New!

A new lens!

A Canon 50mm f/1.8. The cheapest one there is, but then my treasury was never really overflowing. But its amazing fun, working with it. Although the lens is more suitable for portraits thanks to the amazing depth of field it can give, I gave it a test spin today in Hauz Khas. Interesting results, and the mid-relationship-crisis that was plaguing me and the camera seems to have been mended.  Samples follow.

Memories of Nagu La

So on a hot summer day I was going through the photos of my last trip to the mountains, to Tawang last October. And I came across some that had been the victim of a cruel oversight. Anyhow, here they are, ready to bask in public glory.

The ten images are from Nagu La, a roughly 4500 m high pass on the road from Tawang to Tibet. The landscape is almost Jurassic – barren and desolate, but unlike a Tibetan dryness, carpeted with moss and shrubs in all shades between green and rust. I could half expect a Brontosaurus to peek out from behind a mountain, its mouth stuffed with orange lichen, politely staring at my camera and tripod in bewilderment.

In retrospect, it was probably the most spectacular place I’d ever visited. And as I battle my way through Delhi heat, all I can do now is Sigh.

Storm

Unbearably muggy weather never lasts. Especially in Delhi. Another visit to Humayun’s Tomb was turning out to be fruitless with Shoma (my le Derpina, if you will), feeling a bit under the weather and the weather itself under its own torturous weight. We sat joking under the shade of trees, completely oblivious to the fact that the north sky had turned a darker shade of gray. When cool gusts of wind caught our attention, the evening’s redemption was evident – an aandhi approached. Delhi summers were back in form.

Soon enough, the squall made its presence felt, kicking up a dust storm straight out of a Mars simulation, while visitors fled to the safety of the closest enclosures. Once I was done with clicking and getting sprayed with dust, I turned around to sea a swarm of mobile phones floating above a mass of people standing inside the main gatehouse to the complex. For good reason – the scene was straight out of a doomsday movie – an urban icon behind a veil of menacing red dust and howling winds. Thankfully, the rains began soon enough, and so did relief. The most refreshing downpour gave my camera and Shoma reasons to cheer, as we (and select others) ran amok like desert kids playing in the rain, interspersed with clicking breaks. The mobile phones back in the enclosure clicked unabated, while the human heads below them wore smiles. The way to the Delhiite heart, it seemed, was through a dark, leaky cloud.

A Dark Cloud Approaches

Welcome to Mars

From The Gatehouse

The Rainy Way

City Love, Redux

Bald and Beautiful

Tacky, yes, but considering I’m fresh out of thesis, I’m glad I’ve atleast retained my sense of slapstick humour. Anyhow, cutting to the chase, my four month old niece, Zoya, had her tonsuring ceremony today.

A little bit of digging around and I’m led to babycentre.in – a one stop shop for new-age Indian parents who remain out of reach from the neighbourhood pundit to guide them through the many layers of Indic life. Not only does it give you a quick lowdown on the Vedics of baby-raising, it also throws in sanitized spins on applying antiseptic creams on the baby’s tonsured head, and then sharing pictures on their social forum to give new hope to the expecting Mr. and Mrs. Bhatia of Hampshire. Add to that is the fascinating panditjiusa.com, which advises you to ‘print 5 sets of the aarti so all your guests can participate in the ceremony’, along with detailed diagrams relating to blousepieces and the appropriate kind of coconuts that should be handed out as dakshina.

As if that wasn’t enough, Zoya’s ceremony was being skyped through to London where her dad was watching, figuratively clutching his pillow; while the rest of us simpler folks stood around hoping the poor kid wouldn’t get too frightened or upset. Non-issue really, as Zoya slept through most of the thing while an electric razor zipped across her head while we guys clicked away on our phones (and DSLR, in my case). Within minutes, the millenia old Vedic samskara had been Instagram-ed. This country amazes me. For all our anxiety, Zoya never realized she’d lost even a strand of hair.

