Wednesday, June 24, 2015

ಹೊರಟೆನೆಂದರೆ ತಡೆಯಲಿ ಹ್ಯಾಂಗ? A Travel Article in Udayavani Kannada Daily

When my friend P.K. from Udayavani, a popular daily in the state, asked me to write something on travel in Kannada, I was rather wary. Apprehension doesn't cover the feeling either. I have been asked to do this before by other friends, but I have always managed to shy away from it. P was persistent, having more faith in me than I ever would, I thank her for it.

My apprehension is not just because my hold on the language leaves much to be desired. It is a continuing regret, that I cannot write as well in my mother tongue as I can in English. But, that said, this was a fun thing to do, though it took me a large part of the day to type it out. 

Now they want me to write more. Err...ummm...well...

Anyway, so this might be a start! For the non-Kannada readers here, this is an article on travelling alone, why I do it, etc. The photo? Very 'me', I thought. Read the article here on the Udayavani website or see below.  The article is the lead today in the Avalu supplement.

(The below text is likely to have typos.)

ಹೊರಟೆನೆಂದರೆ ತಡೆಯಲಿ ಹ್ಯಾಂಗ?



ಒಂದಾನೊಂದು ಕಾಲದ ಕಥೆ ಇದು. ಭಾರತದ ಸಹಸ್ರಾರು ಹಳ್ಳಿಗಳ ಮಧ್ಯೆ ಒಂದು ಪುಟ್ಟ ಪಟ್ಟಣವಾದ ಮಡಿಕೇರಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಒಬ್ಬಳು ಹುಡುಗಿ. (ಆಫ್ ಕೋರ್ಸ್ ನಾನೇ ಆ ಹುಡುಗಿಎನ್ನಬೇಕಿಲ್ಲ) ಎಲ್ಲೋ, ಯಾರಿಂದಲೋ ಕೇಳಿದ ನೆನಪು, ಪಾದದ ಅಡಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಮಚ್ಚೆ ಇದ್ದರೆ ಕಾಲಿಗೆ ಚಕ್ರ ಕಟ್ಟಿದ ಹಾಗೆ ಎಂದು. ನನ್ನ ಎಡಗಾಲಿನ ಅಡಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಮಚ್ಚೆ ಇರಬೇಕಾದರೆನನ್ನೆದೇನು ತಪ್ಪಿಲ್ಲ, ಟ್ರಾವೆಲ್ ಮಾಡಲು, ತಿರುಗಲು, ಸುತ್ತಾಡಲು ಬೇರೆ ಕಾರಣ ಬೇಕಿಲ್ಲ, ಎಂದು ಸುಮಾರು ವರ್ಷಗಳ ಹಿಂದೆ ನಿರ್ಧರಿಸಿದ್ದೆ.

ನನಗೆ 'ಟ್ರಾವೆಲ್ ಬಗ್' ಹಿಡಿದದ್ದು ಯಾವಾಗ ಎಂದು ಅಷ್ಟು ಸರಿಯಾಗಿ ನೆನಪಿಲ್ಲ. ಕೆಲ ತಿಂಗಳುಗಳ ಮಗುವಾಗಿದ್ದಾಗ ಒಂದು ಬೆಡ್ ಶೀಟಿನ ಮೇಲೆ ಅಂಗಳದಲ್ಲಿ ಹರಿದಾಡಲು ಬಿಟ್ಟು ಮರ,ಹಕ್ಕಿ ತೋರಿಸಿ ಕಥೆ ಹೇಳಿದ ಅಮ್ಮ, ಅಜ್ಜಿಯಿಂದ ಬಂತೇನೋ ಎಂದು ಅನಿಸುತ್ತದೆ. ಅಥವಾ ಬೇಸಿಗೆಯ ರಜದಲ್ಲಿ ಜಿಲ್ಲಾ ಗ್ರಂಥಾಲಯಕ್ಕೆ ಹೋಗಲು ವಾರಕ್ಕೊಂದು ಹೊಸ ರೂಟ್ಹಿಡಿದಾಗ ಅಂಟಿಕೊಂಡಿತೋ ತಿಳಿಯದು. ಬಹುಶ ಡಿಗ್ರಿ ರಿವಿಶನ್ ರಜೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಪರೀಕ್ಷೆಯ ಹಿಂದಿನ ದಿನ ಅಪ್ಪ ಅಮ್ಮನ ಜೊತೆ ಟ್ರೆಕಿಂಗ್ ಹೋದ, ಬೆಟ್ಟದ ತುದಿಯಿಂದ ಕಾಣುವ ಅದ್ಭುತವ್ಯೂಗಳನ್ನು ಕಣ್ಣಲೆ ಇಟ್ಟುಕೊಂಡು ಈಗಲೂ ಟ್ರಾಫಿಕ್ ಮದ್ಯದಲ್ಲಿರುವಾಗ ನೆನೆಸಿಕೊಳ್ಳುವಾಗ ರೆಜುವೆನೆಟ್ ಆಗುವ ಟ್ರಾವೆಲ್ ಪ್ರೇಮ ಇದಿರಬೇಕು.

