From Helsinki to Hemkund Sahib

On return from a tiring two week trip to the Arctic Circle, I was at Helsinki. I had an evening free before catching the flight back to Delhi. Not being a fan of the western cuisine, what I had missed most during the trip was the Indian food. I just could not wait for another day to have my favourite chicken curry and tandoori roti.

Somewhat hesitantly, I asked the lady at the reception of the hotel if there was an Indian restaurant nearby. Just a minute, she said and after a quick turning of some pages and deft clicks on the computer, she took out a map of Helsinki and on the bottom of it wrote “Sandeep” and the address “22, Lonnrotinkatu”. She explained the location on the map to me and said that it should take me about ten minutes to reach the restaurant on foot.

When I found myself in front of the Indian restaurant. I walked in confidently as if I owned the place. “Hello”, said a short well built Indian. I returned the greeting and he took me to a seat. There was just one local couple in the small dinning hall. I was promptly handed a detailed menu. Without even looking at it, I burst out “chicken curry and tandoori roti”.

He nodded and left and returned after conveying the order to the chef. I invited him to take the seat in front and we started chatting. I began by asking in Hindi, “Where in India are you from”. Jallandhar, he smiled and the thaw was complete when I told him that I was from Chandigarh. And the rest of our conversation was in Punjabi. His name was Gurdev.

“Sirji your drink’s on me” Gurdev insisted till I offered him the well-rehearsed story about alcohol not suiting me. Soon the food arrived. It was in a thali complete with Cucumber Raita and ‘Chana dal’, salad and a generous helping of chicken curry. The piece-de-resistance turned out to be the tandoori roti. It was a huge and well baked with a topping of butter. I could resist no longer and started eating. The chicken curry was good but the roti was, I can say with confidence, the best I have had in 65 years of my existence. On my praise for the roti, Gurdev called out to the chef, who happened to be from Lahore, not far from my birthplace - Sialkot in Pakistan.

In the meantime Gurdev’s mobile emitted a short beep. On reading the SMS his face lit up. It is from one of my friends, he shared. ‘Is he also from Jallandhar, I joked.

‘No, no. He is a boy from Finland and works as a Bouncer in one of the local night clubs, he said before going to tell me about his friend. The Finnish youth would dine at Gurdev’s restaurant before they became friends. A year on, he was diagnosed with cancer. Since he was physically very strong, the doctors were hopeful he could be cured with positive attitude along with medication. He was given books about true stories of cancer survivors, on reading which he developed a deep resolve to fight the disease.

One day Gurdev told him of the Sikh Holy pilgrimage centre of Hemkund Sahib and how people endure the hardship of climbing 15,000 feet up into the Himalayas to get there. At this stage I told him that I had gone to the myself from telling him that I went to Hemkund Sahib for the first time in 1981 before visiting the shrine twice again. Gurdev nodded in appreciation and went with his friend’s story.

He jotted down the correct spellings of his Finnish friend’s name and told him that he would send the script to India to get a special ‘ardasa’ or prayer for him at Hemkund Sahib. Gurdev kept his word and his friend gradually started showing signs of improvement.

Gurdev read out the SMS he had come a few minutes back. It read: “I am very keen to visit Hemkund Sahib to say my thanks. Let us go there next year in June. Please book two air tickets for you and me when you find a good deal in tickets. Thanks.”

I was over with lunch by then and Gurdev refused to accept bill from me. Instead he touched my feet. With great difficulty I could persuade him to take half the amount.

I left the restaurant mulling over various layers surrounding the lovely afternoon – A wrap of India, Pakistan and Finnish bonhomie over food, friendship and, above all, faith.

(This was published in The Hindustan Times on Monday, January 11, 2010)

I am in Love!

Today is the start of the famous "Rath Yatra" at Jagannath Puri. On this occassion I share below an article about Odisha which I wrote way back in 1998.

"Again. Once again. At 55, I am unashamedly in love again. And this time, in love forever. No, this love affair is not with a lovely lady half my age. This time it is with Odisha that I have fallen in love with!

After about thirty years of service when I left Odisha about two years back to join the prestigious Indian Institute of Advanced Study at Shimla, I thought that I would feel wholly at home with the hills that I am fascinated with. I had planned to climb down to Chandigarh at the end of the deputation period of three years and lead a quiet retired life. But now I have discovered that, to twist the words of Marc Anthony a little, not that I don’t love the hills any longer, but that I love Odisha more!

