do so. There is always a certain amount of risk involved when one tries to tame harmful creatures. A pet python starving to devour its owner or a captive King cobra paralysing its ardent devotee with his poisonous venom is only natural. Even my cat does not think twice before giving me one of her signature paw marks when I try to get too cuddly with her. She can and does a Garfield at such times! Let animals be animals then...

Maid of the Mist

Some legends live forever, spinning the tales of a magical past and its incredible splendors. Tirelessly told and treasured over generations, they uphold the essence of their once credible past. During our recent visit to the Niagara Falls, we chanced upon the various stories that have associated themselves with the intriguing history of the magnificent falls. After watching 'Niagara - Legends of Adventure' in the park's IMAX theatre, it felt as if the raging waters of Niagara carried an altogether different meaning. The daredevilry of people in the past who challenged the fury of the falls is indeed stomach churning. From the French rope walker Charles Blondin who walked across the perilous river on a tight rope to the 63 years old school teacher Annie Taylor who of her own volition chose to tumble over the thundering cascades in a barrel, the mysteries and myths of Niagara are astounding. What is even more fascinating is that these bravehearts not only survived the ordeal but also lived to recount their moment of glory. However Lelawala's story was the one that had a lasting impression on my thoughts.

Hundreds of years before, when the place was chaste and untouched by the European explorers, an Indian tribe by the name of Ongiara dwelt on the banks of the Niagara river. The Ongiaras worshiped Hinum, the God of thunder who lived with his two sons in the caves behind the falls. Every year the Indians offered the fruit of their harvest to appease their thunder god. But there came a time when many of them died for unknown reasons. The Indians were wary and thought of ways to curb the mishap. Instead of sending the annual canoes laden with fruits and flowers down the river, they decided to sacrifice the most beautiful maiden of the tribe every year to please Hinum. One such year Lelawala, the daughter of the chief was chosen. On the day of the ceremony Lelawala was bedecked with flowers and a doeskin garb. After the ceremonial feast, she stepped into a canoe and rowed towards the caves of Hinum. She plunged into her death as the canoe tumbled off the edge and cascaded down the turbulent falls. Hinum's two sons caught Lelawala in their strong arms as she fell and were mesmerised by her beauty. Each of them desired her. She promised to accept the one who told her the reason behind the unexpected deaths. They told her about a giant snake that poisoned the water once a year to get near its victims. Lelawala remained loyal and returned as a spirit to warn her tribe about the monstrous snake. As a consequence, the villagers waited for the snake and mortally wounded it when it visited the river banks the next year . The snake returned and lied limp across the river dying, with its head on one side and the tail resting on the other, forming a semi-circle. This later came to be known as the Horseshoe Falls. It is said that Lelawala's soul still lives in those caves and it is she who creates the spectacular mist and reigns the Horseshoe Falls. Since then she has been called the Maid of the Mist.

This story might be just like any other mythical folklore that leaves one in an imaginary realm for a certain time. Of course the reason behind the mist is quite obvious. The Horseshoe falls is 53 meters (173 ft) high and when the voluminous waters crash on the rocks beneath, they give rise to a gorgeous blanket of mist. But when you are there, amidst the hovering gulls in the misty breeze and the deafening roar of the falls, you might just as well keep the facts at bay. Because it, definitely, is an experience of lifetime. For only a maiden so beautiful and pristine as Lelawala could conjure up the resplendent, foggy mist that veils the caves behind the falls. To leave such a place with a feeling of being enchanted and intoxicated is certainly much more enriching than it is to analyse it as a factual piece of wild nature. Call it a nature lover's eye after all!