ಅಣ್ಣ-ಅಕ್ಕ-ತಂಗಿ-ತಮ್ಮ ಇಲ್ಲದೆ ಒಬ್ಬಳೆ ಬೆಳೆದ ನನಗೆ ಮಂಗಳೂರು ವಿಶ್ವವಿದ್ಯಾನಿಲಯದ ಹಾಸ್ಟೆಲ್ ಒಂದು ರೆವೆಲೆಶನ್ ಆಗಿದ್ದರೂ ಪ್ರತೀ ೩-೪ ವಾರಕ್ಕೆ ಒಮ್ಮೆ ಕ್ಲಾಸ್ತ್ರೋಫೋಬಿಕ್ಅನಿಸುತಿದುದು ನೆನಪಿದೆ. ರೂಂಮೇಟಿಗೆ ಹೇಳಿ ಬೆಳಗ್ಗಿನ ಜಾವ ಹೊರಟು ಕಾರ್ಕಳ, ಮೂಡುಬಿದ್ರೆ, ಉಡುಪಿ, ವೆಣೋರು ಹೀಗೆ ಅಕ್ಕ ಪಕ್ಕದ ಊರು ನೋಡಿ, ದಿನವಿಡಿ ನಡೆದು, ನಡೆದುಸುಸ್ತಾಗಿ ಲಾಸ್ಟ್ ಬಸ್ ಹಿಡಿದು ಬರುತ್ತಿದ್ದೆ. ಆಗಿನ ವರ್ಷಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಅದು ನನ್ನ 'ಮಿ-ಟೈಮ್', ತಲೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಇರುವ ವಿಪರೀತ ವಿಷಯಗಳ ಸದ್ದಿನಿಂದ ಒಂದು ದಿನದ ಮಟ್ಟಿಗಿನ ಬ್ರೇಕ್. ಅಲ್ಲಿಂದಹಿಡಿದ ಒಬ್ಬಳೆ ಟ್ರಾವೆಲ್ ಮಾಡುವ ಹುಚ್ಚು (ಅಮ್ಮ ಬಳಸುವ ಪದ) ಇನ್ನು ಅಂದಿನಷ್ಟೇ ಇದೆ. ಬುದ್ದಿ ಬೆಳೆದಂತೆ, ಪ್ರಾಯವಾದಂತೆ ಅಲ್ಲಿ ಇಲ್ಲಿ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಮಟ್ಟಿಗೆ ಬದಲಾಗಿದೆ, ಸೇಫ್ಟಿವಿಷಯದಲ್ಲಿ, ಇತ್ಯಾದಿ. ಅದನ್ನು ಹೊರತು ಪದೆಸಿದರೆ, ಒಬ್ಬಳೇ ಟ್ರಾವೆಲ್ ಮಾಡುವುದರಲ್ಲಿ ಇರುವ ತೃಪ್ತಿ, ಥ್ರಿಲ್, ಆ ಅಡ್ರಿನಾಲಿನ್ ರಶ್ ಎಂಬುದು ಬೆಸ್ಟ್ ಫ್ರೆಂಡ್, ಬಾಯ್ ಫ್ರೆಂಡ್,ಮಕ್ಕಳು, ಇತರೆ ಫ್ಯಾಮಿಲಿ, ಯಾರ ಜೊತೆಗೂ ಹೋಗುವುದರಲ್ಲಿಲ್ಲ ಎಂಬುವ ನನ್ನ ಅಭಿಪ್ರಾಯ ಕಿಂಚಿಸ್ಟು ಬದಲಾಗಲಿಲ್ಲ.

