Holiday down south

I hadn’t gone travelling anywhere (except a single day trip to Shantiniketan in boiling hot weather) for nearly five months, and I was raring to go. Abhishek called me over, saying he could manage a few days’ leave in late August, so I got the tickets and flew over to Bangalore. I arrived in the evening of Saturday the 22nd, and Shreya gave me a warm welcome at the airport. An hour’s chat in an open air café (I am becoming ‘cool’ in my old age!), then the interminable cab ride through the ghastly traffic to Abhishek’s cosy flat, where his parents took me in like an old friend. A not too long chat on the balcony in balmy weather with intermittent light drizzles, then off to sleep, because we had a long day ahead.

We woke up at 4 on Sunday morning (I still can, though I prefer to stay in bed until much later) and were out by 5:15, to get out of the maddening city as quickly as possible. An eight hour drive to Bhagavathi Nature Camp in Kudremukh (‘horse head’ in Kannada) National Park. The last couple of hours were a bumpy ride through narrow and rutted hill roads amidst mild rain, but the lovely forested hill scenery, with clouds descending right onto us, compensated grandly for any discomfort. By the time we arrived at the picturesque resort, with a few cottages dotted around the lush leafy campus, it had started raining heavily, and post lunch I fell into a deep and restful sleep. In the evening it turned into a torrential downpour with only occasional respites, and it continued all through the night, convincing me that Kudremukh really deserved the moniker of ‘Cherrapunji of the South’. In the little auditorium we were treated to some very interesting videos showing the variety of flora and fauna in the region, and the multidimensional efforts of the Forest Department to ensure their conservation. Not yet on the busy tourist map, Kudremukh is mercifully lacking in noisy boorish crowds of holidaymakers. The story of how much of the area had been despoiled by an iron mining project back in the eighties, during my journalistic days, came back to me. Since then, a successful environmental protection agitation has stopped the mining, and the whole region has been well re-greened.

In the early hours, curled up inside a blanket, I was awakened by the thunderous drumming of rain on the tin roof, and much as I was worried whether we would be stranded the next day, the feeling was too delicious not to be enjoyed, so I shoved the worry aside in my mind and fell asleep again. The temperature had by then fallen to 20 degrees.

In the morning, I went to see the Bhadra river that flows right behind the camp. It was in full spate, and it was hard to believe that Abhishek had walked across it in summer, when it was a thin and shallow rivulet. The same Bhadra joins the Tunga downstream to form the fabled Tungabhadra. The rain had abated somewhat, so it wasn’t scary to set off on the road back. Abhishek – who simply wouldn’t let me drive this time – took us along a different route, partly because the road was better, and partly because he wanted us to see the beautiful Charmadi Ghat along the way. The heavy rains had created umpteen little waterfalls by the roadside, a true feast for the eyes. We had had a heavy breakfast, so we made do with a light lunch on the way – in south India you rarely get much variety, but it was tasty fare – and drove leisurely to the little town of Hassan, where we halted at a nice hotel for the night. The hours were filled with a lot of happy chatting and good natured mutual chafing, as if we were one family.

On Tuesday, we set off late in the morning and went off to Halebidu (also called Dorasamudra), where there is the famed Hoysalesvara Temple, and then to nearby Belur, to see the Chemmakesava, another architectural cum sculptural marvel. The ASI has done a good job of preservation and maintenance, along with very nice landscaping and well curated museums (with little unnecessary irritations, like having only the option of paying online for tickets for which you had to fill in a lot of personal details). The gentle breezy weather helped to make the strolls pleasant: I was told that in the full summer the blazing paving stones could scald the soles of your bare feet. On the long drive back to Bangalore, we made a short detour to visit Shravana Belgola, where stands the colossal statue of the second Jain tirthankara Bahubali or Gomatesvara, but when we learnt that we’d have to climb 1300 stairs up and down the hill, we gave it a miss, satisfying ourselves with a pranam aimed at the head of the giant which was visible from a certain point on the road. None of us could muster enough stamina or bhakti to handle the ordeal, and in any case it would have taken too long.

We arrived at the city limits a little after 8, but Google told us that it would take us two hours and a half of traffic crawling to reach home, so Abhishek chose to drive instead along the near empty STRR (Satellite Town Ring Road). Having dinner enroute at a very posh dhaba of the sort that is very common along the Delhi-Haryana highway, we arrived at home at about 10:45, and went off to sleep without much ado. We had travelled more than 900 km.

The last day, Wednesday, had been deliberately kept aside solely for lazing and adda. We woke up late, and went out for lunch of biryani at one of the Empire outlets nearby. Shreya came over, so the hours passed in a flash. We packed her off at 8, and chatted animatedly about a thousand odd things that make for really enjoyable Bengali adda, till 11, when it was time to turn in again.  Early waking on Thursday morning, feeling hot and ill in the cab all the way to the airport, very quick check-in thanks to Digi Yatra and absence of check-in luggage, then a smooth and timely flight back to Durgapur, miffed only by the fact that Indigo has made a ridiculous rule that they won’t serve you any beverages unless you first order some food. ‘Rats!’, as an old fashioned Englishman might have said.

Thank you all, Dada, Boudi, Abhishek and Shreya, for helping me enjoy such a lovely little vacation. Humans can be maddeningly aggravating at times, but congenial human companionship is essential to make life worth living, and though some people have denied it to me despite my best urging, many others have gone out of their way to balance things out: I must count my blessings, despite all ‘the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune’.

This was my first real tour of the Western Ghats, and I did it during the peak monsoon, the best season. One thing that I shall carry in my memory is the characteristic honking of buses in south India: they all make the same noise, which sounds exactly like a ship’s foghorn. The other wonder is that you can hardly spot a Sikh in such a vastly crowded city! Thirdly, a landscape entirely of glass, steel and chrome towers can begin to grate on your nerves as quickly as a constant diet of dosa/idli/vada/uthapam and lemon rice. And finally, once you are outside the metropolis, Karnataka is a very sparsely populated state, if you compare with the likes of Kerala, Bengal or Bihar.

For photos, click here.

Sundarban Safari

Last week, I finally toured the Sundarbans after having wished to do it for more than four decades. Much of my to-do list has now been checked. And, owing to the delightfully congenial company, this was one of the best vacations I have ever had, which is saying something, because I have travelled so much for so long with so many people to so many beautiful and interesting places. 

Having first gone off to Calcutta, we set off for the jungle on the morning of Wednesday, 25th February. There was my friend Saibal the wildlife enthusiast and his wife Kulbir ji, with whom I had travelled to Kanha a year ago. They had made all the arrangements, so I didn't have to lift a finger. Pupu and Swarnava went along without having to be persuaded too hard: I was thrilled, for this was the first time I was travelling with them since they became an 'item' (I hope I am using the word in the correct Gen Y/Z sense). There was Pratyush, who revels in our company. And there was Shoumo the actor (to me, who has actually seen him growing up before my eyes, he will always remain my beloved nitbor). It was a three-hour drive along the Basanti Highway to Gadkhali, across the water from the much better known Gosaba, where we parked our cars and boarded the launch Delta Queen, which could at a pinch seat 40 plus, at a quarter to twelve. The afternoon was already warm to hot, but balmy. The boat was very well-appointed, with clean little washroom and beds, though we, it goes without saying, spent almost all the time lounging on the deck as we manoeuvred between the mangroves along the distributaries with pretty names (like Vidyadhari), some of which were bigger and deeper than many rivers I have seen inland (and so green, so green), keeping our eyes skinned in the hope of catching fleeting glimpses of all sorts of wildlife, and knowing that tigers in hiding were very likely keeping an eye on us. 

No, we didn't see any tigers. Which certainly didn't disappoint me, firstly because I have seen enough in the wild already, secondly because the locals say only half in joke that it is best not to see one, the first sight being quite likely to be your last, since virtually all Sundarban tigers are maneaters, and essentially because I love the forest and the water for their own sake, and don't belong to that class of tourists who go around the Himalayas for days and lament that they 'saw nothing' if they couldn't catch a glimpse of Everest or Kanchenjungha. Lunch was delectable and sumptuous; we were dropped off at evenfall at a nice little riverside resort with large rooms and ample beds. We found a lot of friendly to ecstatic canine company, which, for the likes of us (Shoumo is an animal rights activist among other things) is always a welcome bonus. The evening was spent the way we like best, drinks and snacks and a lot of adda and laughter, slowly dozing off, somehow dealing with dinner (no slight to the cook), then off early to bed and sound sleep.

Swarnava, Pupu and Pratyush hate waking up at daybreak even more than I do, so we were all groggy and grumpy when boarding the boat (this one was named Sher Khan!) at 6.30 next morning. But the beauty of the sunrise through the mist and the chilly wind quickly stirred up everyone's spirits, aided by a hearty breakfast. I don't know how, but everyone had already become garrulous friends with everyone else (I believe I was the quietest of all), and it is unbelievable how fast eleven hours passed, with lunch in the middle and some of us dozing off for short spells now and then. The cameras were worked like crazy: we eventually figured that more than a thousand photos had been taken, making me sigh to remember the days when we took along film rolls in modest quantity, and worried about making every shot, every frame count. We saw all kinds of things, from myriad species of birds (including a rare sort of eagle, besides egrets, kingfishers, adjutant storks) to huge crocodiles, monitors big and small, swamp deer, wild boar, otter, mud skippers, monkeys, snakes ... and miles and miles of dense, unspoilt jungle. What dismayed was the factoid that the sea is encroaching ever deeper inland, so the waters have become brackish, and as a result the sundari tree, after which the forest is named, is becoming scarce - most of the flora is of the garjan and hental variety. Oh, and in the early morning we had stopped at a site which offered a watchtower, a shrine to Bonbibi and Dakshin Rai, a large freshwater watering hole and a botanical garden designed to educate us about the local vegetation.