For any non-India-acquainted folks out there, tonsuring, or the Mundan as we guys call it is a rite of passage in the Indic cultural sphere (credit Wikipedia for the fancy words). Basically, a baby’s hair is shorn for several reasons:

- Rid the baby of the negativities of its past lives

- Bestow long and prosperous life

- Protect the baby from the evil eye

- Cleanses the baby’s soul

All well and good, but hard to digest. Thank god Lady GaGa’s still alive though. I shudder to think what would happen to the poor kid who will be her next life, if it doesn’t have a propah mundan. However, reasonable techincal explanations exist:

- Helps keep the head cool

- Helps relieve pains caused by teething

- Improves growth of new hair

Alluring, isn’t it? I wouldn’t mind going through it sometime, provided I’m isolated enough to not make a laughing riot of myself. Till that time, however, the world shall (un)enjoy my jhaaugaachh (my mother’s description of my hair, which she considers as painful as to make her relapse into the little Bengali that permeated her Marwari psyche).

Synopsing

My thesis synopsis. For those who read my rants but don’t get it.

Wait. Thesis. Undergraduate Architectural Design Thesis. Yes, we’re a fancy lot. The end result of five years of slogging through Architecture School. A semester full of solo efforts directed towards creating an architectural scheme worthy of getting you out of the college, if deemed so by an external jury of usually grumpy, egotistical practitioners.

Suggestions are always welcome, but will be implemented only if they come in before I submit this day after tomorrow.

Relief

Tension central. What with submissions and a surprise heart surgery for my Badi Mummy (techincally my aunt, practically my mom), the last few days and nights had been swinging between hospital lobbies, AutoCAD windows and plotting machines. Things, however smoothed out and now Badi Mummy is recovering well while the last major submission is done with. In addition, my sister and newborn niece land in the city tomorrow.

Then, like an indication of good things to come, Delhi witnessed the summer’s first dust-storm, with the sky turning dark and the winds howling, followed by short but heavy downpour (in my part of the city atleast) and a stunning golden sunset. The reeling 38 degree days of the last few weeks stood corrected. My camera, abandoned for weeks, sprung back to life.

Relief, in every sense of the word. Touchwood.

Relief

 

 

Of Poets and Parables

Case 1

Hindi is not my best language, even if it is my mother tongue. Yes I involuntary call a person c**tiya when I get fed up, but when it comes to eloquence, I believe in the power of f**k. Sad really.

Case 2

Culture in Delhi? Exhibitions at India Habitat Centre. Maybe recitals at Kamani Auditorium. Graphic Artists in Hauz Khas. The odd photowalk in Chandni Chowk. Essentially elitist. Not somewhere I’m likely to find Mr. Aggarwal of Mayur Vihar or Mrs. Goenka of Vasant Kunj. Again, sad really.

Rajasthan Mitra Parishad Holi Milan Aivam Kavi Sammelan, from a phone

Enter Mr. V C Mehta. By day he’s a chartered accountant and the father-in-law of my sister. By evening, he’s a social maelstrom and a true-blue kavi. A Hindi Poet, if you may. To somebody raised on a liberal diet of spoonfed Anglophilia, hearing shuddh Hindi vyangya is as weird as me knowing White Christmas by heart. Add it all up, and Mr. Mehta organizes annual Kavi Sammelans under the guise of Rajasthan Mitra Parishad Holi Milan (Rajasthan Friends Organization Holi Get-Together), where he gathers half a dozen eminent Hindi poets and makes them recite in front of a crowd of around 600 non-remarkable Marwaris lured under the guise of free food, social connectivity and a lazy Sunday. I used to wriggle out of it till today, when I finally discovered what I’d been missing out on. Turns out that the Kavi Sammelan was an eye-opener of sorts :