ಒಬ್ಬರೇ, ಅದರಲ್ಲೂ ಒಬ್ಬ ಹುಡುಗಿ ಟ್ರಾವೆಲ್ ಮಾಡುವುದರಲ್ಲಿ ಇರುವ ರಿಸ್ಕ್ ಗಳ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಎಲ್ಲರಿಗೂ ಗೊತ್ತಿರುವಂತದ್ದೇ. ಇದೊಂದು 'ನೋ ಕಂಟ್ರಿ ಫಾರ್ ಸಿಂಗಲ್ ವಿಮೆನ್.' ಕತ್ತಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಒಂದುತಾಳಿ, ಕೈಯಲ್ಲಿ ಒಂದು, ಎರಡು ಮಕ್ಕಳಿಲ್ಲದಿದ್ದರೆ ಬೆಂಗಳೂರಿನಂತಹ ನಗರದಲ್ಲೇ ಜನರ ನೋಡುವ ದೃಷ್ಟಿ ಸದಾ ಬದಲಾಗುತ್ತಲೇ ಇರುತ್ತದೆ. ಇನ್ನು ಬೆನ್ನಿಗೆ ಒಂದು ಬ್ಯಾಕ್ ಪ್ಯಾಕ್ ,ಕಾಲುಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ವಾಕಿಂಗ್ ಶೂಸ್, ಒಂದು ಕ್ಯಾಮೆರಾ, ಪೆನ್, ನೋಟ್ ಬುಕ್ ಹಿಡಿದು ಬಸ್, ಟ್ರೈನ್, ಪ್ಲೇನ್ ಹತ್ತುವ ಹೆಣ್ಣುಮಗಳನ್ನು ಜವಾಬ್ದಾರಿ ಇಲ್ಲದ, ಹೇಳುವವರು - ಕೇಳುವವರು ಇಲ್ಲದಪಶ್ಚಿಮ ಶೈಲಿಯ ಹಿಪ್ಪಿ ಎಂದು ಪರಿಗಣಿಸುವವರು ನಮ್ಮ ಪಕ್ಕದ ಸೀಟ್ ನಲ್ಲಿಯೇ ಕುಳಿತಿರುತ್ತಾರೆ. ಆದರೆ, ಜನರು ಯೋಚಿಸುವುದರ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ನಾವು ಯೋಚಿಸುತ್ತಾ ಇದ್ದರೆ ಯಾವುದೇಕೆಲಸವನ್ನು ಮಾಡಲು ಸಾದ್ಯವಿಲ್ಲ ಎಂಬುದು ಎಷ್ಟೋ ವರ್ಷಗಳ ಹಿಂದೆ ಕಲಿತ ಅತ್ಯಾವಶ್ಯಕ ಪಾಠಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಒಂದು. ಜನರು ಹೇಳುತ್ತಲೇ ಇರುತ್ತಾರೆ, ಅವರದ್ದೇ ಆದ ಅಭಿಪ್ರಾಯ, ಕಥೆ,ನಿಯಮ ಕಟ್ಟುತಲೇ ಇರುತ್ತರೆ. ವಾರಣಾಸಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಗಂಗಾ ನದಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಮುಸ್ಸಂಜೆಯ ಹೊತ್ತಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಗಂಗಾ ಆರತಿಯ ಗುಂಗಿನಲ್ಲಿರುವಾಗ, ಕಾಂಚನಜುಂಗದ ಮೇಲೆ ಮೂಡುತ್ತಿರುವ ಸೂರ್ಯನಮೊದಲ ಕಿರಣಗಳು ಬೇಳುತ್ತಿರುವುದನ್ನು ಬೆಳಗ್ಗಿನ ವಾಕ್ ಮಾಡುತ್ತಾ ನೋಡುವಾಗ ಆ 'ನಾಲ್ಕು ಜನರು' ಏನು ಹೇಳುತ್ತಾರೆ ಎಂಬುದು ಡಸ್ ನಾಟ್ ರಿಯಲಿ ಮ್ಯಾಟರ್. ಅಲ್ವಾ?

ಇಂಟರ್ ನೆಟ್, ಎಲ್ಲಿಲ್ಲಿಯೂ ಸಿಕ್ಕುವ ಮೊಬೈಲ್ ನೆಟ್ವರ್ಕ್ ಗಳಿಂದಾಗಿ ಈಗೀಗ ಅದೆಷ್ಟೋ ಸುಲಭ, ಒಂದು ರೀತಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಬೋರಿಂಗ್ ಆಗಿದೆ ಟ್ರಾವೆಲ್. ಅದೆಷ್ಟೋ ಸೇಫ್ ಕೂಡ ಆಗಿದೆ.ಒಬ್ಬೊಬ್ಬರೇ ಟ್ರಾವೆಲ್ ಮಾಡುವಾಗ ಓದಲು ಪುಸ್ತಕ, ಬ್ಯಾಗಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಐಪಾಡ್ ಇದ್ದರೂ ಕಂಪನಿ ಬೇಕು ಎಂದೆನಿಸುವುದು ಸಹಜ. ಲೋಕಲ್ ಯಾರದ್ದಾದರೂ ಪರಿಚಯ ಇದ್ದಿದ್ದರೆ ಎಂದುಅನಿಸುತ್ತದೆ, ಅವರು ಅಲ್ಲಿನ ಬೆಸ್ಟ್ ಬಿರಿಯಾನಿ ಎಲ್ಲಿ ಸಿಗುತ್ತದೆ, ಕಡಿಮೆ ಬೆಲೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಶಾಪಿಂಗ್ ಎಲ್ಲಿ ಮಾಡಬಹುದು, ಹೀಗೆ ಲೋಕಲ್ ಸೀಕ್ರೆಟ್ ಗಳನ್ನು ಹೇಳುತ್ತಿದರು ಎಂದೆನಿಸುತ್ತದೆ. ಹೀಗೆಟ್ರಾವೆಲ್ ಮಾಡುವ (ಟೂರಿಸ್ಟ್ ಅಲ್ಲ, ಟ್ರಾವೆಲ್ ಮತ್ತು ಟೂರಿಸಂ ಮದ್ಯೆ ಇರುವ ಅಂತರ ಬಹಳ ದೊಡ್ದದು) ಅದೆಷ್ಟೋ ಜನರು ಯೋಚಿಸಿರಬೀಕು. ಅದರಿಂದ ಎಲ್ಲೋ ಪ್ರೆರಿರತವಾಗಿಹುಟ್ಟಿಕೊಂಡ ವೆಬ್ ಸೈಟ್ Couchsurfing. ಒಂದು ಅತಿ ಸರಳ ಕಾನ್ಸೆಪ್ಟ್. ಮನೆಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಜಾಗವಿದ್ದರೆ ಯಾವುದೋ ಯಾತ್ರಿಕನಿಗೆ ಮಲುಗಲು ಹಾಸಿಗೆಯಾಗುತ್ತದೆ. ನಿಮಗೆ ಒಬ್ಬಹೊಸ ಫ್ರೆಂಡ್, ಅದ್ಯಾವುದೋ ದೇಶದಿಂದ ಬಂದ, ಏನೇನೋ ಕಥೆಗಳನ್ನು ತರುವ ಒಬ್ಬ ಫ್ರೆಂಡ್. ಅವರಿಗೆ ಹೊಸ ಊರಿನಲ್ಲಿ, ಲೋಕಲ್ ಭಾಷೆ, ಸಂಸ್ಕುತಿಯ ಪರಿಚಯ ನೀಡಬಲ್ಲಇನ್ನೊಬ್ಬ ಫ್ರೆಂಡ್. ಎಲ್ಲವೂ ಫ್ರೀ!

