This is the place where I stop for a breather. That jackass sena-pati and his other sainik friends charged and shouted till I had to run for my life. And although I have lived my donkey years full of health it is not fun being made to run for whatever is left of my life. This used to be a peaceful herd, a peaceful jungle, a peaceful world. But now things are changing. What is going on this jungle these days is too complicated for me to put my head around. Hainchoo hainchoo I laugh at myself. Put my head around. He-he-hainchoo. He-he-he-hainchoo. I must be getting old for a donkey. Since when do we donkeys start putting head around things? I am tired with my life saving effort. I should rest before the little ones come.
“Wake-up Gadha uncle, wake-up.” The children are here and they nudge me till I am out of my dreams. Little Jennies look so pretty. And stupid jacks will never get any better. The day has improved and it is quite for miles if my ears are to be believed. There is a slight breeze. I walk with the children to the allotted section, gadha-dham, on the pond to drink water. Some of the children also drink but most of them are impatient and can’t wait for me to start the story. I walk with the children to our usual place. It is tough for my old legs to climb the few steps to the platform but the tradition has to be kept. Children won’t have me tell the story standing next to them.
“Hainchoo hainchoo. Good evening little ones”. “Good evening gadha uncle” little Jennies call out. Jacks, I know, don’t care about the niceties these days. What kind of training the parents are giving to these boys? Anyways. I can’t improve them. But they do pay attention to the stories so I don’t mind their being gadhas.
“Uncle you promised the story of king rama and his temple last time” little Sita calls out. “No uncle, it was the story a man who eats the food of thousand cows” shouts Bihari. “That is an old one, we want to hear about the black king of a white jungle, the one who came to our jungle once” rains barkha. ‘Story of raja’ ‘story of rani’ ‘jaadu pari’ ‘bhoodi nani’ all demand their stories and soon a fight starts among the children.
Haaaiiiiiinnnnnnnnchoooo. And with my shout they all pay attention. “Today I will tell you a story about two sisters. Chitals. Hiranis. Chital Arundhati and Chital Taslima.” Children as always forget their demands and pick up their ears.
“Before I started telling stories standing on this raised platform and long before any of you little ones were born, this jungle and all the neighbouring jungles were one big jungle, ruled by a great great lion sitting far away in a cave and his jackals keeping a watch over all. And most of you have heard the story of how the animals of the jungle suffered and decided to pick their king from within and eventually this happened but the jungle was divided into different smaller jungles ruled by different lions and we are now in one of the larger sections of that jungle. We got our own lion king, a king who was good for our jungle. Arundhati was born in our part of the jungle during the reign of the first lion king. Taslima was born about the same time in another part ruled by another lion king.”
“But Gadha uncle you said story of two sisters. How are they sisters if they were born in different jungles?” Barkha is very sharp for a donkey. Sometimes I wonder how she ended up being a donkey. She should do a mare proud. “They are sisters not by birth but by the way of lives. They are sisters because they both told stories. They told stories of their jungles. They are sisters by their natures.” The little ones don’t seem convinced but as long as they get a story, they don’t mind.
“A long time passed after the birth of both the hiranis. The jungle in which Taslima was born was further divided as their lion king was not kind to one section of the jungle. The animals of the jungle with the help of the ruler of our jungle made their own lion the king. Taslima saw all this while growing up. One day in our jungle some wild cows attacked the tree under which pigs used to rest. Cows claimed that this place was a good grazing area for them and the pigs had taken it forcefully. You know there are more cows in our jungle than all the other jungles. Although the pigs were many and the jackals of king were there to protect the pigs, the cows succeeded in destroying the tree. This all happened in our jungle. But the pigs in other jungles got angry. The number of cows in Taslima’s jungle was very small and the pigs went on a rampage and killed many cows and destroyed many grazing areas of the cows. The lion king of that jungle was on the side of pigs. The pigs kept him in power. Taslima saw all this and was filled with pain and shame. And she started telling the story of this shame to all who will listen. Cows, hirans, pigs, jackals, goats, camels, fish, monkeys, rabbits, trees, grass, winds, sky, everyone who will listen. And they all cried after they listened to the story and some pigs were ashamed of what was done but they were too few in numbers. Taslima’s story reached the ears of the head of pigs. They were infuriated and they forced the lion king to issue a death penalty for shaming their jungle with her stories. The lion king agreed. But the hirans are very fast and can run to save their live. They can’t run far if lions attack but they can beat pack of jackals or pigs. Taslima ran to our jungle and our king was sympathetic and let her stay. She still stays in our jungle. Sometimes angry pigs on our side attack her but mostly her stay in our jungle has been peaceful, though she misses her jungle”.
