After our fight
this particular fantasy
is a fantasy of apology.
I wear my hurt on my sleeve
while my hair grows past my knees –
till at last you
You crawl upon your elbows
and I cry but you cry more
we are swimming in penitence
awash with repentance
and profound desperate love.
It was Baba who first explored the India International Trade Fair in 1981. He was fresh off the Kalka Mail from Howrah. Back then, Pragati Maidan had been around for just a decade or so, boasting massive Brutalist structures shaped like beehives, a flagship enterprise of the State to boost commerce and whatnot – the very cutting edge of “newness”. Now the Trade Fair is moving out of this rambling venue for a few years so it can be renovated, and it won’t be back till 2020 (the Big Grand Year). My first memories of the Trade Fair are of being nearly crushed in the weekend stampede because I stood about thigh-high.
Baba, Ma and I parking our secondhand Maruti 800 to bake in the sun outside Bhairon Mandir; my parents are both slimmer and less greyed. There are wasps worrying the discarded Styrofoam cups of Fanta. Post-liberalisation India, and we are one of the many enthusiastic families dotting the concrete wonderland of Pragati Maidan.
Some years later, I remember our house accumulating the spoils of my parents’ intrepid purchases – table lamps made of lacquered gourds and inch-thick dried mushrooms from one of the Northeastern States, innumerable decorative items made of bamboo, discarded after one wearied dusting too many. One of the beds in our house hails from the Trade Fair, as do a pair of pastel-coloured Gond paintings made by a quiet man with a mouth full of gutka. We also bought socks, underwear, ceiling fans, kitchen chimneys, toaster-grinders, knives-and-graters, and shoes from the Trade Fair.
The rotating visits of the “Foreign Country” display constituted much of my exposure to the Indian Subcontinent’s arts and crafts. The Pakistan and Afghanistan stalls would be a sea of foamy green and pale yellow onyx vases, manned by strikingly handsome (and sadly unimpressed) men and women. Thailand furnished me with a blue handbag I carry everywhere, and a couple of silly plastic fish-bedecked slippers. Bangladesh was a twinge of buried nostalgia, our browsing tinged by the sentimental security of a shared language. All the merchants tended to be friendly and infinitely patient in the constant barrage of kya hai yeh? One particular year stands out in my memory because an Afghan lady and her son charmed me and Ma into buying no less than seven pieces of jewellery – bracelets and earrings and necklaces – jade, pearl, coral, and lapis lazuli, each name straight from some romantic Orientalist history book. One of those earrings remains a favourite, because the lady lavished me with compliments when I tried it on. “So pretty!”, she said. It must’ve been in the late 2000’s, at the height of the Afghanistan war.
With perfect clarity I can see myself fidgeting, at 15, having my portrait sketched by an artist who had set up a stall of his work – not much of it was selling. I was intensely conscious of every pore on my face. Everyone says the end result is the most uncharacteristically serious face I have ever worn, a face made strange by a furious repression of the giggles. I made years and years of terrible purchases at the Trade Fair, mostly of earrings, before I settled into an aesthetic, simply because things were so cheap that my parents never begrudged spending. Thanks to my mother’s inveterate curiosity and tendency to ask questions, I learned so much trailing along in her wake. Under her tutelage I went from pulling at her chunni to actually making sense talking about sarees.
Up till a few years ago I feel the Trade Fair was more earnest in its promotion of the textiles, crafts and cuisines of each state, with dedicated areas that would draw coupon-wielding queues. An air of easy cosmopolitanism suffused everything. Ma loved going to Kolkata’s Bijoli Grill and Ben Fish, but I never saw the point of having ghar ka khaana outside. My first taste of Kashmiri Wazwan and neverending hunger for meatballs the size of a child’s fist began here, in an open-aired seating arrangement where we got talking with a pair of old men who had been friends for forty years. The Nagaland stalls would sell pork and bamboo shoot with rice; no VEG-ONLY spaces. Now, the State stalls have folded up and been replaced by a shrunken pavilion that sells inoffensive, homogenised North Indian fare. And pizza. We now carry our own food with us.
