A Long Walk to Realisation

I love to walk among dense trees, seeking, yet not knowing what I’m seeking. There’s something about unbound nature that makes you wonder while you wander. And I have the perfect friend who’s always willing to go an extra mile to catch a sight. Since our first walk in the park at Vandalur had been a great experience, I was eager for the next one.

When my friend suggested the Botanical Garden in Pondicherry, however, I was a bit skeptical. Our time in Pondicherry was limited to just over 24 hours, and the garden crept into the agenda only the previous night. According to Google Maps, we’d have to go out of our way to find our way to the garden. We’d had to walk a long walk before walking into the garden—just to walk some more.

My friend insisted, though. And since I owed her one for enduring my occasional assholery (I’m a pain, my roommates would attest), I obliged.

I don’t regret. For the most part.

When we stepped into the entrance of the garden, a large board welcomed us with an outline of what to expect in the garden. Trees, trees, and even a musical fountain. The garden spread across a massive area of land and, from where I stood, I saw patches of greenery punctuating patches of barren land.

It was a cool, cozy and empty. Well, almost.

Under the shade of what looked like a hundred-year-old tree, two women police officers opened up their lunches packets, chatting away as the leaves rustled in tune to the breeze. A few feet away were a young couple leaning on either side of yet another grand tree while a little further, their photographer friend crouched peering into the lens of his DSLR, demanding that the couple shift towards the light.

The ground was strewn with grass, and moss, and insects of all sizes. Branches the size of my arm loomed over us, forming arches and making a convincing case of becoming wedding hosts. Flowers looked down from their tree thrones above, their petals downward and their honey dripping earthward. Mid-day sunlight gleamed through the artwork that spiders had weaved all morning. Little creepers clung to their poles teaching us a thing or two about survival among the giants.

There was so much to see in the garden and yet so few to see them.

botanical-garden-pondicherry-1

We stepped over the railway tracks of a toy train that would run around and within the depths of the garden. With no one to appreciate the mass of trees that amassed the garden, the train had no apparent reason to operate that day. And yet, from somewhere deep within came the ghost of an echo of the chuck chucking of the toy train. And with it, the excited screams of non-existent children.

I passed a couple of kids fiddling with smartphones.

Crunching the dry leaves on the pathway, I strode along. And just when I thought I had ended a glorious walk, something in a corner of the garden made me stop short. Remains of human presence littered the area, the plastic lunch packets and empty paper cups reminding me of the hollowness that humans contribute to nature.

We have one job, one duty. And to keep our nature natural we had to just keep away from their way. Yet somehow it’s become too hard not to interfere, not to meddle with the order of things. I thought I was hard to live with, but now I understood that people, in general, are hard to live with. We are a bunch of spoilt, selfish brats that take everything around us for granted.

I appreciate those who tolerate my assholery, but after that walk, I’ve grown to appreciate nature even more than before for tolerating an entire race of assholes.

As I came to that disgusting conclusion, I realised I had walked around the entire garden. There was nothing more left to see. And if there had been anything, I had no mood for it.

Breaking Inertia, a Cookie at a Time

On my first trip to Pondicherry, I had gone with my over-protective parents and my over-supportive brother. And so, we had to stick to the basics; we didn’t experiment with new cuisine, we didn’t have ice cream, we didn’t stay out after eight, and we never skipped breakfast.

This time, however, I went with a friend. It was easier to try various foods with her than it had been with my parents. She was much more adventurous than I, daring to drink orange juice just fifteen minutes after a cappuccino. And though I preferred to savour the lingering effects of my cortado than to wolf it down with sugary juice, I didn’t say no to trying new cookies. Vegan, they were, and chocolatey.

breaking-inertia-vegan-chocolate-cookies

Perhaps that doesn’t read as dramatic as it sounded in my head, but that’s because, for me, veganism is an expensive affair. It’s something I’ve always wanted to try. But where I live, being vegan costs you at least double of what being non-vegan costs. It’s a treat I couldn’t treat myself to too often. I can afford it once a while but making it a lifestyle — just for the sake of an adventure — isn’t wise.