Couchsurfing ವೆಬ್ ಸೈಟಿನಲ್ಲಿ ರಿಜಿಸ್ಟರ್ ಮಾಡಿ, ಪ್ರೊಫೈಲ್ ಮಾಡಿ, ನಮ್ಮ ಆಸಕ್ತಿ, ಹವ್ಯಾಸ, ಇತ್ಯಾದಿ ವಿವರಗಳನ್ನು ಬರೆದು, 'ಕೌಚ್' ಇದ್ದರೆ, ಅದರ ವಿವರಗಳನ್ನು ತುಂಬಬೇಕಾಗುತ್ತದೆ. ಎಷ್ಟು ಜನರನ್ನು 'ಹೋಸ್ಟ್' ಮಾಡಬಹುದು, ಬರೀ ಹುಡುಗರು, ಬರೀ ಹುಡುಗಿಯರು, ಮಿಕ್ಸೆಡ್ ಗುಂಪು, ಇತ್ಯಾದಿ ಪ್ರಿಫರೆನ್ಸಸ್ ಹಾಕಬಹುದು. ಅಥವಾ ಬರೀ ನಿಮ್ಮಊರನ್ನು ತೋರಿಸಲು ಸಮಯ ನೀಡಬಹುದು, ಒಂದು ಕಾಫಿ, ಒಂದು ಡ್ರಿಂಕ್ ಗೆ ಸಿಗುತ್ತೇನೆ ಎನ್ನಬಹುದು. ಆಸಕ್ತರು ನಿಮಗೆ ಮೆಸೇಜ್ ಕಳಿಸಿ, ಇಬ್ಬರಿಗೂ ಸರಿಕಟ್ಟಾದರೆ ನಿಮ್ಮ ಕೌಚ್ಅವರಿಗೆ ನೀಡಲು ಒಪ್ಪಬಹುದು. ಬದಲಿಗೆ ಹೊಸ ಪರಿಚಯ, ಒಳ್ಳೆ ಅಡ್ವೆಂಚರ್. ಊಟದ ವ್ಯವಸ್ತೆ ನೀದಬೇಕೆಂದಿಲ್ಲ, ನಿಮ್ಮ ಅನುಕೂಲಕ್ಕೆ ಬಿಟ್ಟ ವಿಷಯ. ನೀವು ಟ್ರಾವೆಲ್ ಮಾಡುವಾಗಅದ್ಯಾವುದೋ ಊರು, ಬೇರೆಯಾವುದೋ ದೇಶದಲ್ಲೂ ಇಂತಹ Couchsurfing ಹೋಸ್ಟ್ ಗಳನ್ನು ಹುಡುಕಬಹುದು. ಪ್ರಪಂಚದಾದ್ಯಂತ ಹರಡಿರುವ ಇಂತಹಾ Couchsurfers ದೊಡ್ಡನಗರಗಳಿಂದ ಹಿಡಿದು ಮೂಲೆ ಮೂಲೆಯ ಹಳ್ಳಿಗಳಲ್ಲಿಯೂ ಇರುತ್ತಾರೆ.
ನಾನು ಹಲವು ವರ್ಷಗಳಿಂದ ಇದರ ಮೆಂಬರ್. ಕೆಲ ವರ್ಷಗಳ ಹಿಂದೆ ಗೋವಾ ಹೋಗುವ ಪ್ಲಾನ್ ಇದ್ದು, ಕೈಯಲ್ಲಿ ಹೆಚ್ಚು ಹಣವಿಲ್ಲದಿದ್ದಾಗ ಈ Couchsurfing ಟ್ರೈ ಮಾಡಬಹುದೇನೋಎಂದು ಅನಿಸಿತ್ತು. ಪೀಟರ್ ಮತ್ತು ರೋಸಿಯ ಮನೆ ಕಲಂಗುಟ್ ಬೀಚಿನ ಹತ್ತರೆ ಇದ್ದು ಒಂದು ದೊಡ್ಡ ರೂಂ, ಸುಂದರ ಅಂಟಿಕ್ ಮಂಚ, ದೊಡ್ಡ ಫ್ರೆಂಚ್ ಕಿತಕಿಗಳಿರುವ ವಿಶಾಲ ರೂಂನಮಗೆ ಮೀಸಲಾಗಿತ್ತು. ನಾವು ಅವರಿಗೆ ಒಂದು ದಿನ ಡಿನ್ನರ್ ಮಾದಿದ್ದೆವು. ಪೀಟರ್ ಪ್ರಾಣಿಕ್ ಹೀಲಿಂಗ್ ಬಗ್ಗೆ, ಅವರು ರಿಸ್ಟೋರ್ ಮಾಡುತ್ತಿದ ಹಳೆಯ ಪೋರ್ಚುಗೀಸ್ ಮನೆಯ ಬಗ್ಗೆ,ಟೆರೇಸ್ ಮೇಲೆ ಬೆಳೆಯುತ್ತಿದ ಗಿಡಗಳ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ಅದೆಷ್ಟೋ ಕಥೆಗಳನ್ನು ಹೇಳಿದ್ದ.