In the beginning, we would enter Pragati Maidan through the nearest gate and walk until exhaustion took over. Now, with my mother’s aching knees and my failing stamina, we plan our routes around what we need; how much energy to apportion to the hectic FMCG halls, thronged with as many dawdlers (and screaming children) as shoppers versus the long, steady pilgrimage around the quieter corners of the State pavilions with reams of handloom material. Inevitably our handloom purchases took the longest; they stretched into the offer of too-sweet tea and woeful complaints about the rising price of cotton and silk. Chairs would miraculously manifest from neighbouring stalls so we could sit while Ma haggled over thousands of rupees worth of textiles as it grew dark outside. Even as an uniformed customer I saw the slow decline of the rural economy through the changing trends of the Trade Fair. The steady stream of weavers, craftsmen, artists and artisans dried up, along with certain kinds of cloth. There are more synthetic mixes; Kalamkari or batik or bandhej are now more commonly available as prints than in the original forms. There is also an absurd focus on the rhetoric of Digital India, with halls fronted by holographic displays of politicians and LCD screens of anonymous footage and graphics that everyone scurries past. Inside, the rural traders bitterly chuckle at the idea of PayTM after the blow of demonetisation.
What made Trade Fair special, I realise, was not some hipster sensibility of competitive “ethnic-ness” – it was the traders themselves. We have gathered so many business cards over the years, pressed into our hands with the insistence that we must visit if we are ever in their native city. We also made repeated journeys to the very same stall over the years, for instance, a man comes from Telengana bearing the very best garlic boondi human hands have ever made. My “bhaiyya, thoda taste?” handfuls could qualify as a separate purchase but they were always indulgently given. Our haggling always felt good-natured, intimate. People would wave you over to their stalls, offer free samples of everything from khakra to various fruit juices – regardless of how well-heeled you are. I’ve never seen the snobbery of a mall at any of the Trade Fair pavilions.
SARAS, the rural handicrafts pavilion, is a treasure trove for pickles, jute bags, various spices and powders, and a particular favorite of ours. It is much more difficult to casually, silently walk away at the Trade Fair when the kaarigar is working on a piece of embroidery in front of you while cajoling you into buying something a little beyond your budget. The casual windowshopping encouraged by malls is difficult when you look the maker in the eye. Troupes of performers randomly walk through the lanes. Sometimes they are from Punjab, or Kerala or Assam, and everyone swivels their neck to watch. A clanging, and drumming, and singing; and everyone turns back to work with a leftover smile on their lips.
Maybe my sudden attack of nostalgic fervour is prompted by news of Trade Fair’s temporary absence, not simply because I’ll miss shopping there but because I now recognize how integral this kind of consumption – slower, more engaged, equal parts entertainment and acquisition – is to my self-image. I take an absurd pride in answering questions about what I’m wearing with the reply that it is from the Trade Fair, followed by the un-asked for details of which state pavilion, from whom and for how much. I then become an annoying aunty out of pure affection; forgive me. I have been at Pragati Maidan at the very minute the gates opened, over the past many years when Novembers were colder and a faint mist would make us pull our shawls closer. I have walked the deserted lanes of its perimeter, lost and hapless until a kindly Sulabh worker or gardener would point us on our way, back through the less-frequented path flanked by floss silk trees. How much I’ll miss sourcing Fab India kurtas from the very suppliers and craftsmen, for a fraction of the price; how much I’ll miss collapsing in a heap of bags on the closest surface, feeling deeply satisfied at the little bit of garlic boondi I have squirelled away in my pocket.
I am in the exact middle of my twenties
watching the sky descend onto the road
carefully, so that I don’t swerve into oncoming traffic
my eyes closing like the thin triangles of streetlight in fog
When did my bones become so heavy?
It’s not very nice to meet you.
I can almost feel my phantom limb aching.