Next morning, Swarnava, Pupu and I cried off the boat trip, I because I was exhausted after waking up so early three days in succession, and S and P because they had work to do online (the internet connection, weak to non-existent, had been quickly restored the first day itself). Pupu and I have done this more than once - we need time to unwind very slowly; that is essential to full enjoyment of any trip. Shoumo and Pratyush went off with Saibal and Kulbir for another eleven hour sail. Frankly, I enjoyed the day quite as much as all the other days, doing absolutely nothing: a bit of reading, playing with the dogs, delicious lunch of lobsters, and Pupu came to sleep beside me while Swarnava was working through the afternoon. Late in the evening, we went for a walk up to the edge of the jungle to catch sight of spotted owls across a rutted path over an embankment in deep darkness. A few of the doggies accompanied us, heaven knows why. Pupu walked with her arm entangled with mine. Bliss.

On Saturday we boarded the boat for the last time at about 8.30, and, after another five hour cruise and a hearty lunch, we were dropped off at Gadkhali. By that time, the boat manager and guide had become friends: 'Do come again', they urged. We set off at around 1.15, took the road through Baruipur and Kamalgaji, and were back at home at around 3.40. I heard later that Shoumo, who dropped off Pratyush later, was discussing how lonely they would feel after four days of such jolly and close camaraderie. All of them have since thanked me for coaxing them into making the trip, despite all their work and engagements, so that's a small victory I think I can be proud of. I want to make loved ones happy, and cannot have enough of their thanks when I succeed. I missed Sunandini and Koushik and Aveek badly. God bless you all.

To all readers, I shall urge: make this trip, but do ensure that you do it with true loved ones.

Finally, two things that impressed me: the authorities were very strict about not carrying disposable plastic water bottles on the boat, and not one of the numerous boats we saw, some crowded with passengers, was playing earsplitting 'music' on so-called DJ boxes. More power to the elbow of the Forest Department, and may the tigers live in peace.

Back in Calcutta, I went to renew my passport. The hassle was absolutely hateful, especially the coldness or downright bad manners of everyone except the final clearing officer. Then imagine queuing up for visas every time like a beggar, then the expense, then long layovers and not being able to smoke for hours and sitting cramped inside a tin tube for 7, 10, 15 hours at a stretch and often not even being able to talk much with the locals because of the language barrier... so much for the 'joys' of travelling abroad, and I thank my lucky stars for YouTube: I can do all the foreign travel I want from my bedroom, at virtually no expense and trouble at all. If I cannot travel abroad like a VVIP, to whom no rules apply, I am better off without trying. I do hope, however, that I can see more of my vast and still in places charming country before I die.

For photos, click here.

Manusher Ghorbari

My latest trip was to a place I had only seen advertised. It is a large farmhouse cum homestay facility close to Labhpur in Birbhum, little more than a two-hour drive. It is called Manusher Ghorbari (after the novel by Atin Bandyopadhyay), owned and run by Sri Aniket Chattopadhyay, filmmaker, news editor of Kolkata TV and YouTuber (his popular channel is named Banglabazar) along with his wife Sahana and a team of dedicated young locals eager to please. It was a most pleasant two-night stay.

As all readers of my little travelogues know, I love wandering, but long vacations to faraway places take a heavy toll on the pocket, as well on my time and dwindling reserves of energy, so I can do them only twice a year, or maybe three at most. And yet I find it painful to stay home for too long at a stretch. So I keep searching for pretty, quiet and not-yet-so-hot idylls nearby. A decade ago you found them only in the hills; now, homestays are coming up all over south Bengal. Just the right sort of thing for people who want short breathers amidst silence, pure air, vast open spaces and greenery.

We took one mud house and one regular room, because I wanted to get a taste of both. Only young Aveek the soon to be doctor accompanied us; everyone else in my gang of favourites being currently very busy. Arriving at the property just after 11 a.m., we had a sumptuous Bengali lunch on traditional kansa (bell metal) utensils, mostly made out of things grown on site. Then, the huge lakeside garden beckoning, we dozed for a while in the mellow sunshine before turning in for a late siesta. The evening passed in leisurely fashion, with hearty adda and a bit of music, followed by a heavy dinner: if the hosts can be faulted on anything at all, it is that they insist we gorge ourselves (or maybe that is what the typical guest expects). But as they promised, the water drawn from an underground aquifer is really so good (no longer a common thing anywhere in India) that we were hungry for breakfast. 

On Tuesday morning we got off to a somewhat early start, visiting, in turn, the ancestral house of, and the museum dedicated to Tarashankar Bandyopadhyay, the greatest writer (besides artist, social worker, philanthrope and sometime MLC) that Birbhum has produced, at least since Chandidas. Then off to the sickle-shaped bend in the river Kopai just before it meets the Bakreshwar, made famous by the novel Hansulibanker Upokotha. That was a bit of a let down, really, but the locals said that plans are afoot to make the surroundings more well-tended and scenic. Finally, a visit to the Neel Kuthi, basically some forlorn brick ruins standing derelict amidst dense jungle: it was the jungle which enchanted me, with Ray's music playing inside my mind: e je bonyo, e oronyo... I shall never grow tired of forests, rivers and mountains. Back for bath and lunch, which was good again, though pulao is not my favourite rice dish, and the previous day's delicious routine was happily repeated until dinner. A good night's sleep, waking up lateish, a filling breakfast of hot paranthas, fried aubergine (oh come on, begoon bhaja) and nolen gurer rosogolla, and we drove off to reach Durgapur just after twelve. As always, the two days, like all joyous times, had passed in a flash. I think everybody, ma included, enjoyed it thoroughly.

If you ask for the USP of this homestay/resort, my answer will be that though both Mr. and Mrs. Chatterjee are busy working people, and we stayed with them during working days, they not only made it a point to give us company during every meal (it would have started becoming embarrassing if I had stayed for another day) but we quickly developed enough rapport to engage in serious conversation covering a wide range of subjects - which is saying a lot, given that I am at heart a very private person who avoids talk with strangers unless invited. I was also glad to know that it is pet friendly, and that they do not welcome visitors who want to play earsplitting music on 'DJ boxes'. I hope this kind of publicity won't make it too crowded and raucous for peaceloving folks like me. Visit on weekdays: you are almost sure to get a booking even if you call just two days in advance, unless it is holiday time. You can contact Mr. Chatterjee directly. His phone number is 94349 48504.

I am almost done travelling this season: one more trip perhaps, and I shall sit back and brace myself for summer.

For some photos, click here.

Madhupur

Those who have been listening to the stories on my YouTube channel (just write Suvro Chatterjee or Goppoguchchho) will have noticed that I read out excerpts from a new book titled Memories of Madhupur not long ago. Now I have driven before through Madhupur, now in Jharkhand, about a four-hour drive from Durgapur, but never stayed. I have heard lots of stories from family elders about the days when the moneyed Calcutta elite invariably had little palaces or large bungalows there, and went over frequently for a health cure: the doctors highly recommended the 'change' from city life, because the weather was cool and balmy for most part of the year, there were vast open spaces and greenery all around, so virtually no pollution, the mineral charged water was supposed to be very good for health, and local labour was cheap, obedient, dutiful and generally harmless. With the great socio-economic and political changes post independence, most of this old Bengali elite lost their stranglehold and many even their properties, though some held on doggedly. Lately some have renovated their old villas and turned them into resorts - weekend getaways - for the newly moneyed middle class tourists from the cities. One of those caught my attention.

On the way I stopped at Karmatanr, where one of my most revered heroes of yesteryear, Pandit Ishwarchandra Vidyasagar, spent many of his last years, still teaching, still treating with cheap homeopathy the poorest of the poor, the local Santhals, the sort of people for whom he had cared most and done most all his life (gnyaner sagar, doyar sagar, birchuramoni Bidyasagar). The railway station has been renamed after him, and his walled compound with some trees he planted with his own hands still remain: one or two rooms, including his bedroom, have been lovingly restored, but most of the houses are going to seed and the site is located beside an obscure, dingy, narrow alley with open drains, and sandwiched between ugly, jerry-built, newly constructed houses and shops of insignificant and uncaring locals simply making do. A very sad contrast with the ways the houses, memorials and museums dedicated to Tagore and Vivekananda have been restored or preserved. Shameful and pitiable. I got a book about the great man's life there, and learnt that a small trust is still protecting the place from dissolution and decay, but there was no way I could connect with the trust, the writer or the publisher, no phone number, email, postal address, nothing, to ask if I could help, in whatever little way I can afford. I wish the two state governments involved would get into the act with gusto and do something before it is too late.