While in Odisha, I thought that I did not like sea and had even led myself to believe that I was allergic to sea. Now, staying far, far away from the sea, at an elevation of about 7000 feet, I long to be near the sea. I remember the lovely sea breeze of Puri that makes one forget all the worldly worries. I wonder if it is just the impact of the sea breeze or it is a gift or blessing of Lord Jagannath to its devotees!

No, there is no other place in the world like the abode of Lord Jagannath. A visit to the Lord Jagannath Temple is a strangely soothing and uplifting experience. The atmosphere inside the temple, with a multitude of devotees coming from all parts of the country to have a glimpse of their Lord, the brisk movement of the learned Pandas, and the chants of ‘Jai Jagannath’ flash upon my mind again and again. The sweet sound of cymbals, the chanting of prayers and the whole ambience at the time of the evening ‘aarti’ are amongst my most treasured memories.

Having visited various parts of the world and tasted food of different countries, I can convincingly testify that there is nothing like the ‘bhoga’ of Lord Jagannath’s Templeanywhere in the world. Each item is hygienically prepared, astounding both in the range of preparations as well as in quantity and tantalizingly tasty. And from the ‘bhoga’ of the Lord to the ordinary food. How much I miss the delicious ‘daalma’ and the ‘baigan bhaja’, the savoury ‘santula’ and of course the cool ‘pakhal-bhaat’! No wonder the Oriyas are recognized amongst the best cooks in the world.

The world is slowly waking up to the all round potential of Orissa. I remember that two years back when I left the state, it was already becoming clear that Odisha was on the threshold of a major industrial leap. A recent Survey of Investment Projects undertaken by the Centre for Monitoring Indian Economy (CMIE) confirmed that this has all ready become a reality. Its findings show that Odisha has emerged as the most favoured destination for Foreign Direct Investment in India, displacing states like Maharashtra, Gujrat and Tamil Nadu. Bravo Odisha! Ofcourse this is nothing new for Odisha which has a wonderfully rich history. In the past too, it had reached high levels of development, reflected in its long trading and cultural links with Bali and other Indonesian islands.

In the areas of art and architecture too, Odisha is unmatched. I remember that I had cried when I saw Konark temple for the first time in the late 1960’s. Rising above the outward eroticism, there is really an amazing world to be discovered in that temple—a touch of humour somewhere, a new hairstyle at another place and fascinating stories frozen in stone by the craftsmen of Odisha. I would love to visit Konark again, and again. I had another association with Konark too. I worked for sometime with the State owned Konark Television Company and had coined a publicity slogan, “Orissa has two Konarks to be proud of”.

And I miss Odisha in the rains. During the monsoons, the entire landscape turns lush green and a cool breeze keeps you company. One can see the fury with which rain descends and dark clouds coming from the Bay of Bengal keep on coming, almost endlessly.

I remember the evenings spent by me sitting in the cool breeze of the seven coconut trees in the lawn of my government bungalow in Bhubaneshwar. The trees bore nuts with incredibly sweet water. I used to enjoy as many nuts as I could and distribute the rest. One evening a very senior officer from Odisha posted in Delhi, suddenly came to my house and jocularly demanded his share of coconuts. He subsequently disclosed that he was the first occupant of that house and it was he who had planted those trees. Before leaving Odisha, I too had planted seven more coconut trees in that house. I am now naturally keen to see how big those coconut trees have become. Yes, I have decided to go back to Odisha. "

(Published in ‘Sun Times’, Bhubaneshwar, September 19, 1998)

Delhi Belly

Did the unpardonable....instead of appreciating good weather of Manali, spent two hours inside a cinema hall here watching "Delhi Belly"!

My take....a lot of shit.

Contrived and not funny. .....Amir Khan has come down quite a few notches in my estimation.

Child rearing

Still on the issue of child rearing, a young Indian couple stying in Australia narrated this delightful yet disturbing story. They have two kids, a boy aged 5 and a girl aged 3.

One evening they went out and left the children home. They brought back a small cake from the market. By that time the boy was sleepy and didnt want to eat the cake. Keep it in the frig please, he said. The cake was tasty and the parents finished it off. Next morning the boy went to the frig and found no cake. Where is my cake, he demanded. Oh, well, we ate it all, was the reply of the somewhat embarrassed parents. I am going to call the police to complain that you have stolen may cake said the boy! The parents were speechless.