You find the old bruise that blooms under my skin
and slot your fingers unerringly in the imprint that remains;
a tentative cartography we never inhabited.
can’t you hear me
I’m yelling as loud as I can
my body between yours-es, but paper-thin
so that you accidentally slice through me
I’m not really here, but lord do I try
Jack be nimble, Jack be quick
Jack stop putting your foot in it.
a.k.a How A Salvaged Vacation Actually Turned Out To Be One Of The Very Best Trips I Ever Had
Photo credits: Bhaskar Bhattacharya, Sumita Bhattacharyya, Me
This was last Friday, the day after Holi – I lay stricken in bed with tonsils the size of golf balls, possibly the consequence of having swallowed some of the abeer people egregiously smeared over my face. I was in agony. Also guilt, because my wanderlust(ing) parents had had to cancel a short getaway to Narora since I refused to get up and be human. Several antibiotics and lots of gargling later, we (meaning I) girded the old loins and decided to drive out to Bharatpur. We couldn’t bear to waste a lovely weekend break moping around the house. Bharatpur had a lot going in its favour – it’s close, it’s lovely, and most importantly, my enterprising father had called the RTDC guesthouse and confirmed that they had rooms available. Half-packed due to our previous plans, we tossed Baba’s (and now mine) old Russian binoculars that features some fantastic white mottling on its leather casing due to mould and happens emit one of my favourite scents in the world, and ourselves, into the car.
Baba struck out a route for Bharatpur, which is on the north-eastern edge of Rajasthan. From the Indirapuram-adjacent edge of Noida, we drove down through Sarita Vihar, Faridabad, Palwal and bypassed Mathura. The roads were passably smooth, but the number of bumpers seemed to have exponentially increased along with the population of our country. Maybe there is some other calculus going on that justifies building steep, unmarked speed-breakers on highways? “Ah, one more Indian Forbes billionaire? Suresh, build another pimple of NH 2 to mark the occasion!” (Honestly your guess is as good as mine). We threaded our way through narrow two-lane highways past ripening fields of wheat. As we approached Bharatpur, the road got worse although we witnessed a magnificent sunset that was unhindered by highrises. Babul, keekar and other scrubland vegetation spread out on either side as we sought out our hotel. The entire drive had taken us around 4 and a half hours (with very few pee breaks included).
Located on the Fatehpur Sikri Road, Rajasthan Tourism’s economy hotel, Saras, is an excellent place to stay. And I’m not saying that because we have always been steadfast, loyal customers of RTDC but because of it is wonderful on all counts – a flat, low building that’s a 10 minute walk from the sanctuary, it has dorms and rooms. As my mom is fond of observing, we always find crisp, white sheets and reliable scratchy blankets on our RTDC beds throughout Rajasthan. The bathrooms are always clean and well-maintained, and the service is courteous and efficient. While the food is never bad, in Bharatpur it is a tad unimaginative – Pradeep, our manager, ruefully observed that Bharatpur is almost UP. Hence the lack of gatte ki sabzi or any Rajasthani dishes.
We turned in early after a simple dinner (“The rotis here taste so good?” we marvelled, turning them this way and that to ascertain the source of such tastiness. My opinion is that at least 20% of the deliciousness comes from the food being Elsewhere. Travel makes magic).
6.30 A.M – Saturday
At 6.00 am, we reached the Bharatpur Bird Sanctuary Gate. Half an hour too early, the locals who were taking a nice morning walk informed us. The park is also known as Keoladeo Ghana – ghana meaning thick vegetation. It is quite large, spreading over 29 sq kilometres and luckily, one is permitted to wander around the park much more than at other famous parks like Corbett or Ranthambore. The entire area is forested by the native flora and fauna, which means miles and miles of acacia trees and shrubs and thorns. This is ideal for the scrubland birds, while migratory waterfowl are attracted by Sapan Mori, the large marshy wetland that spans the middle of the park. The government is pretty dedicated to keeping the marshland alive – in the height of the dry summer, water is pumped in from hundreds of kilometres away.
Getting around the park is a delight – one has the option of either walking, hiring a bicycle (@Rs 25/- or Rs 40/- per hour depending on the kind of bicycle), taking a certified cycle-rickshaw piloted by a trained rickshawalla, or a tonga. Obviously I ached to take a tonga and go clip-clopping through the trail because I adore horses and tongas are hard to come by in everyday Noida life.
But tongas arrive much after the gate opens, so we opted to take one bicycle that Baba and I would share, and one rickshaw, pedalled by the soft-spoken and endearing Sarman ji who had eyes and eyes as sharp as an owl, and very decided opinions on the changing of birds’ names for marketing new birding guides. We all got along fantastically well. One can hire guides at the fixed rates, but the rickshawallas also double up as guides. In case you need extra binoculars you ca hire them for Rs 50 per hour. We found it to be quite efficiently managed, and a board inside proudly displayed the numbers of tourists per year, which went up into the lakhs.