In Pondicherry, however, we found a bakery that sold vegan chocolate cookies. My eyes bulged at the name tag while my heart soared at the price tag. It wasn’t too pricey. I bought a pack, because no matter how it tasted, I knew I’d appreciate it.

I don’t like sugary stuff, but I’m always game for chocolate cookies. And making the perfect dough and baking the perfect delight is an art I’m trying to understand. So when I saw the vegan cookies, I grew curious, not just for the taste, but also for the ingredients. Since vegan diets shunned cow milk, I wondered if they had used coconut or almond instead. And I wondered which butter they would’ve used. And the sugar — did they use brown, white, fine, caster — perhaps stevia, or agave?

With questions buzzing in my head, I picked up a single cookie and held it in both my hands. It was much smaller than a standard cookie. And yet, the cracks on the surface intrigued me. It seemed dry, and cookies are either chewy or crumbly. I wondered which category vegan cookies fell into. Holding the cookie in my fingers I tried to break a piece of it. It didn’t budge. It didn’t crumble. Chewy then, I decided and gave it a little more pressure. A small brown piece broke off of the cookie.

I looked at the other piece and saw that the inside was also pretty dry. It had no Instagram-worthy chocolate sauce oozing from within, and neither did I see chunks of chocolate chips broken in half. It was plain, and it looked dry.

I put the piece I had prised away, into my mouth. My first thought: it had no overwhelming sugar. It wasn’t mushy, it wasn’t hard. It wasn’t too dry either. As I bit into it, I could chew the buttery flour while the cocoa flavour seeped down my tongue. It felt rich like a brownie, and the crumbly-chewy texture lingered long after the piece had gone down my throat. And then I realised that they hadn’t used any sugar or artificial sweeteners. They had, instead, used honey.

Huh, I thought to myself. Honey. It made sense. Honey makes everything it touches a little chewy and sticky. Perhaps it had made the cookie how it was.

I grew curiouser and curiouser. Perhaps another bite of the cookie would clear it up. And it did. It was honey, I concluded.

Unless, it was something else similar to honey, something I couldn’t recognise. Another one wouldn’t hurt anyone, I thought and grabbed a second cookie. And then a third. And a fourth. And before I knew it, I was down to the last cookie, and I still had doubts. But I knew one thing for certain: I loved the various flavours that vegan cookies blew up in my mouth.

It was worth another trip to Pondicherry.

An Unforgettable Ride. One I’d Rather Forget.

On a normal day, there’s not much to say about a two-hour bus ride. Unless you’re already late and have less than twenty hours to explore a city of French croissant, Italian pasta, soulful coffee, and sinful chocolate.

In that case, a two-hour bus journey is one hell of a ride.

When it comes to planning and preparing an itinerary, everyone’s an expert. We aren’t any different, my friend and I. We’d planned to leave at 7.30 am, and I even chipped in saying we could leave earlier, too, if we could manage to. By the time we reached the bus stop at 8 am, we’d already missed a few buses that would’ve gotten us to our destination on time. When we, at last, boarded the bus towards Pondicherry, we took a deep breath. It seemed like we had crossed one great barrier: waking up early when the chilly December fog still pressed onto our bedroom windows.

And then came the next barrier: The great Indian problem of over-population and the people’s urge to travel. Squishing ourselves in between giant arms and travelling bags, we got tickets to what we knew would be the final stop of the bus. We had a long way to go and the crowds seemed unwilling to thin out. We stood for a while, jumping up and down to the speed breakers on the road, and dancing to and fro as the bus swerved to avoid potholes.

About a half hour into the ride, we found a seat. Being gracious and accommodating, I offered it to my friend, preferring to stand myself. Most people disapprove when I stand and hold on to a seat handle, but I had always felt comfortable standing. After all, when you’re five feet tall and sitting on a seat that’s your eye-level, you get to see a lot of stuff that you’d rather not. I love staring out the windows, but on an aisle seat, all I see is big butts. And I cannot lie that I don’t mind.