On another occassion the mother was admonishing the young daughter, I will give you a slap if you dont behave. Then I will call the police, was the matter of fact reply of the little daughter.

What a shame!

One sentence that I have heard a number of times during my last five days stay in the hotel's dinning hall is mothers shouting at their small kids "Bahut zor say maroongi " (I will hit you very hard).... ...

Is this the way to bring up children?

What a shame!

Caring For The Dead

The news item reporting the passing away in London of Theon Wilkinson in November 2007 some how did not catch my eye then. It is only much later that while re-reading his well known book “The Two Monsoons”- which he had sent to me with his autograph and a personal letter about two years back that I checked up the internet and found about his demise.

Theon was born was born on January 28, 1924 in, what the Britishers called, Cawnpore (Kanpur) in India and later on served in the British Indian army. He settled in the UK after retirement. On his sons’s 21st birthday, he brought him to India to show him around. While visiting various cemeteries, he was sad to see condition of the graves. This was when he decided to do something about it. He set up an informal Association of Friends of European Cemeteries in India - which later came to be christened as the British Association for Cemeteries in South-Asia (BACSA) and was formed in March 1977.

In 1976 he published “The Two Monsoons”. The full title of the book “The Two Monsoons - The Life and Death of Europeans in India” gives an idea of the contents. It reviews 350 years of cemeteries in India. A revised Second Edition came in 1987- which coincided with a decade of the setting up of BACSA. The preface explains two clear aims of the book. The first was a hope that the fragments from the tombs would present a mosaic of the life and death of Europeans in India without any political prejudice. The second aim, interlinked with and in fact flowing from the first, was to set up an association of those who felt for the European cemeteries in the Indian peninsula. Both the aims seem to have been well full filled.

It is estimated that more than 2 million Europeans lie buried in different parts of the Indian peninsula. He puts the whole issue in a stark perspective by informing the reader that the average age at death of Europeans in India during the earlier part of the colonial period was a meager 30 years for men and a pathetic 25 years for women. And this excluded the high rates of infant and child mortality. It took a sea journey of 6-7 months to reach India from Britain. And reaching just before the monsoons, one had no time for getting acclimatized. One was lucky to survive two consecutive monsoons in India and that’s what the title of the book is hinting at. He sweeps through locations of cemeteries, the inscriptions, the causes of death, and puts everything in a perspective.


He puts forth a different and fairly dispassionate view of the history of the British colonialism in India. He doesn’t try to justify anything and at times he is openly critical of the ways of the Europeans in India. Describing the inscriptions giving cause of death as some of the sports being then played by the Europeans, he blames them for their insensitivity to local customs: “Europeans in India pursued their sports with a desperate disregard for the customs of the country and the local population was surprised and bewildered by their values- the needless heroism, the unnecessary activity of mind and muscle – when the climate had taught the Indians that passivity was the answer. On this point there was a real gulf between the East and the West”. Of course including the word “mind” with “muscle” in the above description does hint that he thought the Indians to be averse to unnecessary activity of the mind too, a statement which even though it rhymes well, is neither true nor acceptable.

He didn’t mince words in describing the large scale shooting of the tigers by the British. Of course he went a step further and pondered over the possible reasons behind this “sport” having become so popular with his countrymen in India: “Tiger shooting became the sport of the Governors, the new kings of India, and killing a tiger, in some unconscious way, symbolized the conquest of the mysterious forces of the East.”

He succeeds in giving the Indian point of view and in the process often mocks at the Europeans. He describes how the Europeans always appeared to be in a hurry in India, which greatly intrigued, and one is sure, amused the Indians. “For some reason, incomprehensible to the Eastern mind, Europeans were always in a hurry ‘Jaldi Karo’ ... ... ‘Jaldi’ was almost the first word a European learnt in India. Not that the time saved was put to any useful purpose”.

We are told of the little known relatives of important personalities of the day lying buried in India. We get details about the Yale University’s founder Elihu Yale’s Madras connection. In Bangalore is the grave of the son of Sir Walter Scott who died at the Cape on his way to India. Who but Theon Willkinson could discover that poet John Milton’s great-grandson Caleb Clarke was the Parish priest of the St. Mary’s Church in Madras. Or that Mathew Arnold’s brother Delafield Arnold, who wrote several books and articles under the penname “Punjabee” had a long stay in India. He also located the grave of Charles Dickens son Walter Landor Dickens in Bhowanipore near Calcutta.