Arriving at the resort (Sett Heritage Guest House) at just after 12 immediately lifted my spirits. The property was not too big,  but beautifully preserved, everything from rooms to the Victorian era babuder boithokkhana, complete with old paintings tastefully placed on the walls, old books inviting the connoisseur on the shelves, period furniture of cane and wood, ceiling fans of century old design, even switches from a bygone era and canopied four-poster bedsteads, low doors and curtained French windows, albeit grilled, because sneak thieves have been a problem for ages. I like this kind of holiday stay far more than any chrome and steel and wood-laminated five star hotel tower frequented by the crass newly rich any day. We got the lawnside room, which was the best, because it was isolated from the main building and so very quiet, with a little private garden in front and the kitchen right across, so that you didn't even have to holler for tea, coffee and snacks, and you could lunch and dine right there in the mellow sunshine or under a canopy at night. The staff was  promptness, courtesy and helpfulness personified. In India you cannot get closer to heaven, just sun bathe, listen to soft music, read, chat (my mother and driver/friend had gone along), eat (very nice, homely, filling food) and sleep.

But there was a bonus waiting still for me. The proprietor, Mr. Anjan Sett, 75, from Kolkata (Theatre Road) and his wife came over and struck up a warm and friendly conversation right away. Within minutes we had discovered common acquaintances from the days of yore. He begged me to browse through his collection of books and take away whatever, as many as I pleased - 'I can't cope with the dreary task of preserving them any more, and finding true bookworms to share with is such a rare pleasure!' So courteous,  so humble, so self-effacing: talk about the civilizing effects of old money! My mother shared many of her childhood experiences, and he drank it all up, because they were, after all, contemporaries who have lived through a nearly forgotten, far more cultured age. We were earnestly invited to visit their much bigger property a furlong away.

So next morning we went, and saw a palace. They occupy the much smaller wing, which they have transformed into another guest house ('You can come over right now if you wish!'). I suggested they hand over the palace itself to some giant corporate chain like the Taj or ITC, which they will transform into a haven for the dirty rich in no time at all. But of course, the olde-worlde charm will be lost forever, because their clients will come only to make raucous noise, lech after each other's wives, and drink themselves silly... Then we did a little bit of local sightseeing, taking in the tiny Bakulia Falls (must be a spectacle at the height of the monsoons), the bahanno bigha neighbourhood of humbler Bengalis who settled down generations ago, the Kapil Math (I thought the ancient sage's den was on Sagar Island, but okay, maybe he spent some time here), and enjoyed the aarati and vandana at the Vivekananda Math. Next morning, we set off after a leisurely breakfast and were back in good time for a regular lunch. A most satisfactory getaway, and a very good use of the Monday and Tuesday break I have now assigned to myself every week. If you have enjoyed reading this, let me know.

For photos, click here.

The hills once again

Beginning 1971, when I was all of eight years old, I have been visiting north Bengal continually but after long intervals. This year I did it twice. I went visiting the Dooars in late February, and I have just spent a week in the hills again. 

As always, I begin to grumble three months before the pujo that I am having difficulty deciding where I should go to escape Bengal's annual madness, and which of my favourites I can take along for enjoyable company. This time round I couldn't confirm with anybody other than Arka Choudhury (who had accompanied my family on a day's road trip along with his batchmate Saikat back in 2010), and though I made all the bookings in late July to be on the safe side, the outgoing tickets on the Vande Bharat Express were put on the wait list, and I had to hold my breath till ten days before the journey to learn that they had been confirmed. Then, after sending off my mother to stay with her brother and some friends in Kolkata (more and more I hate to leave her alone for any length of time, though there are a lot of people around to keep an eye on her), I set off at dawn on Sunday the 28th September (shoshthi), and took the train from Bolpur, arriving on time at New Jalpaiguri. The station, being reconstructed, is a mess right now, and the sun was blazing. The pre-arranged driver dropped us off at the oldest homestay (large and lavish enough to be called a hotel, actually) in Teenchuley just after sunset. 

The room was big and cosy, with a sun lounge looking down on the twinkling lights of Kalimpong; the surroundings were quiet, clean and lush green, with the forest beginning within a hundred yards from the gate, the sky alternated between overcast and azure, the food was mouth watering, the service was excellent, so I would have been in seventh heaven had it not been for all the chatter from the adjoining rooms, clearly audible through the paper thin wooden walls. But there was some compensation: my next door boarder complimented me unasked about the quality of my voice that he had overheard, and, a little taken aback, I couldn't think of a better way to thank him than to send him a link to my YouTube storytelling channel via Whatsapp. The host - probably my age, but cheery and sprightly - treated us to beer and a few songs one evening, and I made friends with two young locals of my daughter's generation whose courtesy, English and general knowledge of the world won my admiration. We spent the days eating, sleeping late, chatting and wandering about the very steep roads or getting our breath back sitting on tree stumps inside the pine forest. It was as relaxing and enchanting as could be.

Around eight on Wednesday morning we drove off to Tukvar. We had to pass through teeming and hyper-congested Darjeeling on the way, and it was a nightmare: of the three-hour journey, just crossing the town took an hour and a half. All our old and classic hill stations are now bursting at the seams; I have heard it's the same in Nainital and Mussoorie and Shimla, and I had exactly the same experience at Ooty last year. Anyway, Tukvar is a steep climb down from Darjeeling, and it was beautifully unspoilt and quiet and clean again, nestled among tea gardens offering fleeting views of mighty Kanchanjungha when the clouds cleared. This time the homestay was a humble affair, but the host was most decent and friendly, and the hospitality was earnest and very good, so the two-day stay was once again very pleasant, especially every time I recalled the crowds and traffic and noise that I had escaped. On Friday we rose and left early to avoid the Darjeeling jams and drove off to Bhalukhop on the other side of Kalimpong, which I had liked very much the last time, and spent another peaceful day among the clouds, though there was a bit of unpleasantry over dinner, which I shall gloss over.

On Saturday we left early again, because it was very foggy and overcast, and drizzling all the way. The weather app predicted heavy thunderstorms. Our luck held, and we arrived early at NJP, which was already waterlogged. A plain and leisurely lunch at a streetside eatery, squelching through the mud and slush, then we were on the train. It arrived at Bolpur only a few minutes late, and Firoz brought us safely home, though ugly and cacophonous bhasaan jatras held us up on the way and even late at night. But we were very, very lucky: that same night the hills and roads we had traversed were flooded, and as everybody has heard by now, landslides have claimed many lives and injured far more. Evidently Ma Durga was looking after me, or I have accumulated a lot of good karma!

I must thank young Arka for being a very good travelling companion. I only pray that his snoring problem goes away! And also many, many thanks to my old friend Subir Dubey for suggesting such lovely places to visit. I only so wish he could have come along with his magical flute and harmonica.

These breaks are vital to my well-being, but travelling during holiday times is becoming more and more irksome every year. I wonder what I am going to do as I grow older. Perhaps taking refuge in the rural homes of people who care for me, with no amenities whatsoever beyond the peace and solitude they offer, would be the best option. Meanwhile, one thing is certain - excessive 'development' is ruining this country and bringing us closer to danger and disaster. I have read about locals in old and scenic towns all over Europe beginning to protest loudly against the tourism 'invasion', and I won't be surprised if the people of the hills in India join them in the not too distant future.

For photos, click here.

Last trip of the season

My travel season started early this time round, with the Ooty-Mudumalai trip in October, and ended with a visit to the Dooars in North Bengal.

End-February is a time I treasure, because it is one of the few occasions when I get a long break from work, and the weather is still decent enough. So off I went to Siliguri on the 28th to see a cousin whom I had been promising to visit since 2014. A one-day halt, then I moved on to a resort in Lataguri, right on the edge of the Gorumara Wildlife Sanctuary, a barely two-hour drive. This was the very first time I was doing Dooars – ironical, since I have travelled to so many other forests around the country – and I discovered that a) Gorumara is seriously underrated, if you love forests with or without sightings of ‘exciting’ animals, b) many of the other now well-known hotspots, such as Chalsa, Murti, Tilapara and Batabari are actually only a few miles down the same highway, c) if you want to make a jungle safari, Lataguri is your best choice, because everybody has to come here to enter the jungle anyway. At this magical time of the year (schools everywhere keeping kids and parents busy with exams) everything was quiet, and it was a very nice two-night stay, with elephants and bison actually coming up to the gates at nightfall.  

Then off via Manbazar and Gorubathan through lush tea gardens into the hills. I stopped for an overnight stay at a lovely little homestay called Alpine Resort in the village of Kashyem near Kalimpong, very close to the better-known Ichchegaon and Sillery Gaon, which had been highly recommended by an elderly lady friend, and Bob Thapa the proprietor did not disappoint. If you want peace and quiet and long walks among the pines and lovely views of distant snow-capped mountain peaks (Kanchenjunga and Nathu-La among others), lungfuls of clean air and delicious hot local cuisine made from mostly home-grown stuff`without too much luxury and at a very modest price, this is the right get-away-from-it-all spot for you: noisy families, please stay away. For those not interested in noise and shopping (but the wi-fi connection is good), Bob's phone number for booking in advance is 8918112692.

Last stop, another two-hour drive to Bhalukhop village on the other side of Kalimpong to stay overnight with a sadhubaba friend (all personal details must be kept private) which had been very long in the planning. I could spend whole afternoons sunbathing on the wind-swept terrace, and spending the chilly evening staring at the lights of Rangpo in the middle distance. Suffice it to say that we enjoyed ourselves so much that we both deeply regretted that we were parting so soon, and I promised to return (this despite the fact that I had survived a rice with fish curry lunch at 5 p.m. Another first in life – I am living dangerously).

