Taj

Taj Mahal. The first glimpse.

There are places that mesmerize you. There are some that sing to you. Others listen to you, borrow your sorrows for a while, and even heal a deep-seated wound or two. Then there's the Taj - it does all of that and then, just claims a portion of your heart, a considerable size, and simply refuses to give it back. In alluring echos, it calls your name again and again till you return one day. And return I did last month.

Legend goes that if you turn and look back, just once, while leaving through the gigantic gateway, you are bound to come back one day. It was a sultry June afternoon, the kind that sticks to your skin when the monsoons are just a taunting fortnight away. A wide-eyed teenager and all of just 14, I wasn't sure of many things back then. But I do recall a feeling of sadness, one that was beyond my years or being to fathom, that had lightly touched my shoulders while leaving the place. I also remember being so overwhelmed by what I saw that I was unusually quiet for most of the day, as if to speak would break the spell.
Only this time the magic became somewhat decipherable, but not enough for me to put it into words. Not yet. Perhaps it is something about not being able to bottle the wonder, the exquisiteness and bring it back with you; for try as much you would capturing it, inch by inch, standing there in front of it and getting awed by every single detail is something else altogether. The unparalleled Mughal architecture, the poetry in every little motif, and the strange calm in the midst of a frenzied crowd - it is nothing short of a trance when they all come together. And I am still swooning in it.

Through the Great Gate, when the sky was blue for a moment or two. The cliched, postcard Taj from the entrance. The beautifully landscaped Mughal gardens. The Taj Mahal mosque and its stunning sandstone interior. Photogenic doors with years of history locked behind them. A peek of the Taj from the mosque's entrance. The eastern view of the mausoleum. One of the four minarets framed by a misty Yamuna in the backdrop. The latticed entrance to the tomb, displaying the signature 'jali' work of Islamic architecture. Its walls plastered with breathtaking Persian plant motifs with colorful 'pietra dura' on the borders. The geometrically patterned marble of the huge dome. Calligraphy of Persian poems on the arch shoulders of the tomb. A very wintry view of the Taj as a resolute fog gives way to an early dusk. Quietly flows the Yamuna.

The bald Himalayas

"... the true smell of the Himalayas, ... if once it creeps into the blood of a man, that man will at the last, forgetting all else, return to the hills to die."

~ Rudyard Kipling


These lines couldn't have reverberated more truly in my heart, not after the last month's vacation to Ladakh. My love affair with the ever-bewitching pull of mountains was reaffirmed and how! I'm still feeding on bits and morsels of their surreal charm, those silent, ungrudging guardians of time. But the mountains of Ladakh that span the Himalayan and the Karakoram ranges have a different story to tell. Sitting at a dizzying altitude with much of it being over a good 10,000 feet at least, and robbed of even a speck of green, they guard this land of high passes with a zealous loyalty. Unlike the pine-choked, verdant peaks that one comes across in the valley of Kashmir, the mountains here are what they are in their just-born, nascent form - bald, brown, and unpretentious.

Framing the face of the region with their jagged fringes, one simply needs to turn, in order to view the innumerable breathtaking panoramas the intriguing landscape offers. To tag the mountains as 'omnipresent' would be a poor understatement indeed, for I cannot recall a single place or a scene that did not face the high mountains. And I realized, surrounded by all that raw beauty, that no other kind of nature-roving could be more humbling than to be amid these naked mountains, feeling intimidated and protected by their outright barrenness at once.

From the square of the hotel windows. Arms laced together, hugging the azure skies. Serene monasteries perched safely in their sandy cradle. Prayer flags everywhere, lending a dreamy color palette to their tanned monotony. Watching over the army settlements, who, in turn, watch over them, their green tents dotting the barren expanse of the landscape. Basking in its rusty glory by the banks of the turquoise dream, the Pangong Tso lake. A mute witness to the coming together of the Indus and the Zanskar rivers. In the backdrop of the fragrant, wild-rose blooms. Flanking roads and highways, lending some expressiveness to their otherwise tiresome meandering. Sculpting cold deserts with silver sands, the home of the peculiar two-humped, Bactrian camel. Playing hide-and-seek with the big, cottony fluffs of cloud. Beholding the only other constant of the place - the red and maroon robbed monks - descending the rocky staircase of a monastery. 