Couchsurfing ಕಮ್ಯೂನಿಟಿ ನಡೆಸುವ ವೆಬ್ ಸೈಟ್ ಆದ ಕಾರಣ ರಿಸ್ಕ್ ಕಡಿಮೆಯಾಗುತ್ತದೆ. ಅದರೂ, ಇದು ವಿಶೇಷವಾಗಿ ಹೇಳಬೇಕಿಲ್ಲ, ನಮ್ಮ ಜಾಗ್ರತೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಇರುವುದು ನಮಗೆಬಿಟ್ಟಿದ್ದು. ಕಡಿಮೆ ಬಜೆಟ್ ಇಟ್ಟುಕೊಂಡು, ಕೇವಲ ಪ್ರತಿಯೊಂದು ಊರಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಗೈಡ್ ಪುಸ್ತಕದಲ್ಲಿ ಇರುವ ಜಾಗಗಳನ್ನು ಮಾತ್ರ ನೋಡದೆ, ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಭಿನ್ನವಾಗಿ ಟ್ರಾವೆಲ್ ಮಾಡಬೇಕೆಂದುಇರುವುದಾದರೆ ಈ Couchsurfing ಟ್ರೈ ಮಾಡಬಹುದು. ಹೀಗೆ ಹೋಟೆಲ್ ಅಲ್ಲದೆ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಭಿನ್ನವಾಗಿರುವ ಟ್ರಾವೆಲ್ ಗೆ Airbnb ಮತ್ತು ಇನ್ನಿತರ ವೆಬ್ ಸೈಟ್ ಗಳು ಸೇರಿದರು ಅವು Couchsurfingನ ಹಾಗೆ ಫ್ರೀ ಇರುವುದಿಲ್ಲ.

ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಜಾಗ್ರತೆ, ಕಾಮನ್ ಸೆನ್ಸ್ ವಹಿಸಿ, ವಿಪರೀತ ರಿಸ್ಕ್ ತಗೊಳ್ಳದೆ ಇದ್ದರೆ ಒಬ್ಬೊಬರೆ ಪ್ರಯಾಣ ಮಾಡುವ ಸಂತೋಷವೇ ಬೇರೆ. ನಮ್ಮನು ನಾವು ಕಂಡುಕೊಳ್ಳುವ, ನಮ್ಮನು ನಾವುಸರಿಯಾಗಿ ಅರ್ಥ ಮಾಡಿಕೊಳ್ಳುವ ಅವಕಾಶ ದೊರೆಯುತ್ತದೆ. ಒಬ್ಬರೇ ಇರುವಾಗ ನಮ್ಮ ಪರಿಸರದ ಬಗ್ಗೆ ನಾವು ಇನ್ನಷ್ಟು ಸೆನ್ಸಿಟಿವ್ ಆಗುತ್ತೇವೆ. ನಮ್ಮ ಅಂತರಾಳದ ಮಾತನ್ನು ಕೇಳಲುಆ ಒಂದು ನಿಶಬ್ಧ ಇರುತ್ತದೆ. ನಮ್ಮ ಲಿಮಿಟ್ ಏನು, ನಾವು ಎಲ್ಲಿಯವರೆಗೆ ಹೋಗಲು ತಯರಾಗಿರುತ್ತೇವೆ ಎನ್ನುವ ಅರಿವು ಮೂಡುತ್ತದೆ. ಮನೆಗೆ ಹಿಂತಿರುಗಿದ ಮೇಲೆ, ಫೋಟೋಸ್ ನೊಡಿ,ಎಲ್ಲರಿಗು ಪ್ರಯಾಣದ ಕಥೆಗಳನ್ನು ಹೇಳಿದ ನಂತರ ಇರುಳು ಮಲಗುವ ಮುನ್ನ ಅದೊಂದು ಒಮ್ಮೆಲೆ ಅನಿಸುತ್ತದೆ - ನಾವು ಅದೆಷ್ಟು ಸ್ಟ್ರಾಂಗ್ ಆಗಿದ್ದೇವೆ ಎಂದು.