And so, I stood, jerking this way and that and looking at the watch whenever I could risk taking my hand away from the pole that I clung to. The first time I checked, it had been only an hour since we had climbed on. We had another hour and a half to look forward to, and I was looking forward to it less and less.

Meanwhile, my friend sat hugging her and my bags, looking as miserable as I felt. As we lumbered on, the crowd in the bus thinned and thickened from time to time. The scenery, however, grew greener; we were riding deep into villages.

But the more paddy fields we saw, the more skeptical my friend became. Perhaps, she doubted, the driver had taken a detour into all the tiny villages, dropping off and picking up villagers, and would take longer than Google’s fastest route. She checked the map, and sure enough, we were headed into a small unknown area that took us further from our destination. Estimated time was over another hour and a half.

She panicked. I was frustrated. So much so, that I couldn’t even bring myself to swear at the driver. I found a vacant seat by the window, grabbed it, and set to finish reading 1984.
My friend stood up from her seat, a valiant look in her eyes. She had decided to talk to the conductor. A minute later, she came back, a weird look on her face. She opened up Google Maps and checked the route again. We were just 20 minutes away. That was much sooner than we had expected in the first place.

She explained: Our driver had taken a route less travelled, a route that didn’t show on Google Maps. Technology still has a long way to go.

All of a sudden, the journey wasn’t tiring anymore. The roads had become smooth, a few grand old buildings whizzed by, a couple on the bus smiled at me, and soon, a woman showed us where to get off.

We had arrived. On time.

Bring Me That Horizon

I’m a sunrise person. I’d stay up all night if I have to, just to catch sight of the first rays of sunshine. And of all sunrises, one stands out in my mind clearer than any other. This one:

bring-me-that-horizon

It’s not the clearest of photographs and the sun wasn’t at her best. But it’s a special sunrise, and it was my best day ever. I stood on top of a mountain that lay between the Kangchenjunga and the Himalayas.

The sun would rise anytime after 5.30 am. But the scenic spot was so popular that we had to be there by 4.30 am if we were to get a good standing place among the thronging crowd. It was 10 degrees celsius.

I was all enthusiastic, and nothing could stop me from getting sight of the first rays. And we stood, braving the biting cold, checking our chattering teeth, and blowing on our hands to bring back the lost sense of feeling. An old woman and her daughter made a fortune selling coffee and acting as guides, they explained why we were wise to come early. Because as it neared six, the entire area had filled up with buzzing human voices and the muffled noise of people rubbing their palms together.

It was a long wait, and with every second it became harder to stand. There were no places to sit and we couldn’t move away from our vantage spot without losing it to another other group craning their necks for a glimpse of the soon-to-arrive sun.

And then it started. The process began about half hour before the sun came up. From a bold black, the horizon went to a navy, to light pink, and then to mild orange. The bamboo trees on the edge of the mountain swayed to the breeze, opening up to welcome the warmth, and far ahead of us, the surrounding mountains became a silhouette. Moment by moment, the sky turned lighter forming layers of colour.

My phone doesn’t recognise a gloved touch, so I removed them to get a picture. I tapped on the little round button on the camera five times before I realised my phone didn’t recognise near-frozen fingers either. After several minutes of rubbing my hands against my sweater, I managed to get a single photo of that sunrise. And every time I look at it, I think I’d give anything to be there again.

I’ve signed up for the Incredible Blogger Marathon Challenge. It’s a ten-task-challenge that can span up to fifteen days. This post is my response to the second challenge: Freeze a Foto.

Out of Nowhere

It was the last place I expected to see so much water. Deep inside Thekkady’s forests lie a few tea estates, and nestled within them is this lake.

I don’t know its name, I don’t know where it begins or ends, I don’t even know if it’s a lake at all. But as the cold breeze gushed over and I pulled my sweater closer to myself, I couldn’t resist the ripples spreading through. thekkady-lake

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