1. Hindi poetry is not what CBSE makes it out to be. Its far more accessible, and definitely more fun.

2. Culture in Delhi too is far more wide-reaching, if today’s audience-response was anything to go by.

3. I do a horrific job of translating Hindi to English.

Mr. Mehta took the stage with six other poets, largely from North India, each with his/her own ‘specialty’. All croon, all scream, all enunciate like no other. Like the eminent Kamla Singhvi, an elderly and frail grandmother who recites in the vein of a sepia tinged movie:

Pyaar woh nahi jo pachchees rupaye ki saari tohfa de kar mile
Pyaar mein chahiye ki har samay unki nazro ki odhni mein chain mile

Love shouldn’t be the drape of an expensive sari
Love should be the comfort in the drape of the affectionate eye

Love indeed proved to be a popular theme through the evening. Sarita Sharma elucidates, albeit in a cinematic tone:

Ab toh hadd se guzar ke dekhenge
Kuch toh naya kaam kar ke dekhenge
Jiske baahon mein jee na sake
Uske baahon mein mar ke dekhenge

Now let us see after crossing limits
Now let us see after attempting the new
Him whose arms I couldn’t stay on in
Now let us see after dying in the very same

Sab sare-aam kar diya tune
Kya bada kaam kar diya tune
Jisne tere liye jeena chhoda
Usko badnaam kar diya tune

Revealed it all, have you
Achieved something big, have you
The one who left living just for you
Shamed the very same, have you

Vishnu Saxena takes it a step further:

Woh samundar nahi tha
The aasoon mere
Jinme tum tairte aur nahate rahe
Ek hum the
Ki aankhon ki jheel par
Bas kinare par dubki lagate rahe
Machhliyan sab jhulas jaayegi jheel ki
Yu na poora badan tum dubaya karo

That wasn’t an ocean you swam in
Those were my tears
And in the corner swam I
In the ocean of your eye
These fishes will all writhe and die
If you descend into the water

Pawan Dikshit provides a breather with his rib-tickling take on the l-word (apart from his Hindi rendition of Valentine’s day asPrem Chaturdashi):

Usko chhedne ka kya faayda
Jiske bhai pehelwani kare
Usko chhedne ka kya faayda
Jiske joote humari maanhaani kare

What is there to be gained in frisking one
Whose brothers practice bodybuilding?
What is there to be gained in frisking one
Whose boots can cause bodily insult?

Politics couldn’t be left far behind. (Colonel) Virendra Pratap Singh delivered an impassionate patriotic recital stemming from his military background, which was admittedly boring at times:

Kyon rakhte ho amrit ki maang
Zeher bechne waalo se?

Why hope for ambrosia
from those who sell poison?

While Virendra Mehta (Uncle) took a happier route in detailing out his view of the UP elections:

Haay-Haay kar rahe
Haath se darr rahe
Madamji ghoor rahi
Rahul ko door se

They cry aloud
They fear the Hand (the symbol of the Congress party)
Madam (Sonia Gandhi) glares
At Rahul (Gandhi) from afar

But the best bit of the evening came at the end with Haryanvi comic caper Arun Jaimini, who had everyone in splits with his scathing view of Haryanvis and life:

Doctor ke paas mareez aaya, bola dono taange neeli hai
Doctor ne kaha ‘Kaat daal, baat kuch zehreeli hai’
Nakli taangein lekar patient mahino baad phir aaya
 Bola ‘Doctor, phir se inpar neela rang chhaya’
Doctor dekh kar bola ‘Babu, lagta hai tune pee li hai
Teri patloon ka rang chhoota, patloon teri neeli hai’ 

A patient went to the doctor with a complaint of blue legs
The doctor said ‘Cut them, these are poisoned’
With fake legs, the patient returns a while later
The doctor looks and says ‘Man you were drunk
Your blue trousers were simply losing colour’

Tau poochha Rickshaw-wale se
‘Station ka kitna lega?’
Rickshaw-wala bola ‘Pachchees’
Tau bola ‘Station toh yeh raha’
Rickshaw-wala bola ‘Haath na faila, tau,
kahin gaadi kaat na jaaye’

Uncle asked the Rickshaw puller,
‘How much to the station?’
‘Twenty Five Rupees’ Came the reply
Agitated uncle argues ‘But the station’s right here!’
Rickshaw wala snaps back,
‘Then dont spread your hands
In case the train runs over them right here.’