ಇನ್ನೇನು ಆಗುಸ್ಟ್ ತಿಂಗಳು ಹತ್ತಿರ ಬರುತ್ತಿದೆ. ವಿಯೆಟ್ನಾಂ, ಕಾಂಬೋಡಿಯಾ, ಇತ್ಯಾದಿ ೩-೪ ದೇಶಗಳ ಪ್ರವಾಸದ ಪ್ಲಾನ್ ನಡೆಯುತ್ತಿದೆ. ಅದೆಷ್ಟೋ ತಿಂಗಳುಗಲಾದವು, ಒಬ್ಬಳೆ ಹೋಗಿ.ಹಿಂತಿರುಗಿ ಬಂದಮೇಲೆ ನೋಟ್ ಬುಕ್ ತುಂಬಾ ಶಬ್ದಗಳು, ಬ್ಯಾಗ್ ತುಂಬಾ ಕಥೆಗಳಿರುತ್ತವೆ ಎಂದು ನನಗೊತ್ತು.

Saturday, June 20, 2015

Kodagu's Kunde Habba (Festival): A Story in Hindu Business Line's BLInk

We finally made it to the festival this year. An account of it is in this week's BLInk supplement of The Hindu Business Line. Read it here, or see below for a tad unedited version.

GETTING EVEN WITH GOD AND MEN


To my utter delight later that day, I would see that the tree which a few thousand tribals congregate under, the spearhead of their religious fervour that day is a frangipani tree, a personal favourite. Deva-kanagile in Kannada, a name as gorgeous as the white petals of the tree, rimmed with a happy yellow - God's flower. It is a consoling sight, after being subjected to filthy abuse and below the belt remarks.

Some friends and I are at 'Kunde Habba', or 'Bedu Habba', the annual abuse festival of the tribals of Kodagu district in Karnataka. Held on the fourth Thursday of May in Devarapura village near Gonikoppal, 200-something kilometres from Bengaluru, the festival is one day when the tribals let rant all grudges, vent all anger against their God and fellow man, in some of the choicest, filthiest words in Kannada and its slight dialects that they speak.


Kodagu, or in travel agent parlance, Coorg, is home to some two dozen tribes, hill/mountain dwellers all. Some are honey gatherers turned elephant mahouts, some hunters. A majority from nearly all the different groups today work in coffee estates that dot the verdant landscape of the district. They spend all the days of the year in subservience, in hard physical labour, and their evenings in the company of dulled stupor brought about by cheap country liquor. Once a year, they let loose rants that can only be a making up for the things the other classes must heap upon them.

Ayyappa, the god of the tribals, is said to have taken a bunch of them into the forest for hunting. While in the thick of the jungle, he came upon the beautiful goddess Bhagavathi, fell in love and eloped with her, leaving the hapless tribals behind. Angry at this betrayal, the tribals reserve this one day of the year to abuse their god, for this old mistake, for not bestowing the boons they might have prayed for, for the weather, for dreams unfulfilled and wished unheeded. Over time, it has extended to them letting out their anger towards their employers - most often wealthy coffee planters - and everyone else they come across. 

The fun part of the festival comes in the way they dress up, employing everything from a handbag for a hat to a ratty onion sack for a dress. Curiously, a majority of them take great pains to be in drag. Their work hardened muscles, gleaming with white sweat, if not silvery paint, sport tight bras stuffed with rags, miniskirts balanced precariously around belted waists. Make up, most times, is gaudy. A little boy, in just underwear, pins a white flower near his crotch. Save for their size, there is little difference in boys and men young and old. Anything from fertilizer tins to mineral water bottles filled with stones to large blue storage bins become drums for the day. Upcycling and recycling are clearly the norm, even if they might never have heard of these new age terms.

Out ahead in Gonikoppal town, during a little break for tea that is made too strong, almost bitter, we are bombarded by men in dresses, skirts and tight tops rattling bottles, beating their drums. There seems to be no method, yet a strangely catchy rhythm ensues. The going rate to get them to leave you alone is ₹10. 


Groups of men - the festival is largely male dominated - barge into shops, collect money and towards afternoon congregate at the temple at Devarapura where a village fair comes up too. Plastic toys and knick-knacks, things to eat and shop and tattoo artists line up in the vicinity. Crude images of hearts, tigers, even Ambedkar are cut into chappal soles and PoP. These are dipped in ink, pressed on to the skin and then the tattooist uses an incredibly crude apparatus to poke through the design, rubbing colour and in the end anti-septic turmeric on. Tattoos are cheap, starting at ₹50, or ₹10 per letter, if it is a name.

Several rounds of dancing around the tree continue. Devotees who have promised sacrifice to the gods throw several shocked chicken into the crowd, those who catch them get to keep them. My friends are slightly miffed at not catching any. The drums get louder and louder, reaching a crescendo, until all the drums merge into a dull relentless thud, women get "possessed" and run in circles (only to sit back and check messages on their phones a few minutes later) and the dances get raunchier as the alcohol kicks in. After prayers, the tribals will go back to their haadis or settlements for a feast and many rounds of drink. 