Back to Siliguri, and Durgapur on 5th March, after having woken up at the ungodly hour of 3.30 a.m. Again, it seems I am getting into a bad habit, but it couldn’t be helped. By the way, it was the Vande Bharat for the onward journey and Shatabdi on the way back. I can safely report that the former is a con game – in NO way better, yet grossly overpriced. Unless it is purely for matters of time-convenience, I am never going to take a Vande Bharat again – nor, I suspect, will millions of other Indians who have tried it once just for fun.

My mother had accompanied me on the entire trip. I was on tenterhooks all the way for all nine days, but she bore up wonderfully well, the magnificent eighty-year old.

Here the summer is already upon us. Today, says the weather app, is going to be the first time in six months that the mercury is going to reach that horrible tipping point – 37 degrees Celsius, and there are fears that the first of the heat waves is already about to strike. The last two summers were very nasty: God knows what is in store for us this time round.

You will find a few photos here.

Kanha, paradise

(click on photo for larger view)

I made a whistle-stop trip to Kanha Tiger Reserve in Madhya Pradesh last week, flying out from Kolkata to Raipur in Chhattisgarh on Wednesday the 29th and returning on Saturday evening. It was well worth all the money and all the physical strain 😊

The last time I had visited was with my boys from the school, back in December 1991, a few months after returning from America. That, done in youth on a shoestring budget, remains a very rich and happy memory (I hope reading this post will ring a bell with some of the boys who went with us if they are reading this – they are almost fifty now!); this, done in much more luxurious style, will remain another treasured experience lifelong.

My companions this time round were only three (I think the ’91 team was 42 strong): my very good friend-cum-mentor Saibal, his wonderful wife Kulbeer, and young Abhishek, who is on the way to becoming my fellow traveller of choice on future jungle safaris.

The road trip to Kanha Jungle Resort, in Bamhni village, tehsil Baihar, district Balaghat, a couple of kilometers from the Mukki Gate which leads into the forest, took four hours and a half, so we arrived a little before 9. The resort was a delight, very leafy, with plush cottages adorned with hurricane lanterns hung from hooks out on the porches, and auto-dimming lights all around the garden. Even a swimming pool, though it was too early in the year for that. The staff was smart, efficient, and very, very polite. Saibal, being an old Kanha hand, was on friendly terms with everyone, from the proprietor to the drivers and guards and waiters, so we had special treatment all through. A couple of nightcaps before we turned in, knowing that it was going to be a very long day ahead.

On Thursday we woke up at 4:40 a.m., and were in the forest department Gypsy by 5:30. The Mukki Gate opens at 6 sharp, and a long procession of vehicles, each provided with an enthusiastic guide (many of them young and earnest women), trooped into the forest before diverging along different trails. We made four trips in all – one on Thursday morning (five hours and a half), another that afternoon (three hours and a half), and the same again on Friday. It was gruelling, trundling along on rutted kuchcha roads through clouds of dust, but the scenery was breathtaking – everything from vast sal groves and limpid lakes, man-high anthills, long stretches of grassy meadow and trees curling up other trees in out of the world shapes to peacock, langurs and monkeys, jackal and mongoose and cormorant and lapwing and crested eagle, Indian bison (gaur), spotted deer, barking deer, sambar, barasingha, leopard, bear, and, hold your breath: tigers every time we went in, ambling so close by you could reach out and touch their flanks, utterly indifferent to human presence, lords of all they survey. Only real wildlife crazies will know how fortunate that was: we met people, including professional photographers, who had been on the ‘hunt’ for whole days at a stretch without a single sighting. The only major species we missed was the wild hunting dog (dhole). Though it was chilly and foggy at daybreak, it quickly grew hot, the maximum rising to 32 degrees and minimum never going below 12 – most unfortunate, since traditionally it is supposed to be icy cold at this time of the year…

I cried off the third trip, firstly because, being the only senior citizen in the group, I couldn’t miss my beauty sleep four days in succession, and secondly because I needed some quiet, still time to myself for all-round enjoyment of everything that was on offer. So I awoke late, had a very leisurely breakfast, then spent several hours sunbathing outside my cottage, feet up on the wicker table, listening to birdsong and the wind whispering among the trees, watching butterflies, sometimes listening to music and sometimes meditating. It was as close to heaven as one can hope to reach on earth. I must not forget to mention that, to top off everything, every meal was absolutely delicious, leaving me struggling not to overeat.

Setting off on the road back at about ten on Saturday morning, I was back in Durgapur just about twelve hours later, Firoz having picked me up at Kolkata airport as he had dropped me off before. I slept like a log.

Kanha well deserves its reputation as one of the best maintained wildlife reserves in India. There are 100 odd tigers on the prowl right now. I bought a book, Shaping Kanha, which details all the loving and painstaking effort that has gone into it over many successive decades – and, strange to say about government officers (in this case foresters), they sound truly committed and passionate about their work. I also learnt about various NGOs which are giving yeoman service to the cause, including the one which had trained one of our guides; find them at natureguides.in if you have time on your hands and truly want to engage with something fulfilling, something that can change your life. I wish I were not too old for that sort of thing.

Bibhuti Bhushan wrote in Aranyak (I am translating as I quote from memory): ‘A day is coming when this earth will have been laid bare of all flora and fauna. May this forest survive for the material and spiritual sustenance of the unfortunate generations who live in such times’. These words kept haunting me as I travelled, every mile of the way, as well as that ominous prediction by some old Red Indian chief, ‘only when the last tree has died, the last fish has been caught, and the last river poisoned will we realize that we cannot eat money’. Thank God some people have paid heed, and I pray most earnestly that many more of our young will. In sharp contrast, here is a lament from the book I mentioned above: ‘In spite of living in the internet age, with so much progress (sic) in education, specially in urban areas, the state of awareness about nature and wildlife conservation is abysmally low in the young generation. The importance and role of wildlife and protected areas are hardly understood, let alone appreciated’. Will things change for the better before it is too late?

For some more photos, click here. All the best photos were taken by Abhishek.

Ooty and Mudumalai

Shubho Bijoya to all. This one is for those readers who have said again and again that they enjoy my little travelogues. 

Young Abhishek, of the St. Xavier's ICSE 2003 batch, is one of those old boys who have been asking me to visit for years. Having found just the right time which suited both of us, and eager as in every year to avoid Durga pujo, I flew down to Bangalore on Wednesday the 9th. Happily, we now have daily flights from the local airport. Touching down at 4 p.m., I arrived at his house (not far from Marathahalli) a little after 7 - Bangalore's biggest recent claim to fame being its endless traffic jams! His is located in a nice 'society', though, and being at the rear end of the building at some elevation, fairly insulated from the din. Very nice and comfy. My only sense of guilt arose from the fact that he had recently moved in, and had spent three very hectic days sprucing up for me.

Abhishek dragged me off - not unwillingly - to the HAL open air aeroplane museum late the next morning, where we feasted our eyes on a large number of air fairies from yesteryears, training craft, helicopters, fighters, bombers and all. Then we pushed off to the Bangalore Palace, which is a museum-cum-residence for the royal family. The place was beautifully preserved, along with a very large, manicured garden in full bloom, and the audio tour of the many exhibits was a treat, at least for the likes of me. So now I have seen both the famous palaces associated with the Wodeyars. There was a leisurely lunch break in between, so by the time we returned home dusk was settling in. 

The next day could have been harrowing, but Providence was apparently looking out for me, so it turned out to be very enjoyable on the whole. We set off from the city before daybreak to avoid the crowds, and the drive all the way to the edge of Udhagamandalam (everyone still calls it Ooty) was smooth and swift, with much of the way beyond Mysooru (Mysore) being foggy, rain-soaked and cool. The steep climb from Masinagudi, round numerous sharp bends, was thrilling, even for an old Himalaya hand. Ooty itself was picturesque, but the traffic was quite absolutely horrible, so poor Abhishek, who insisted on driving all the way, had a hard time of it (he is self-confessedly a bike man) - ten thousand tourists crowded into a place which can comfortably accommodate a thousand - and a man on foot could actually travel far faster anywhere in the town. Our little hotel was mercifully located outside the town, perched on a hill overlooking Ketti Valley, right alongside a tea garden, and it was all that I could ask for. After a short walk past the tea garden in the drizzle and a quick lunch, we went out sightseeing. We could have done without it. Just driving up to Dodabetta Peak (the highest in the Nilgiris, a little over 8,000 feet) took hours, and so did coming down; the viewpoints themselves were swarming with noisy, jostling merrymakers. We stopped at a tea factory cum museum on the way down, and it was lateish evening by the time we returned to our room. Thanks to the pleasant weather, we were less tired than bored. We took in the peace and quiet for hours on the balcony, chatting away merrily of everything under the sun (or moon!), turning in well past midnight. Not bad for 61, I told myself, up and about from 4 in the morning till 12:30 at night.