Obviously, I haven’t done them justice. I hardly even remember the best bits meself. But lets just say Kavi Sammelans have found a new admirer. How I wish I could juggle around words like they do.

PS – Proof-reading credits to Shoma Mathew. Else the Inglish hear wood bee vairy vairy bed indid.

Pan-Agra

The First View

So I finally got around to visiting Agra. It was a big blot on my near-23-year existence, not having visited the Taj Mahal. Even more so when I could boast of having seen the Karlov Most and even Mount Triglav, but not our very own marble mascot. Strike two comes with the fact that its barely 200 kilometres from home. Strike three comes with the simpler fact that I’m studying architecture but still had not paid a visit to the country’s most publicized piece of construction.

...

Thankfully, my cousin sister was getting married. In Agra. Redemption awaited. Four days in the city, but owing to wedding-works (fun in themselves, so not complaining), I had to prune down on grander plans and stick within the city limits. The city is a disaster. Compared to the kind of suave corporate heritage tourism look that Jodhpur, Jaipur and Udaipur now don, Agra is stuck in a time-warp. The traffic is mind-numbing, the garbage situation grave. Thankfully, the people redeem the city with a kind of helpfulness we don’t see in big cities anymore. Plus, the weather was perfect for gallivanting, although the sky was not the most photogenic. But I was getting to click something new after a fair amount of time, and I had great fun. I ended up clicking a lot of panoramas. Nothing else, IMO, did the place justice. And anyway I’m a sucker for cinematic sweeps, the grand kind.

...

First up on the visit-list was the Tomb of Itimad-ud-Daulah. Or as the locals call it, Baby Taj. Cheesy names apart, the tomb is really great, with its human scale, opulent decorations, the symmetry of the Charbagh and the pleasant riverside location. Its a great build-up to the Taj and an ironic commentary on the soap-opera-family-lives of the Mughals. Noor Jehan, the iron-fisted wife of eternally wasted Emperor Jehangir, was a feisty female who ran the country behind the scenes while her hubby put on a coat and a show. While she laid her husband to rest on a measly plinth in Lahore, her own father was laid to rest in this fabulous complex which some travellers have compared to a jewellery-box. The riverside view is not the best, but an interesting contrast. Its not everyday you get to see 20th century factory chimneys, 19th century rail bridges and contemporary buffaloes across the river from a 16th century tomb.

Tomb of Itimad ud Daulah and the Yamuna

The 'Jewel Box'

Restive

Inside the Tomb

The Tomb and its Charbagh

Next is the fabulous Agra Fort. Delhi’s Red Fort eternally disappoints me thanks to the lock-downs owing to the tussles between the defence forces and the archaeological department. Agra’s was a revelation (even more so, thanks to the audioguide). Mughal architecture is intact, and the high-up, riverside views superb. Cosy niches abound, and the amount of architectural detailing in marble and red sandstone is staggering, to say the least. Special mention goes to the Musamman Burj, where Aurangzeb imprisoned daddy Shah Jahan while ascending to the throne. The whole penthouse is fabulously decadent. No better place to live out the rest of your days, gazing out the Taj.