How we got around Bharatpur
It was colder than anticipated at 6.30 am, and I shivered a little on my cycle as we started. We’d barely set off before we stopped – bee-eaters, yellow-toed green pigeons, laughing doves, energetic Indian robins and yellow-throated sparrows perched on the sparse branches of the shrubbery around. These are quiet birds, only sometimes emitting a sharp chirp, but their lack of chirping is offset by frenetic energy – bee-eaters swooped in sudden acrobatic leaps as they caught insects in their sharp little beaks, vivid flashes of yellow-green and orange as they alternated between their burrows in the ground (where they nest), the perch and the air.
These are one of my favourite bird species, even though I say this about almost all birds, but I love bee-eaters for being very playful. I’ll never forget the sight of Chestnut-Headed bee-Eaters rolling about in the dust at Corbett, hardly a few feet from our car. They’re pure extroverts. Also, they’re a pleasure to photograph, although our camera doesn’t do them justice.
Sarman ji pulled the rickshaw to a halt, whispering, ‘Wahan, titiar’. Far away in a gap between two bushes, was a Grey Francolin, a bird I would never have spotted without his help. Pheasants and other gamefowl may be fat and fluffy, but their lack of noise and extremely quick running/zooming(?) into undergrowth makes them very difficult to spot. I clicked my few hazy photos with great satisfaction.
Sarman ji also pointed out a Spotted Owlet, which is the cutest thing I have ever seen in my entire existence. It glared tiredly at us from its hollow, trying to look as intimidating as something the size of a pouch can. Its SO FUZZY.
We were brought to a halt again by the ear-splitting keening of Rose-Ringed Parakeets, the denizen of any decently forested neighbourhood. Despite being common in Delhi NCR, parakeets are entertaining to watch as they turn upside down to get at fruit, chew their seeds while dribbling the debris everywhere (thus helping to spread seeds, mind you) and generally get quite loud. In a pilu tree, an arm’s reach away, a flock of parakeets descended upon the berries a little above eye-level. Baba, delighted by such unafraid subjects, clicked away in delight, yielding some excellent pictures.
Sarman ji plucked a few salvadora persica berries for us and encouraged us to try them: they taste sharp and tangy, “like wasabi!”, Baba observed. Apparently, even a verse in the Mahabharat mentions this tree in passing, and it is clearly a vastly important species in Bharatpur’s ecology. The plants were really in quite spectacular form. It is spring, which means little green leaves and buds everywhere.
The babul trees had developed their pod-like fruits, bushes were full of flowers and an elegant tree called Papdi was festoned with fruits that looked like pale green paper circles. Sarman ji and some other guides bemoaned the introduction of acacia and hyacinth species that were now proving difficult to eradicate. To our untrained eyes, Bharatpur looked perfect under the morning sun.
As we came to a small checkpost, I noticed a flurry of people flocking to the embankment on the roadside. In the slightly damp floliage underfoot, a Siberian Rubythroat plucked away at the fallen leaves in a storm of shutters and urgent pointing. It is such an understated and lovely bird, I’m glad I got a decent shot of it.
We knew we had crossed from the scrub to the marshy part of Bharatpur as a massive jamun tree loomed over the path, standing guard over the threshold to Sapan Mori. Unlike the Okhla bird sanctuary with its large water bodies, Bharatpur’s marshes are spongy, full of reeds and bracken, gnarled trees that make perfect heronries for nesting cranes, egrets and storks. We saw the magnificent Glossy Ibis, whose illustration in my Book of Indian Birds doesn’t do justice to just how iridescent its plumage really is. Ibises stalked about in the shallow waters, occasionally accompanied by a juvenile. In the same vicinity, you would see several common waterfowl such as the Common Coot or Indian Moorhen.
Grey herons are another sight to behold – they’re large birds that look awkwardly shaped, but in their perfect repose over the still waters they look naturally at ease. Baba got some wonderful shots. Bharatpur is crisscrossed by several canals and ducts, and the fleet of tourists, cycles, rickshaws and tongas, would more or less halt and gaze around together. I have to say there was not much noise despite the presence of many small children – something about the calm manner of our rickshawwalla guides ensured no one felt like creating a fuss. I noticed a large number of guides were Sindhi Sikhs, reminding me that a large community had allegedly settled in the region as Partition refugees.