Postcards from Kashmir - I

“Gar firdaus bar-rue zamin ast, hami asto, hamin asto, hamin ast.” 
(If there is ever a heaven on earth, it is here, it is here, it is here.)

~ Emperor Jahangir during his visit to Kashmir in the 17th century

A sublime world, barricaded by timelessness. The centuries-old yet still breathtaking Mughal gardens will vouch for that. The restless stride of the clock ceases to exist in the valley. The dreamily skimming shikara on the calm waters of the lakes is a testimonial to that. The coming together of a bygone era with its proud remnants of old, dilapidated mosques and a modern water-old chockablock with houseboats and floating bazaars. 
Kashmir - the forever fragrant land of saffron and roses; the land obsessed with its pashmina and chinar (maple); the home of the whirling sufis and the imposing Himalayas. Like the very atoms of breath, every inch of the place is soaked in an enduring, ethereal poetry. Such was my joy on finally reaching the much-fabled paradise, that my heart swelled with a desperate, greedy thrill - as if there was no tomorrow; as if I needed to live every single moment to the brim then and there; as if I had a million tiny hearts throbbing inside me, all at once.

Then there are the unforgettable lessons Kashmir offers - the robust mountains tower you, till the remaining shreds of conceit and worldliness inside you leave for good, humbling you forever; the deep lakes, those serene pools of wisdom, inspire the good in you; and, the surviving fragments of an old world narrates countless tales of perseverance. But the most profound messages swim in the eyes of the Kashmiri people, who, with their warm, maple-hued gestures tug at your heart long after you have left the valley. Be it our extremely well-read, Rumi-quoting, warm cottage owner who, very gladly takes it upon himself to show us around the remote, crumbling pockets of old Srinagar and quite abruptly breaks into a perfect rendition of "Annie's Song" on the way; or, be it the ever-smiling taxi driver from a village who insists upon us having tea at his place which happened to be on our way up to a local vista point; or, be it our concerned houseboat manager who calls us long after we've reached Hyderabad, only to make sure if we reached home safely.

For a land so ruthlessly torn with strife and its people so relentlessly bruised by an eternal, meaningless territorial conflict, to us city dwellers to have arrived from the complacent comforts of our cocooned lives, Kashmir was a lesson in silence. Of the resilience, the stoicism, and the everyday war with oneself to keep the hunger for life alive. 

An early flower seller rows away into the morning gold. The chrysanthemum-laden boat. Rows of neatly stacked houseboats on the ever placid Nigeen lake. The breathtaking Shalimar Bagh and its legendary roses - the quintessential 'Kashmir ki kali' (the blossom of Kashmir). The remnants of a resplendent valley autumn. A tour of the senses with the hypnotic rogan josh. Kahwah, the traditional Kashmiri tea - the fragrant wonder that cardamom, cinnamon and a few strands of saffron could do to your regular green tea. Srinagar, a surreal water-world from its topmost perch. The old city, where the Jamia Masjid stands proudly and quiet flows by the river Jehlum. Dusk veils the valley and the tired shikaras on the swarming Dal lake call it a day. 

PS. I've taken the title from Agha Shahid Ali's poem 'Postcard from Kashmir', a piece of nostalgia that has stayed very close to my heart over the years. More about it, the mountains and Kashmir's rural face in the next post. 

A Hawaiian dream II

Turquoise, green, blue... The colours dreams must be made of, perhaps. To the lighthouse, the one with a shiny, red roof. Mouthwatering shrimp scampi from the world famous Giovanni's shrimp truck. "Eat like a local" they say, and we sure stuck to it. Beautiful coconut-bamboo wind chimes, their music so very different from the tinkle of the metallic chimes. 'Enchanted Banyan', the shade under which many a story is told and many a future foretold. Beads again. The omnipresent hula, be it the dance or the dolls. The Ko'olau mountains, fascinating and forever fog-masked. Guarding the windward side of the island, they stand like green giants rising from the blue ocean. The Byodo-In temple framed by the misty mountains. The ever striking red pagodas matched perfectly by an echoing calm. Feisty heliconias at the temple gate. The remains of the day.