The wind picks up. Some clouds have drifted across the sun. I feel the cold in my bones too easily these days. Little ones hardly notice. I have to take breathers in my stories. The little ones know I can’t speak too long without a little rest. Hainchooo, hainchoo. I bray myself back to the story. Have to finish before its gets too cold.
“Arundhati meanwhile grew to be a very beautiful, smart hirani. I saw her for the first time after her first big story was read. It was a beautiful story. About little ones and about loved ones and about loss and about growing up and about life of a God. I listened to the story and I almost sympathized with all animals of that story (I a gadha, imagine how moving that story must have been). You all will get to hear the story in time. And then I saw her. She was a hirani who was as good with looks as with her stories. And her voice had that intoxicating jingle to it. Her eyes were deep like ocean and I am ashamed to say this little ones but I was drowned in them”. Hehehainchoo hehehainchoo, little jacks giggle. Jennies all are so thoughtful. Pink-tail has even some water in her eyes. The jacks keep giggling and nudging each other. I bray them to silence and continue.
“So there she was, chital Arundhati. Her big story was read few years after Taslima’s. About the time our lion king burned big fires in the desert with help of chimpanzees and foxes. Something affected Arundhati. I am not sure what. But she changed and after her big story everyone waited to hear the next but she never told any other big story. She started working for improving the lives of all animals of our jungle. She would go and fight against the foxes who wanted to dry little fish ponds for the stones below, which were required for big fox bunkers. She raised her voice against other lion kings of big jungles and their foxes and jackals troubling small jungles. Sometimes she spoke about the cows and jackals of our jungle troubling weaker rabbits, squirrels, fishes and others. She spoke a lot. Our lion king was told by many cows to make her quiet. But our lion king with all his shortcomings has one good quality. The lion king tries to uphold the jungle law. All animals are allowed to make their noises and nobody can stop them or kill them just for being who they are. But there are many jackals like the sainiks who just attacked me, or the famous cow family, even in our jungle, who create trouble. But lion king does not say anything to them as well and tries to let the law takes it course. Then one day Arundhati got angry with so many things that she started talking against the lion king, against our jungle. She called lion king names, she used many big confusing words against our jungle. Even I was angry with her. But then I am a gadha after all, may not understand all that the smart hirani wanted to say.”
“And then it was this afternoon and I had to tell you a story. And I thought why not tell you about this”. “What happened next?” barkha demands. “Even I don’t know. The jungles are changing little ones. The lion king’s are not all powerful now. Even we gadhas have a say in many jungles. But some jungles are badly ruled and lion kings are put behind stone walls by jackals. The story of Taslima and Arundhati is not over yet. They are both in our jungle as I speak.” “Then why did you tell us this story”. “A story with no end, Gadha uncle is getting old”. Children always want an end to the story, mostly they want a perfect end. “There is no reason for why I told you this story. Maybe because I wanted to tell you that there is no such thing as a perfect jungle. Just as there is no perfect story. We have good jungles and bad jungles. It is all relative. And we all have a say, an opinion. But what I want you to remember is that before you pass a judgement on any jungle or even a story think about the alternative. What would you rather have? The jungle where Taslima lived or the jungle where Arundhati lived? There are always ways to improve but we improve by contributing, not only criticizing”
The jacks are already kicking each other. Few Jennies have turned their heads towards them. It wasn’t a story for the little ones. It wasn’t a story at all. “OK, I will tell a jaadu-pari story tomorrow”. Hainchoo hainchoo they shout in joy. They slowly ran hither and thither and I climb down the stairs to be a part of my jungle once again.