One of the tourists, a young man with his mother, possessed an enviably sharp pair of eyes – he spotted a jackal basking in the dappled shade. Oohing and aahing, everyone remarked how much the jackal looked like a common dog, with its large soft ears and sandy coat. We watched silently as it groomed itself, a little thrilled at seeing a variation from avian fauna. It loped away soon after, but not before we got some pictures of it.
At one such canal crossing, we all wandered along the bank. Someone exclaimed ‘Water snake!’ and a bunch of heads peered down into the embankment where, sure enough, a very shy little reptilian head looked back at us. Sadly we didn’t think to get a photo, although the lady in this picture spotted its sloughed-off skin, which probably explained why it was secreted away in a hole in the bank. Baba and I wandered off on our own and found a cormornat resting on a gnarled stump.
We reached the Keoladeo Temple and rest stop around 10.30 am, when the sun was beginning to really beat down on us. There is a modest grassy park, scattered with sandstone benches and a single tea/snacks stall manned by one guy who patiently emptied the contents of bhujia packets into paper bags. I was puzzled by this practice, alarmed when he started to rip apart my purchase, but I later realised it’s actually an effort to keep Bharatpur paper and litter-free. Judging by the cleanliness of the park, I have to say this is commendable. All the other tourists were delighted by the flocks of garrulous babblers and jungle crows which descended upon biscuit crumbs, their eyes gleaming unafraid and intelligent.
If one wants to go further into the park, the path leads left from the temple towards a place where pythons are often found. I was really quite keen to spot them, but the sun was getting quite blinding.
We started back, Baba and I swapping possession of the bicycle while Mummum reigned from the rickshaw. Sarman ji pointed out the brown-winged jacana, teals and Northern shovellers. In a series of marvellous sightings, we found Golden Ducks, followed by Saras cranes, and a large clearing where a pair of Spot-Billed Ducks were chivvying along their fuzzy, enthusiastic brood of ducklings. Adorable. Baba and I ventured out onto the great trunk of a fallen tree over the water, and had a really nice view of the general busy-ness of Black-Winged Stilts that walked like harried college students at Rajiv Chowk metro station. Some stragglers from the winter season also nosed about – common teals, Garganey Teals and Shovellers.
Spot-Billed Ducks ( a drake and hen); on the bank a Common Teal
In the distance, a pair of Golden Ducks gleamed like they were made out of solid yellow metal. “Can we get a feather?” Ma asked wistfully. They were placid birds, resting with their heads tucked into the wings, shining a bright gold in the sun like some sort of fabled creature that would lay equally golden eggs.
The clapping, screeching call of the Sarus cranes had us rushing to catch a good look at them. Despite Sarman ji’s keen eye, all our sightings since morning had been of Saras cranes very far off in the distance, but now we came upon a sizeable number of them calling all at once. Only when you’re up close to them do you realise what massive birds they are, harking back to prehistoric ancestors with their huge beaks and gangling legs, but they’re absolutely spectacular. At some invisible signal, they all took to the air, flapping their large wings as they took flight with the grace of feathery aeroplanes. I craned my neck to see them fly over our heads. The sight fills you with awe. What magnificent creatures, really. Saras cranes also pair-bond for life, and they’re famous for their mating songs and dances.
The Pied Kingfisher is a very spirited bird that can be relied upon to photograph well
Somehow, for all that we had walked and cycled under the sun on a bright March morning, we hardly felt tired at all. I fervently wished we’d seen more reptiles, or the jackal once again, but I was really grateful for the sheer number and variety of birds we had seen in a few hours.
That’s the best part about Bharatpur for any tourist who doesn’t have the expertise or the stamina to seek birds hidden away in tree-tops or thick forests – water has a way of attracting diversity to it, and all you really have to do is a carry a camera or a pair of binoculars and plonk yourself on a nice bank to do some literal bird watching. Sadly, the park hasn’t seen any Siberian cranes since 2004, which is quite alarming, but I really want to go back again in the winter and camp out with the camera. Bharatpur is deeply satisfying experience for the amateur birdwatcher or naturalist; it gives freely of itself. I will return.