Heartily abused, we feel like we could use a drink too. But instead, the oddly catchy tune they employ to string abuses gets stuck in our heads. We make up words to go along and drive further ahead deep into the district, for elsewhere.

Monday, June 08, 2015

Amrita Shah's Ahmedabad, a Review: In TNIE Magazine

My two favourite boys heard me complain about this book for the couple of weeks it took for me to finish it. I don't say so in the review below, having been fair to the immense research that has gone into this book, but here, here I can be frank. And frankly, I did not like Ahmedabad. It's a good subject, a lot of work has gone into it and everything but I felt that the author was trying too hard to show that she knew many, many fancy words. While in some places they work, in most cases, it adds to the dense-ness of the writing. More than anything else, the writing did not read like it was from the heart. Know what I mean? When the words don't come from the heart, it shows. Oh how clearly it shows.

Read my review of Amrita Shah's Ahmedabad in The New Indian Express magazine section this week. Here. Or see below for a slightly longer version.

TALE OF A CONFLICTED CITY

If an autobiography is the sum of all that the writer chooses to reveal about life and pontifications about lessons learned and ideals (not) often followed, a biography must then be the perception of all that the subject chooses to reveal and (not) follow, etc. What might a city reveal then, if it were a biography of a city, I wonder. More so if the city is fraught with a chequered history and it is trying to cultivate a certain image divorced from its popular narrative. The dichotomies these attempts pose are what Amrita Shah tackles in Ahmedabad: A City in the World.

Ahmedabad would have been just another industry town in the country. But of course it is not. Though it teams with mills – most shut – and diamond merchants – subject to vagaries of the global economy – Ahmedabad is, more than anything else, Modi’s old playground. By that measure itself Ahmedabad gives up its status of just another city. “Saheb”, as Shah says everyone calls Modi, then still Gujarat’s chief minister, is omnipresent. “The chief minister, perennially omniscient, articulate and full of righteous anger against the enemies of the state…” is a brand, an image, a hero, a celebrity – and how so is strewn throughout the book in Shah’s interviews with a multitude of people.

Try as law and memory might, the city’s history is inerasably tied with the riots, in eerie simplicity referred merely as ‘2002’. It may no longer be politically desirable to rake up old tales in the vibrant environs of the state any more, but this elephant in the room is tackled head on by Shah at the very beginning. Meraj, an embroiderer she befriends, is one of the thousands whose lives and entire social structures changed after ‘2002’. He crops up in the book often, like a leitmotif, a name among the nameless many whose lives irrevocably changed.

Shah peeks briefly in history and recognizes that “the stone monuments of the Sultanate era, the mosques, the rauzas, the tanks and the gates, are born of antithesis and miscegenation.” The land of Gandhi and peace and a state that is “violent” is an utter contradiction that several Ahmedabadis are comfortable holding hands at the same time with. There is a ‘Freedom Walk’ to commemorate those ‘who used violence’ just as there is Mohan who “can’t bear Muslims’ and admits, “From the beginning we are taught that we can’t tolerate.”

In her reading of a city that is as rigid within its old time prejudices as it strives to be at the forefront of cosmopolitanism and glitzy new infrastructure, Shah devotes a large chunk of her book to the working class, stories from the old, forsaken mills and the views from the ‘old city’ on the other side of the river. The posh people – rich merchants, the power holders – make but fleeting appearances, though not any less relevant to the narrative of Ahmedabad. In speaking of the lesser spoken about, in telling the stories of those who the victors would rather ignore, Shah evokes a powerful picture of a city divided by its uneasy past and its genuine desire to forgive, if not altogether forget.

Ahmedabad is very much a twenty-first century city, its “real estate developers are the new geographers in town, pushing for development where they plant their flags, here, there, there.” There is money that is floating around aplenty and thus, the problems that ensue with much money that floats around. Shah’s biography of this contradictory city – as the case may be with most cities – is peppered generously with a journalistic observation of everything she sees along the way, and around the people she interviews – a woman’s prayer, a flight of a bird, a curling path, and descriptions of modest structures that are “inserted like doorstops into niches.” In doing so, she breaks what would otherwise easily have been a monologue of history as seen through the eyes of her interviewees or alternatively, these people seen through one version of history that is chosen to be narrated.

‘2002’ is never absent though. “…‘but’ was as close to empathy as I was to find in Ahmedabad,” says Shah. She finds the consensus “enormous, vicious and forceful.” She hints at a state of denial in some, and a state of self-doubt in others. It is an uneasy reality, but perhaps the only practical way of making peace with what happened. In staying largely along this course of inquiry, Shah’s Ahmedabad lays bare a city that understands how it must find its way ahead, however uncomfortable stepping on bones might be.

Saturday, June 06, 2015

Vijay Nambisan's First Infinities, Old Worlds, etc: In Filter Coffee Column this Month

I have always enjoyed reading Vijay Nambisan's poetry. His wife Kavery Nambisan's novels are utterly delightful as well. His new collection of poems, a first in 20-odd years is out. I wrote a little something on it for this month's Filter Coffee column in Kindle. Read it here or see below. This is not a review of First Infinities.