On Saturday morning, after a  leisurely breakfast of idli, vada and pongal (one can get very tired of this fare very quickly) we set off for Mudumalai forest along the 'other road'. Abhishek wanted to escape from Ooty well before the 'truly infernal' crowds from Bangalore started pouring in. The drive, despite the occasional jams caused by tourists who line up their cars along the roadside to ogle even at sunflower plots and little strips of pine forest, was a dream. After a lunch of biryani in pouring rain, we arrived at the Mudumalai Wildlife Park Reception Centre, which was a maelstrom of vehicles and people on foot - far more like a typical Indian mela than a forest sanctuary. People had queued up for safari tickets, in buses, for God's sake, not elephant back or even in jeeps! The screeching, squawking, yelling, cackling, quarrelling mob would have been far more suited to a lunatic asylum where all the inmates have suddenly been set free. I was so horrified that if we had not pre-booked rooms, I would have fled back to the city. What on earth are the forest authorities doing? Is this how a sanctuary should be run? Anyway, we were quickly registered and then drove off to the tiny Forest Rest House five kilometres away. There, bliss returned, in the form of absolute silence, deep greenery, a huge white cloud bank hugging a distant hill, herds of chital (swamp deer) and the occasional peacock strolling around the two little buildings, and a perch on a little watch tower right in front of our room. 'Enjoy yourself while there's light, but don't step out after dark', warned the elderly caretaker (who drives his own Maruti Swift!). 'elephants and bears come foraging after dark!' We watched a glorious sunset with fascination before retiring. Mudumalai, which straddles the Moyar River made famous by the hunter Kenneth Anderson, is the Tamil Nadu section of the same forest which passes into Karnataka under the name of Bandipur Tiger Reserve. The evening wore into night, and, chatting and snacking all the while,  we kept peering into the gloom again and again to catch a glimpse of any wild life that might have condescended to visit, knowing that there were tigers prowling in the vicinity, but no show. Nevertheless, it was a night to remember. We turned in early, slept like babes, and left after another late and very filling breakfast on Sunday morning.

The drive back to Bangalore was uneventful and as enjoyable as the outward journey. We skipped lunch, and I drove the entire length of the Mysore-Bangalore highway. Occasional spells of rain alternated with bright, even hot sunshine. We arrived at home shortly after four in the afternoon, an hour sooner than anticipated, because it was an early Sunday afternoon, Abhishek said, and we had opted to take the Ring Road. The rest of the evening was spent in happy and animated conversation with Abhishek's parents, who had made me feel so at home that it was hard to imagine I was visiting them for the very first time. I cannot thank them enough.

Monday, alas, ended on a rather discordant note. I set off at six in the morning to avoid the rush of traffic, and entered my house in Durgapur at six in the evening, thanks to a nine hour long delay at Bangalore airport - an unpleasant first in my flying life. But that glitch could not wipe away the pleasurable memories I had brought back with me. A teacher has to be very lucky to have old boys like Abhishek Das. May he have a long and fulfilling life, and may we be able to go travelling together again. And Shreya, many thanks to you too :)

I have been writing this post in little bits in the midst of classes and another birthday bash last night (this year has passed in the blink of an eye). I shall upload it now for those who have been waiting. For photos, click here.

P.S.: There are stupid, uncouth tourists who litter, stop, honk, and get out of their cars to take photos of elephants. If the foresters don't deal with them as they deserve to be, I hope the elephants will do their job for them. A few monkeys without tails trampled - the overcrowded world will not miss them.

Diamond Harbour and Bakkhali

Last Thursday the 21st I drove to Kolkata with Swarnava and my mother in tow, dropped ma off at her brother's place, picked up Pupu and Pratyush and went on to Diamond Harbour, followed by a trip to Bakkhali the next day, back to DH on Saturday, then back via Kolkata, dropping off Pupu and Pratyush, picking up ma, and home to Durgapur on Sunday. 600-plus km in all. 

The highway to Kolkata is being massively reconstructed, with umpteen new flyovers coming up: it will be a very smooth and fast ride once more soon, but for now it was rather slow and difficult going; the passage through Kolkata was interminable as usual because of the dense crawling traffic, and we couldn't go too fast along Diamond Harbour Road either, it being narrow and choc a bloc - though in excellent condition - so the trip took at least an hour and a half longer than it could have. But it was well worth it. At DH the Tourist Lodge called Sagorika was a dream haven, as we had found it twice before, in 2011 and 2017, what with its beautiful panoramic view of the river, its swank rooms, the delectable food and the very friendly and obliging staff. The gusty wind, though warm and damp, and squalls of rain now and then were a bonus. The drive to Bakkhali was short and nice (now that they have built a bridge at Namkhana), and the Tourist Lodge (Balutot) was lovely. We lunched at a very homely streetside bangali eatery where the ambience, along with the owner-cum-waiter clad in a gamchha, his torso bare, reminded me strongly of Bibhutibhushan's Adorsho Hindu Hotel. The Lodge staff there, however, was very cold and uninviting, and we couldn't get rooms for another day, so it was back to Sagorika, where I got a suite which was, in one word, luxurious: all of us spent most of the day and half the night lounging in it. During the drive back to Durgapur, we were caught in very heavy rain for a bit, but spent that time lunching. No mishaps, except that I caught a bad cold. Firoz got a room to himself each night, and Swarnava was thrilled that he didn't have to put up with that awful snoring. Yes, it was a splurge, but these days I live for this sort of thing, and only wish I had the time and wherewithal to take along a much larger group of intimates, which would greatly multiply the fun.

Much of my fun came from quietly looking at, and listening to, the children's chatter. (I call them children, though they are in their twenties, and they spent a considerable amount of time attending to scholarly and professional work - but they grew up before my eyes, and I had a hand in the way they have grown up, so the pleasure is beyond words, mixed with wonder. Besides, they also relentlessly pulled one another's legs, guffawed over silly jokes and built a sand castle on the beach...). We sat on the sand in wet clothes watching the waves until the sun went down and the wind began to make our teeth chatter. I sang a succession of songs to myself, and communed with my Maker, giving up thanks for the myriad blessings I have been granted. For young Pratyush, it was the first overnight trip with us: I hope he will have lasting and fond memories. That, above all, is what I have tried to give to all whom I have loved.

Three-quarters of the year is over already! Now Durga pujo is coming. I hope I can run away somewhere outside Bengal - unless Pupu comes over to stay with me.

A few photos can be seen here. More on Google if you just type "Tourist Lodge" Diamond Harbour or Bakkhali.

Weekend in Goa

This latest trip was absolutely perfect in every way.

We set off on Thursday the 16th. Took a train to Kolkata after ages – because road trips are taking too long lately – the Coalfield Express, which brought back a flood of old memories, then a cab to the airport. A long wait, then a two and half hour flight (try not to fly Spice Jet whenever you can avoid it; they invariably give you creepy moments, besides the cramped Boeing 737s, though Pupu had got us the front row, which was very considerably better) to the spanking new MoPa airport in north Goa. We arrived at the resort a little before 8 p.m. This – the Grand Leoney, close to the Marriot but much closer to the beach – was, on the whole, the very best place I have stayed at in all these years, and surprisingly enough, far from the most expensive, so that was a delight, since we stayed for three nights and four days.

Over the weekend, I discovered that we had also made the best possible choice of beach, the Vagator, with Anjuna beach close by: wide expanse, lovely view with the Chapora fort to the right upon a cliff overlooking the bay, not too crowded, restaurant right on the sand, various kinds of water sports if you are interested including scooter- and motorboat rides. We slept late and woke up sinfully late every day; breakfast was given the miss in favour of one kind of brunch or the other. On Friday we bathed in the sea, then hired a Fascino scooty and zipped around, visiting the fort, the Baga and Calangute beaches, and a little bookshop called Champaca. At Baga, after huffing and puffing up and down from the fort, where cool coconut water soothed our parched throats (the view reminded me of Simhachalam at Vizag) we spent a whole hour dozing on shaded and padded beachside deck chairs. At Calangute, we bought a bottle of port, but then ran away from the crowd. From the bookshop, I bought a new work on Tagore’s ecological thinking by a Vishwabharati scholar.

On Saturday we had a lovely late morning swim in the hotel pool, then made a trip to south Goa in  a rented car (the view of the Mandovi river from the swanky new bridge brings to mind the backwaters of Kerala), taking in the Basilica of Bom Jesus (not much impressed by Portuguese baroque architecture, and things like the mummified remains of St. Francis Xavier leave me cold), the Se Cathedral, and the adjoining museum of ancient and medieval art maintained by the Archaeological Survey of India, followed by a trip to Fort Aguada (the Taj resort is next door, and located in a neighbourhood which has unfortunately become terribly crowded – I would never dream of burning money staying in a locale like that!) and rounded up by a sight of Candolim beach, where we watched a glorious sunset. By the way, these little forts are a joke to people who have travelled around Rajasthan and Delhi: I wonder why the Mughals didn’t blast them off the earth when they could. The two late evenings we drank beer and chatted on the beach as only Pupu and I can do.

Sunday was spent lazing about, the highlights being a long spell in the sea at midday, followed by a very refreshing full-body massage and a very late lunch of prawn and rice, local style, along with the inevitable beer. A short snooze in the early evening, then packing up. We took a cab to Dabolim airport in south Goa (now called Goa International). Arriving at 10:30 p.m., we were horrified to see the crowd at the lounge, but mercifully it thinned out as flight after flight left. Ours – IndiGo – was at 2 a.m. There was a layover and change of flight at Jaipur, where I grumbled over a second-round security check and worried about losing our luggage in transit. However, we arrived without mishap at Delhi a little after 6:30 a.m. on Monday the 20th, and were home within an hour.