He shows surprise that there is no memorial to the dead Indians at the site of the Battle of Plassey, or to the victims of the Great Cyclone of 1st November, 1864 which left thousands dead in Calcutta. One needs to appreciate that expression of private grief in public, by way of erection of memorials was not common in India. Similarly mass monuments were also not erected in India. One reason is the difference in the manner of disposal of the dead. Since in Christians, the dead are buried at specific, identifiable places in the cemeteries, putting up a gravestone with an inscription or getting a monument constructed over it are understandable. The majority Indian form of disposal of the dead is by burning at the burning ghat. The same spot is used again and again, to burn the dead bodies. So it is difficult for any one to individually or collectively regard it as the burial place of a particular individual and to bury a memorial or structure there. Therefore not finding memorials to the dead in India should not be taken as lack of show of respect for the departed.

Remembering the dead is not the same thing as glorifying the colonial rule - these are just different levels. At one level, the detailed epitaphs and inscriptions could be seen as an expression of, and even an attempt to glorify the colonial empire. At a different and more humane level, it is just remembering the dead who came from far away lands, never, ever to go back to their motherlands. Those who subjugated the land lie dead and buried here- subjugated by the same very land- what an irony!

As is welknown, the Moghuls had got pillars erected at every ‘kos’ on the Grand Trunk Road in India. These were known as the “Kos Minars” and were the precursors of the present day milestones. But what really came as a surprise was the finding in the book about small cemeteries set up by the British along the grand Trunk road and some other major roads. “There were tiny cemeteries or clusters of graves at about 12 mile intervals, known as ‘marching cemeteries’, where the casualties of heat stroke were buried when the marchers camped on for the night”. This is a tempting area for further research - if only I were younger!

It is difficult to label this book into a single category. It is interestingly informative, thoroughly thought provoking and amazingly anecdotal.

Thanks to his initiative BACSA has aroused considerable interest in India and the upkeep and conservation of the European cemeteries has improved, though in patches. My humble homage to this extra ordinary man would be to propose the following epithet for his grave:

“There are many who care for the living,
But here lies a man who cared for the dead!”

A Knock on the Head

I had gone to visit the world famous Ajanta and Ellora caves in Maharashtra recently. I took a conducted tour in a bus, which took me to Ellora, and thereafter to the Grashneshwar Verul Jyotiralinga nearby.

The guide, a deeply religious man, had a quick darshan and then stood near the gate to help the passengers. The gate was only three feet high and one had to bend considerably to get into the compound of the temple. Sir, have you had the darshan? He asked me politely. No, I replied and added rudely, and nor do I have an intention of doing so. He was taken aback. Let me explain, I said, and told him my story of how cruel cancer had crippled, chewed and killed in slow motion my deeply devout and religious wife. I lost faith in God the day she died, I told him. He listened quietly and did not utter a word or show any emotion.

I soon realised that I had got carried away with the self-pity of one wronged. So I tried to draw him into a conversation and asked 'What is it that you asked for
from God when you had the darshan'? I prayed for 'moksha', was his short reply. And what is 'moksha', I persisted. It is the deliverance from the cycle of births and deaths, he explained. I again took an aggressive anti-view and added that I would like to be born again. Again and again. For 84 lakh times. And experience the happiness and sadness, excitements and disappointments of life, in whichever lifeform I am. I do not want to run away from the world. Who wants 'Moksha'? Not me. I said somewhat arrogantly. And then suddenly we spotted the other passengers of the tour-bus approaching the gate and our uneasy conversation was cut abruptly.

I moved towards the gate to leave the compound. Suddenly three persons came from behind and wanted to cross the gate ahead of me. I obstructed them with my arm and told them sternly that I was ahead of them. All right, you go first, was the curt reply of one of them. As I rushed out of the gate, my head hit it with a bang. The knock was so hard that my head reeled and thought I was going to faint. However, I recovered, and feeling blank, moved towards our bus.

Was it just a curious coincidence? Or an incident attributable to my arrogance, which so diverted my mind that, I became blind to the existence of reality? Or literally a quick knock on my head by Lord Shiva to put me on the right path?

I don't really know!