Nagina Masjid

Jehangiri Mahal

Khas Mahal

Angoori Bagh

Machchhi Bhawan

Machchhi Bhawan

Forlorn : The Musamman Burj and the Taj

Forlorn : The Musamman Burj and the Taj

Finally, the Taj. Say what you want, but even the most jaded traveller slows down at the first view of the monument. The experience is marred by the masses of crowds ooh-and-aah-ing their way into the complex, but nevertheless, the Taj lives up to the hype. Impossibly beautiful, improbably grand. It hooks you bad.  I visited it twice (I made the mistake of going there on a weekend the second time – took me two hours just to get in and the crowds were so bad, I didn’t bother clicking) but the way sunlight bounces off its white marble, the shadow play, the reflection in the fountains, the red sandstone of the Jamaat Khana… everything works, and how. I didn’t expect myself to be so floored, but here I am.

Finally!

The Mosque

The Mosque

The Mehman Khana

From the Jamaat Khana

Ze Taj

All in all, a very satisfying break (even more so because of an extended weekend). A revisit is necessary – I still need to go to Mehtab Bagh, Fatehpur Sikri and Sikandra. Maybe in the monsoons, when the skies are more generous.

Parting Shot

As usual, credit images if you use them. And tell me where.

Awards

So the movie awards seasons is drawing to a close. Time for me to cite my own picks.

Best Movie

A Seperation or Jodai-e Nader Az Simin

Iranians do not burn the stars and stripes and shout ‘Death to America’. They make beautiful pictures instead. In A Seperation, Nader and Simin decide to separate owing to sparring on many issues. The story is simple, poignant and objective. If the woman comes across as adamant, she is also accommodating. The man is caring, but caught in his own ego. Hands down, the best movie I’ve seen in recent times.

Best Director

Abhinay Deo for Delhi Belly

In a country where calling a cobbler a cobbler is liable to punishment, a movie like Delhi Belly stands out for its own up-front-ness. And credit goes to the director who’s successfully made a slick comic caper that tickles and scandalizes at the same time.

Best Actor

Joseph Gordon-Levitt for 50/50

His eyes nearly go shut every time he smiles, but that doesn’t prevent Gordon-Levitt from delivering a quietly laudable performance as a cancer patient reinventing his life.

Best Actress

Tilda Swinton for We Need to Talk About Kevin

Playing mother to a teen-mass-murderer, Swinton pushes her own repertoire of superb acting. Intense and gripping, this is a dark role that even Meryl Streep would find difficult to tackle.

Best Supporting Actor

Christopher Plummer for Beginners

Cheery, infectious, lovable. Christopher Plummer’s Hal in Beginners never fails to lift your mood as the elderly homosexual slowly succumbing to age without crying about it.

Best Supporting Actress

Jessica Chastain for The Tree of Life

Meditative. In a role with hardly any words, Chastain’s near silent portrayal as a mother was one of the most moving performances I’d seen in the last year.

Brickbats? Send them in.  I haven’t seen The Artist, The Descendants and other hopefuls, so pardon the oversight. This post was intended to honour only my personal favourites.

Tamkor Again

Back from another break in the village. Slight change from routine clicking though.

First up, our farms. Highly interesting as we never knew we owned them (think sneaky distant relatives) till a few years ago. Anyhow, they’re dry as can be but make for interesting camera subjects. Especially the caretakers – Phooli Bai and Dungar ki Bahu. Colloquially speaking, that means The Flowery Lady and The Wife of Dungar. Not exactly Imperial China but still, fun enough.

The Farm

Marwari Gothic?

Then, the sunsets. Yes, I end up clicking them like there’s no tomorrow everytime I head back, but now they’ve gotten a rather epic HDR Panorama treatment. Think 33 images merged and stitched in over one-and-a-half-hour of clicking+post processing. Guilty pleasure indeed, as the weather finally began turning towards cool from cold and the sun was absolutely glorious.

Symphonie I

Symphonie II

Towards the end, I wasted my time shivering in the cold to catch stars, only to find out that the clouds swamped the whole agenda. While they did liven up the sunset, right then I could do with cloud dispersing rockets. All I managed were sad looking blips in the place of the extensive star trails I was trying to capture.

Before the Clouds Attacked

Maybe next time. Sigh.