My impressions of Goa: you can see women in almost every state of undress if you are interested, though it’s rarely a pretty sight. Everyone seems to be drinking all the time (as a Bengali waiter remarked with irritation, liquor is the only thing that comes cheap). Food at the cafes is good but very expensive (many things on the menu, like shark steak, are generally unavailable), and they are mildly surprised if you only want a meal without drinks. So is transport, except for the Scootys. The eateries have all kinds of interesting names, like Nibbles and Jaws and Gin Mill and The Last Hangover. Most of the beaches are rather too crowded, and too many people keep soliciting custom all the time, offering everything from local handmade trinkets to parasailing. The common language is Konkani, but most people have at least passable English and a little Hindi. The weather was balmy, with the Celsius rising up to 33 and falling to 22, but the sun is hot and dazzling if you forget your sunglasses. And it can get clammy when the breeze drops. Most of the cafes play loud music almost non-stop. The foreign tourists are back post-pandemic in full force. Beef is openly available, despite Goa being ruled by the BJP now: I guess they know very well which side of the bread is buttered, and are scared of chasing away their biggest, if not only, source of revenue. The locals like to do everything in a slow, easygoing fashion, so don’t expect to be served pronto even if you are hungry. The landscape is an odd mix of high-urban and still-rural. People with Portuguese surnames are far less common than might have been expected, though one of the reception clerks was called Albuquerque. The roads are good, and new high rise condos are coming up all over the place. People come travelling by car from as far away as Kerala and UP. We saw a lifeguard at only one beach, and though I had expected changing rooms (or rather tin huts), there were none, exactly as in Bengal. Likewise, pillion riders don’t have to wear helmets mandatorily. Very few policemen are in evidence, not even traffic cops, so it must be a peaceful sort of place. Everyone buys hats and the trademark Goan shirts with palm tree motifs on them. For those who have deep pockets and extravagant tastes, there are ten-minute helicopter rides which cost eight thousand rupees per head, but no balloons, which I would have liked. Knowing that the sea is murky, I decided against snorkelling and scuba diving.

So now you can make up your own mind. One can have a jolly good short vacation while working online from time to time. No wonder it’s so popular with today’s young, as well as all kinds of corporates arranging workshops and conventions. Didn’t find out how much fun it would  be if you are travelling on a shoestring budget, though!

For photos click here.

December 1989

18th December. Alas, it seems we won't have a proper winter this time round at all! It became comfortable enough by mid-November, but even today the maximum has touched 26 celsius, while the minimum yesterday was barely 12-13. This can be called winter in Mumbai, Kolkata or Chennai maybe, but certainly not here.

I was re-visiting the memories of December 1989, when I was 26, exactly the age my daughter is now. More and more I love to make these mental comparisons. I had joined St. Xavier's School as a teacher the previous year, and helped very greatly to organise their silver jubilee celebration: they have airbrushed me out of their official memoirs, the idiots, imagining that that way they can actually erase history! In 1989, they were paying me a very modest salary, which was shored up just a little bit by the extra I was earning from private tuitions - many of my less gifted contemporaries were making considerably more then, and it would be more than a decade later that I would manage to draw ahead of them. But I was enjoying myself hugely. I was my own man, helping out with the family finances; we had just finished building (the first floor of-) our own new house, and that December, I floated the idea of taking some boys and colleagues on a school excursion. First time ever for our school. 'Who will take the responsibility?' asked Father Wavreil the headmaster, thrilled but wary. 'I will, of course,' I assured him, and so it was done. Even the railway booking was done through my father's journalistic connections. We went travelling for about a week, I seem to remember, visiting Hardwar, Hrishikesh, Lakshmanjhula, Dehradun and Mussoorie, staying and moving around very comfortably on just seven hundred rupees per head, which was even in those days a shoestring budget, and still managed to return a bit to every boy afterwards. 

I remember we got off the return train early in the morning, and the headmaster was waiting for us. He took a suitcase from my hand, and as I shook hands with him, crying exultantly, 'Father, I did it!' He laughed like a boy and said, 'Yes, you said that you would do it and you did it!' (for the illiterate, that was an impromptu quote from Bernard Shaw's play, Pygmalion). If his successors can read and are reading this, I hope they feel ashamed to realize how far they have fallen, and just why I quit. This was a headmaster: I couldn't tolerate lesser creatures. 

One reward was that some parents later came to see me and said, 'Sir, given the glowing reports we are getting from our sons, and the dirt-cheap way you managed to do it all, why don't you arrange a trip like that for us parents?' and another was that some of those boys (ICSE 1991) looked me up much later and declared, 'Sir, we have travelled much, far and wide, but never have we enjoyed a trip as much as that one!' It is a pity that I was such good friends with my senior colleagues like Uday Roy and Shanti Biswas in those days, and they have all found it preferable to forget me or badmouth me... I still wonder what they got out of it.

But Pupu, note well, I was still poor then. So you have time to make a solid career for yourself, see? All that matters is that you want to, you have faith in our Maker, and you are giving of your best. And remember, I did have lots of fun even though I was poor!  

Quick trip to Chail

I get very tired of sitting at home taking classes relentlessly for more than two months at a stretch (remember that I have no Sundays even, and I have stuck to this routine for twenty straight years now), and since my daughter was visiting till a while ago, I left Durgapur after a gap of four whole months. I took my mother along and went – where else? – to Pupu’s place in Delhi on November 29. As I have written before, I have been looking forward to wintering there, and I wasn’t disappointed first time round, Delhi still having a very mild winter at the time of writing, and a lot of sun and open air on top of that, along with a chance to sit out on the balcony every now and then.

At 3 a.m. next night, we set off in a hired car for Chail, which we had last visited in 2004, when Pupu was a child (though she still has a fair recollection), about 60 km from Shimla. You don’t have to visit Shimla to reach Chail, by the way, and we had been warned against visiting that now-overcrowded market town (Kipling must be turning in his grave) – you take a different route from Solan. The best time to avoid the terrible traffic snarls north of Delhi, our car hire agency had wisely advised us, was a few hours before daybreak, and so it proved. We whizzed past Sonepat and Panipat and Karnal and Ambala and reached Chandigarh by eight. The hill road starts minutes after you cross the turning towards Pinjore (of the fabulous Mughal garden fame), and within less than an hour after that we had reached Brahmapur, where we had stayed at the Whispering Winds resort en route to Kasauli in the summer of 2018. Then on to Solan and then Kandaghat, where, despite frantic but rather garbled instructions from Google Maps (that horrible accent!) we managed to lose our way and wasted nearly an hour. From Kandaghat the road becomes serpentine, with a lot of hairpin bends once you cross Shivphul, reminding you of the approach to Kalimpong; we were all a little tired and shaken up, including poor Bheblu for whom it was the first ever experience, being cooped up in a car and tossed about non-stop for so many hours, by the time we reached our destination, the Royal Swiss Cottages resort a little downhill from the erstwhile palace of the Maharaja of Patiala.

The last couple of kilometres were a nightmare for a car meant essentially for smooth highways, all bump and grind at a snail’s pace down a very narrow, wavy and rutted kuchcha road strewn with little boulders, so that I had begun to grumble when we finally came to a halt. Then clambering up a goat track very roughly hewn into the hillside for a hundred yards or so before we reached our room, and my own knees hurting like hell telling me how much my mother must have suffered. But I think we all agreed it was well worth it when we had seen the room and inspected the view. The last time I had stayed at a place like that was, I believe, at Rudraprayag in February 2018 – how the years have flown! – on a ledge overhanging the foaming Ganga just downstream of the sangam, and our accommodation this time was far more spacious and luxurious. There was a grand mountain vista right in front, and the rustling of the pine forest, even in the daytime, was like a distant storm. The wind was piercingly cold even at midday, but wherever the sunrays fell it was delicious, all the way into the bones. We caught a much needed nap that lasted beyond sundown. Young Kanishk Sen the son of the proprietor, who looks after the business, along with the service staff, Raju ji, Lata ji and Deepa ji, all smiles and eager helpfulness, gave us a very warm though informal welcome and a lip-smacking dinner. There was a young couple with their little son Rishi in tow in the next suite, both doctors in private practice in Meerut and evidently doing very well for themselves judging by their chauffeured BMW SUV, who were celebrating their anniversary. They got a bonfire going on the grounds and warmly welcomed us to share when we strolled down for a bit. Extremely well-mannered people, bringing up their child excellently, because we saw him enjoying himself variously without ever feeling the need to bawl or scream. Even their choice of music and the volume at which they played it left nothing to complain about. A blessing, because we know from long experience how bad fellow boarders can ruin your holiday.

The night was cold, the temperature going down to four or five Celsius, but I decided after some hesitation not to ask for a room heater, and in the event we were comfortable enough with all the quilts and blankets provided. A walk to look around the precincts in the afternoon with Pupu, which called for a bit of huffing and puffing, then Pupu got some work done online, ma sat out in the lovely private lounge for a bit, and I spent a couple of hours devouring a wonderful British detective novel set in Bengal 1922 called The Last Kashmiri Rose by Barbara Cleverly, written 2003, about which more later. We went to bed early, resolved to enjoy the pleasures of sleep for as long as we could, and in fact, though ma got up earlier, Pupu and I managed more than ten hours of the dreamless.