TEACUP IN A STORM




The other day, I looked out into the balcony and the 35 year old jacaranda tree seemed happy. The sky was overcast, and I kept thinking of what a grand sound the word tempest made. Spring has turned into a near monsoon with only a brief but brutal summer interlude this year. They say it is this cyclone and that depression in the Bay of Bengal. The famous Bengaluru weather is back. Untimely, yes, but welcome to us city dwellers who don't have to worry about the vagaries of rain that might, at the slightest hint of a whim, break our backs and ruin our crops this year and the next. But we have a little farm the size of a few palms together now. Maybe our vegetables will suffer. To start every story with the weather: we seem to think full time these days like a full time farmer's worries.

I digress.

The tempest sky boded well for the new volume of poetry that arrived in the mail earlier that day, Vijay Nambisan's First Infinities, his first collection of poetry in 20-something years, the poems written over a period of a few decades. One of India's finest poets, Nambisan is one of those recluse-types, the sorts I rather love the imagery of. Alongside the ripping-off-you-own-ear madnesses of artist geniuses, the idea of a writer preferring his/her words to remain in a reader's memory more than regular witty Twitter lines and eloquent speeches feeds into a well-loved image we give our creative people. That they are a little not-normal, not-like-everyone-else. The kind of creativity that gives birth to literature and the finest arts is unconventional, but un-convention still requires adherence to a certain frame of being, some rules, for to be able to be broken, there have to be rules in the first place. I would rather be read than heard, said Anees Salim (I paraphrase), another famously reclusive writer.

But seen as an afterthought, perhaps the romanticism of a reclusive writer is as distracting from the work in hand as is a PR-savvy wordsmith who employs every means available to him to spread the wares of words. Which brings me to the book of poetry that came in the mail.

First Infinities arrived on a day that seemed made for poetry reading. Later that evening the best friend and I would make ourselves some milky ginger+cardamom+cinnamon tea and read aloud from the book while a storm raged outside. I had searched for the book on the two popular online marketplaces to search for. It turned out then that the book was available only on the publisher’s website. That made me pause a moment, but the reviews (this piece is not a review) were promising enough.

This is how the purchase of this book went. I was asked to create an account on the website of Paperwall Media and Publishing Pvt Ltd. Another password to have to remember, sigh. Then I placed my order for one quantity of this slim book, part of their Poetrywala imprint. I was not offered a one-day delivery or a cash-on-delivery option. Refreshing. I was not told when I could expect to get the book, who would deliver and what time he would be at my doorstep. Ah, the old mystery of the letter box. And then I logged off and went on about my day.

That day of the storm and perfect weather for poetry, the book came in a brick coloured envelope with, oh how I loved this, my address handwritten in beautiful cursive. The writing of a stranger, all the way from somewhere, into my home. The bill, torn from a bill book and slipped within the pages of poetry was handwritten too. In that little gesture of an older, slower, more human touch-ed work, the book had already become endearing.

Over that tea and with the bestie some hours later, I opened the book at random and the first, coincidentally, the very appropriate Elizabeth Oomanchery where the poem, in the face of a ‘celebrity’ writer, goes home. Poems die too, elsewhere.

The balance sheet of this book, poems selected and categorized under Loss, Balance and Profit flits from mythological references of Bhima and Aswatthama and Kalki to Shakuntala to Auden and Whitman, stopping now and then to meet a translator to the happy-sounding Snow

What is this without warning,
Falling and white?

…and then.

And then Nila, beautiful Nila of many stories told during courtship, stories of orange suns upon pink skies makes an appearance. Nila is a local name for the Bharatapuzha river, a river full of fish and boyhood mischief and stolen romances of early youth. It flows across north-central Kerala before gently slipping into the Arabian sea.

River we worshipped once
Stealer of spoiled sons
Deceiver, while she runs
           What should we fear.

Somewhere in the middle, Nambisan talks of not believing in fancy names. will.i.am, iPod, the commercial twang to a nonsensical word or the other way around. He makes tea, turning the surface of water gold after bronzing it, burnishing it.

Tea, that cup we had that evening, with the reading of the poems.

And in the cup,
Some say, the pattern of your life is drawn
If you have the nerve to turn it upside down.


He makes coffee too and it reminds me of Mahmud Darwish’s brilliant prose poem Memory for Forgetfulness: August, Beirut 1982. Coffee is the one thing of normalcy, those five minutes of making it the time of sanity during war. War both within and outside glass walls. Making Coffee reminds me of this, of many coffees, coffee the precursor of many loves and lies.

There is something in the making of coffee
That dulls the moral sense.

When the tempest is outside, the mood for poetry, for illicit-ness, for dulled senses, Nambisan gives me the best lines for that evening. From To the Lord of the dance,

Destroyer, dance, and let me be
One with the earth your stamping shakes;
….
Let me be earth, let me prepare
The guilty stem and grasping root
And let all that would pass me, go.


Dance and drama. Love and unlove. Coffee and tea. The old world and its many charms beckon, in handwritten notes, in beautiful evenings. Even in tempests.

Let freedom go: Nothing remains,
Nothing is true till shadow’s end,