I had solemnly told Kanishk that I intended to ‘do nothing’ during the entire stay, and that is what I earnestly did the whole of the next day, determined just to ‘stand (or rather sit) and stare’. No better place than the mountains if you love them, and if you can find a place so beautiful as well as so free of noise and crowd and pollution. As Pupu said, every time we deeply inhaled, our lungs were being surprised by the sharp, exhilarating tang of what they had become quite unused to, namely fresh air. I spent several quiet hours simply sunbathing on the beautifully laid out wooden terrace. Dropping in every now and then, young Kanishk regaled us with stories about his ancestors, who were originally from Bengal, migrated to Kashmir in the era of the Khiljis, and became Himachali nearly a hundred years ago. We assured him that he was living our dream: I could imagine few better ways of ending my life than owning and running a property like this, taking in only very discriminating guests, while Pupu stays beside me and attends to other kinds of work. In a hundred little details, including signs put up here and there, we found evidence that some highly educated and sensible mind had taken care to plan the whole setup – ‘lose yourself in the hills if you want to find yourself’, said one, ‘green is the primary colour of the world’, said another, while another warned ‘do not waste food; remember, ten per cent of the world goes hungry to bed’.

The day passed like a dream, and like all good dreams, all too soon. I am glad now that so many dreams have become stored in my mind as so many happy memories: I can tell Wordsworth I know exactly what he meant when he wrote those last lines of Daffodils. The next morning, having given the palace a miss because we had seen it once earlier and Kanishk assuring us that there was no point visiting it again, we packed up in leisurely fashion, partook a brunch of very tasty sandwiches, packed into the car at around 12:30, stopped a couple of times for tea and snacks, and returned to our house in Delhi just after 10 p.m. We could have been half an hour sooner if we hadn’t been caught up in a nasty jam a little before entering the city limits. Oh well, you can’t have everything. On the whole, a lovely little getaway. I’ve already told Pupu, busy as she is, that we have to do it more often, and we have to find good locales a little closer home, not more than four to six hours’ driving.

For photos, click here.

Rajasthan again, February 2022

[You can find photos here. Click on each photo for some description]

From takeoff to touchdown, the flight from Delhi to Udaipur takes barely an hour. So unless you absolutely love train journeys - which I most definitely do not any more since the smoking ban came into effect, and given that the fares are now close if you book early, the question of travelling for twelve hours or more by rail simply does not arise.

The Uber driver was an idiot who didn't know his way about, so we took longer than necessary to reach this outside-of-town resort - Titardi Castle, owned and run by a young scion of the  Shivrati branch of the royal family of Mewar. It's tiny by castle standards, and quite unprepossessing from the outside; basically a homestay with only two rooms to let out to guests. But our room was lovely, and offered a panoramic view of the hills. When we arrived it was a little after five p.m., with the sun still blazing, and a brisk breeze sweeping in through the windows. The evening was spent lazing, chatting, nosing around (the magnificent dining cum drawing room has everything you associate with royalty, from a great chandelier to monogrammed napkins at the table, portraits of a long line of Maharanas on the walls and the current prince playing polo, numerous hunting and sports trophies, a fine drinks cabinet and a framed wedding invitation from Buckingham Palace). Much time was given to browsing through a big picture book on the history of Rajasthan that had been thoughtfully placed in our room. Shiv-ji, the all purpose factotum who does just about everything for his 'Sir', from driving to milking the cow, and has been around for 22 years, rustled up a lip-smacking dinner for us - brought Sudhirda poignantly back to mind. Aided by a beer, we gently nodded off, comforting ourselves with the thought that Bheblu was safely and happily tucked in at her new and secure boarding house back in Delhi. Udaipur was warm, so though we pulled rugs over us, the fan overhead was going full speed.

We went sightseeing around town in an autorickshaw next morning. I was doing Udaipur for the third time, and Pupu her second, so we limited the trip to just two main sites: the City Palace and Saheliyon ki Bari. The palace tour took us three hours, because we stopped and drank in a lot of the details, including the museum, the crystal gallery and the Durbar Hall (this trip is expensive). Parts of the Palace property have been turned into three five-star hotels now, including the iconic Lake Palace of Jahangir and James Bond fame. Saheliyon ki Bari with its lush greens and flowers and fountains never ceases to fascinate me, especially  because I have honeymoon memories (the marble throne in the garden on which I sat with my new wife back in 1995 has been fenced off to protect it from vandals - read typical Indian tourists), so we luxuriated in the sun for a bit, enjoying the sheer bliss of doing nothing and being completely at peace in companionable silence. Local snacks at the stalls beside the grand Fateh Sagar Lake, followed by a quick visit to a handicrafts emporium (Pupu knows just how to handle them, while I hang on to my purse for dear life), and we were done for the day. It is always delightful to retire to a good hotel at the end of a satisfactorily tiring day. Chat-bath-chat-dinner-sleep.

The young Maharaja - also an army major - saw us off in the morning. A hired car took us first to Kumbhalgarh (longest wall in India, built by Rana Kumbha, the place where Maharana Pratap was born). Two hours to walk up and down. Not the finest place to visit in Rajasthan, but I wanted it to be part of my memory book. Then off to Mount Abu. The Udaipur-Abu road was a dream even 26 years ago, when we could only sigh and long for such highways in Bengal, and it still is. The sun was blazing there too, but the wind was much cooler. A longish walk up the hills, a jaunt through the busy marketplace where Pupu bought some trinkets dirt cheap, and the highlights were getting a handmade wooden door nameplate and Marwari rabri icecream. The hotel was homely, but offered a huge terrace overlooking the lake. Kept reminding me of Hotel Evelyn in Nainital, May 2007, when we watched a rainstorm across the lake.

Post breakfast next morning, we drove off to the biggest highlight of Mt. Abu, the Dilwara Jain temples built more than a thousand years ago. The five shrines, but especially the Vimala Vasahi temple and the Neminath temple, are (though severely plain on the outside) absolutely breathtaking for their intensively carved exquisite marble sculptures within, every square inch of pillar and wall and ceiling. I wonder what Michelangelo would have thought if he had seen them, and also how sahibs who had encountered Kalidasa and Kautilya and Aryabhatta and seen things like this and the Taj could have declared that India had had no culture, no civilization... another wonderful thing is how closely the standard template of tirthankara idols resemble that of the Buddha. And finally what Richard Dawkins the fool would have said if he had come here to witness a thriving religion that has no church and expressly denies the existence of God! We walked back downhill to Nakki Lake, and had a most pleasant paddle boat ride. Then, having worked up a good appetite, we lunched on chicken korma and naan at Naaz Hotel just beside the mosque: as in Hardwar, we had been getting a little bored with strictly vegetarian cuisine. Then, believe it or not (some may consider this a great waste of holiday time) we had a very long siesta. As evening was setting in, we walked the whole way around the lake, which was beginning to twinkle with lights: it is good to see that the municipality takes pains to keep the environs litter free, and the parikrama has been kept free of traffic. An interesting sidelight is that you can hire two wheelers, chiefly Honda Activa-s, at hourly rates here for sightseeing. The last time I tried that was in Pokhra, Nepal, back in 1994. That night I gave dinner a miss, which I sometimes do these days to give my poor insides a rest, reminding myself that I am not growing any younger. 

We were back in Udaipur at around 1 p.m. on Tuesday. The driver, Indrakumar ji, was elderly, but superb at the wheel. Told me he had been at it for 28 years, and had been driving since the era of the old Ambassador - 'no car like that these days'! This time it was truly in the lap of luxury at Hotel Mahendra Prakash, very close to the City Palace. Quick lunch on biryani, then another restful siesta. Went walking in the evening to visit the rooftop restaurant at Hotel Baba Palace, where we had spent a very happy sojourn back in 2005. Got magnificent views of the Palace (just as the light and sound show was beginning) and the 17th century Jagdish (Jagannath) temple right opposite at sundown. I don't believe much in miracles, but we walked up the stairs to witness the last strains of the puja moments before the curtain was drawn across the face of the deity for the night. It was as if I had been summoned for a darshan, exactly as it had happened the last time I had been in Puri, and the way I had inadvertently visited all four 'Naths' together at Ukhimath in February 2018. Anyway...

Dinner was just curds again. Next morning, SpiceJet told us that our flight had been postponed to 5 p.m. from 1:40. The gracious hotel owner said we were welcome to stay hours beyond the checkout time, so we packed lazily, Pupu got some work done, bath and a sumptuous lunch - best daal I have tasted in years - then we finally pushed off for Maharana Pratap airport, far outside the city. A leisurely wait, and we were back home in Delhi a little before 8 o'clock. 

This was a barebones narrative. The fun lies in the quirky details. Let me list a few.

To start with, from Delhi to Udaipur it was my first flight by Air India after it returned to the Tata fold, but other than a recorded welcome message from Ratan Tata, there has been no change yet: even the plastic panels overhead still bear the trademark stains! Incidentally, all the stewardesses, whether in Air India or other airlines, somehow seem to look more cute with their paper thin 'PPE suits' on.

Half the old city of Udaipur is a dug up mess, because work has been going on over the last two years at a snail's pace to turn it into a smart city, whatever that means. However, all hoteliers, transporters and shopkeepers assured me that it would look spick and span in at most a year's time.

Travelling around with Pupu is so much fun because we share so many tastes, so many interests, so many likes and dislikes. We even keep sniggering at people around us for the same reasons - the way they mangle English, the way they try so hard to look 'cool', how thin and small the average Rajput youth looks: we agreed that since they have acquired a reputation for being ferocious warriors over millenia, something in their blood must overcompensate for their lack of physical advantages (comparing with, say, Sikhs and Pathans). So we never lacked for things to talk about in their entire course of the trip. This time, and for the first time, though, Pupu was frequently at work with laptop and phone, and I couldn't make up my mind whether to be happy or proud or sad, so I remained simply bemused...

At Udaipur the first evening, we were almost kidnapped by an autorickshaw driver who was playing music at earth shattering volume (he had probably lost his hearing years ago) and took us several kilometres in the direction exactly opposite the way we wanted to go before we discovered the mistake and got off hurriedly. The man was unrepentant, and refused even to acknowledge that we had asked him several times to take us to the City Palace before boarding: from the looks of him, I wouldn't  be surprised if he had never even heard of it, though how a man can live in a city and not know its most famous landmark is more than I can figure out.

Rajasthan is well known for swarms of foreign tourists, and Bengalis are of course everywhere, but this time I missed both types, whether because international travel has still barely resumed or because there are school exams going on countrywide, I couldn't tell you.

Walking along Nakki Lake in Mount Abu the second evening, we were accosted by an elderly gentleman in cloth cap and checked blazer who spoke Bengali with a strong western-Indian accent, and said he had lived more than half his life at Abu, with his in-laws' house located at Darjeeling. Pupu said later he looked and sounded like a character straight out of a Satyajit Ray story, and then I regretted not engaging him for a while longer.

At the second hotel in Udaipur, we had a good time feeding Tom the fifty year old tortoise tomatoes (the owner said they had discovered it was a she years after adopting her, and by that time the name had stuck. Brought back memories of Quasimodo the pigeon in Gerald Durrell's My Family and Other Animals). Apparently guests sunbathing beside the pool have to be warned not to wear red bikinis if they don't want to be nibbled by Tom, who identifies anything bright red with tomatoes!

They do the very short trip by air from Udaipur to Jaipur with one of those small propeller driven aeroplanes which I have never flown. I hope I get a chance to do it someday. Rajasthan is one place, along with Himachal and Devbhoomi, which I would like to keep returning to.

From the hotel terrace, Mount Abu

I am looking out on Nakki Lake from the terrace of my hotel in Mount Abu. It's ten o' clock at night, and just delightfully cold. This has been one dream holiday with Pupu which almost didn't happen. Will be back in Udaipur tomorrow, and in Delhi the day after - Delhi, which I have already started thinking of as home. Collected some wonderful experiences which will be softly glowing memories for a long time. Just thought I'd put in a filler on the last day of February. Genuine readers must wait a bit for the real travel post, along with some photographs. Ciao.

Ranchi, Netarhat, Ajodhya Hills

Having avoided the Christmas-New Year tourist rush, I set off on another road trip on Monday the 3rd January. As usual, young Firoz was at the wheel, and this time both Swarnava and Koushik gave me company. This is the evening of Friday the 7th, and we have just come back home after a most satisfactory, 1100-plus km journey.

We had planned out the trip only vaguely, not being sure when and where we would be stopped and turned back during this freshly-rising Covid wave. In fact, our CM had announced on Sunday afternoon that tighter restrictions would come into force from the 3rd itself, including closure of schools (not that they had every properly opened!) and tourist hotspots. The only given was – seeing that the interstate border was open – that we would eventually drop off Swarnava at his BIT Mesra campus. We had a smooth and leisurely trip to Ranchi, stopping off to lunch at Hotel Rajdhani – the same place where we had eaten back in February 2019 – and visit the Jonha Falls, a picturesque spot from where we had to hurry away, no thanks to a picnic party which was playing raucous music at ear-splitting volume (typical Indians ‘enjoying’ themselves, all health- and environmental concerns be damned). The road via Purulia is in excellent condition though spattered with speedbreaker bumps till Jhalda, and then fine again after a while. We reached Ranchi in the afternoon and checked into the ‘International Guest House’ at BIT, which offers excellent lodgings for the price. Swarnava showed us proudly around the huge and lush green campus. That first night was pretty cold, but we managed to sleep well.

The next morning we headed for Netarhat. Again, the road was good to excellent except for a longish stretch before and after Lohardaga. Shortly after Bishunpur we started climbing up a hill road through dense forest. It was my car’s first ever hill trip, and it went beautifully. We checked into Jharkhand Tourism’s Hotel Prabhat Vihar, where a friend had booked me the best rooms a week beforehand. It was fine, though I found it a tad overpriced: you can get everything you want in the same hotel much more cheaply, or in one of the numerous hotels/guest houses/homestays nearby. They only checked my vaccination certificate, considering that enough to cover all four! We spent the afternoon seeing the local sights, including the most remarkable feature of a sal forest within two km of the pine woods at Koyel View Point, and rounding it off with a lovely view at Sunset Point, which, alas, gradually became too crowded and noisy for my liking. At dawn next day we had a glorious view of the sunrise, which is the hotel’s USP. It got too crowded again for about forty minutes, because scores of tourists came over from all the other accommodations – I wish our hotel charged non boarders for the privilege…

Everybody agreed that the Netarhat trip was perfect, and for me it was the culmination of a nearly fifty-year wait. Wednesday’s leisurely drive was to Mccluskiegunj, about which I had heard some good reviews, but though the drive itself was most enjoyable, we all found the sleepy little town devoid of interest and no good place to stay either – Gulmohur Lodge could only offer very cold rooms and no food because the cook had run away, while Rana’s Country Cottage behaved most strangely, turning us away because ‘they were not taking in boarders owing to the Covid scourge’, though only the previous day they had offered accommodation over the phone. Don’t be taken in by the reviews you read online. So we decided, after seeing the ribbon-thin Degadegi river (whose sand, according to some dubious looking locals, had magical healing properties) we decided to drive back to Ranchi. There we finally left Swarnava after coffee and snacks and a little photo session, then checked into a room at a very ordinary but adequate Oyo certified hotel off the highway a furlong from the BIT junction. End of Wednesday’s travels. That night I took a sleeping pill to fight off both Koushik and Firoz snoring sonorously around me.

We had earlier planned to visit Bodh Gaya next, but that would be risking another border crossing, and in any case all ‘religious places’ had been closed, so there was no point going to a place where the monasteries were the only real attractions. So we headed back towards West Bengal on Thursday morning, and drove up Ajodhya Hill. Having taken a room at a guest house of one of our state government departments which Koushik’s father had booked for us, we drove around the locale, visiting the Upper and Lower Dam and notably the ‘Marble Lake’(a miniature version of the famed Marble Rocks at Jabbalpur) before calling it a day.

We turned in early on Thursday night and got up lateish on Friday morning, because the strain of early mornings had begun to tell on all three of us. Then we drove down to Mukutmanipur, where, strangely, they told us at the Sonajhuri government resort that every cottage and room was booked, though the place looked deserted, with not a car in sight except ours. There was no boat ride, because Koushik is scared of open water, and the park as well as the dam were off limits, so after a hearty lunch we headed back for home.

The highlights of this trip were a) the several lovely drives through forested roads, b) the good eating, sometimes at expensive joints and sometimes at roadside inns, and c) the delightful no-holds-barred, hours-long addas. And for me the best reward was being repeatedly reassured that everybody had enjoyed himself to his heart’s content. I know this much about myself by now: nothing pleases me more than pleasing people whom I like!

God willing, I shall go on travelling like this for as long as I live.

[Come back for some photos in a day or two]

See the previous post in connection with Covid:

A month ago, the daily new infection rate in India was around 5,000; today it has soared to 117,000. Yet the death rate remains stuck at exactly the same level – between 200 and 400 (today’s count is 302, and I am sure if you probe a little deeper, you will find that a large proportion of those were elderly people with high co-morbidities). Children are not seriously affected in any significant numbers. Only deliberately blind or stupid people can help drawing the only obvious conclusion – namely that this latest ‘Omicron’ scare is a load of hogwash; the infection rate seems to have skyrocketed only because the government encouraged, media-hyped scare has sent vast numbers (mostly ‘educated’ people, alas!), who would never have bothered otherwise, with no symptoms or malaise whatsoever, scurrying to get themselves tested. By now it should be quite, quite clear to all but the brainwashed that the whole thing is politically motivated, and driven by all those who have hugely benefited from the nearly-two year old panic, from the billionaires who run online communication platforms and edtech and pharma and IT companies to the millions who have been drawing salaries from home without doing any work worth the name. It was most telling that though I saw thousands and interacted with scores of people during this five-day trip, the only two who sounded ‘deeply concerned’ about the wildfire spread of the virus were people with assured salaries…

As for school closures, Dr. Soumya Swaminathan, chief scientist at the World Health Organization, said only two days ago that 'schools should be the last to close and first to open'. Obviously we don't pay any attention to 'experts' unless their advice suits our pet prejudices. And in India, at least, just about everybody seems to be happy to see the schools stay closed.