Sunday, November 07, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
The Vanishing Act
A friend’s girlfriend gifted him Haruki Murakami’s ‘The Elephant Vanishes’. What was she thinking? Maybe she did not mean to do ‘the act’ at the time. Maybe it was just a ‘good’ book being carefully selected for the guy of the moment. In any case, intentionally or not, planned or not, the vanishing act happened.
Personally, when it comes to ‘judging’ a book, when required to ‘comment’ on a book, I have got a very limited skill set. Qualifying a book as good or bad is hard task for me, providing a literary and critical review is still something that I can only do in my head. Whether the book is worth the time and effort of a person, in simple terms of yes or no, I can say with some certainty. But then again that will be my take on the book and generally the trend has been that there aren’t many takers of my takes (digressing to avoid the unavoidable thought that popped up just now and referring to the Supreme Court verdict – there will always be enough keepers for any ‘keep’ no matter whose ‘keep’, plus what about all the men who are kept? anyways…).
Coming back to books, let’s take, for example, Chetan Bhagat. He made himself ‘someone’ with five points. Infact got more than five points for the effort, which he deserved to an extent. So, I would say the book is worth the time and effort. Now, from there it all goes downhill (not that downhill is a bad direction all the time but for the Holy Ganges and Chetan Bhagat it seems to be the case). ‘One night’ was certainly not worth the night of effort I put. ‘3 mistakes of his life’ was my second mistake. However, the title of the second book seemed prophetic when I read his third mistake ‘2 states’. Did you notice these numbers in the titles of his books? I just did! Something to do with being an engineer? Maybe. In any case, what my ‘opinion’ on my senior’s oeuvre (to use the fancy word) would be – first book worth your time, other three – let them be his mistakes only.
And yet, to emphasise again, this would be my take. Your take, opinion, view, perspective, thoughts, whatever we may call that may be different.
But we are moving away from the vanishing act. Before Chetan takes another para (all my sympathies are with him in regards to the ‘3 Idiots’ fiasco) let me get back. The object here was not to discuss any particular author or a book, it was to look behind the object of gifting a book and the vanishing act that is not foreseen, forethought, foreplanned (if that is a word!), etc. etc.
I know a guy who gifted two books to this girl he saw, went around, was friends with for a while. Let’s just say that it was me. That way we can look at it more closely. It was to be their (our, I should say) first meet and there was quite a build-up to the meeting. Not knowing what to buy (for some reason I was sure that one needed to get a gift) I opted for a safe option - get her a book (it would be a gift as well as some sort of statement that I am into books, if you know what I mean). But picking a book was not easy. It can’t be the ‘Love Story’, too obvious and the poor girl dies as well. It can’t be a thriller – it’s a gift for a girl. It can’t be a classic – too much of propriety involved there. It can’t be Wodehouse- no propriety there. It can’t be ‘Gone with the wind’ or ‘A Suitable Boy’ – come on who gifts someone they want to say they like or love or something of the sorts, over a 1000pages of such small font!! So after racking my brains for a long time I decided that the book has to be one that I have not read. The ones that I have read will always have something against them. So, out of the few books that I could recognize and had not read ‘Love in the time of cholera’ stood out. Haven’t you seen Serendipity? And Garcia was supposedly a ‘good’ writer.
Big Mistake. Never ever gift a book if you haven’t read it. Plus, if you think about it, even in Serendipity the-girl-who-gets-the-guy is not the one who gifts this book to him, it is the-girl-who-does-not-get-the-guy who gifts that book. But we don’t really pay that much thought when the things are going alright. It’s afterwards that we sometimes focus on our blind spots. The last word of book is something that I should have seen. ‘Forever’ is a tough promise to keep.
After spending half an hour on the treadmill thinking about this whole gift-a-book thing I am still not sure what book can make an ideal gift. At least if one is not sure where that particular relation is heading. There are many harmless ‘good’ books around. I know for sure many girls give many a harmless sort of gifts to keep the advances in a check and also not giving the poor fella a firm negative. Maybe guys do something similar as well but I am not sure their minds are that developed yet.
The second gift (book that my friend gifted) was the kind of book that makes for quite a harmless gift. Infact it works as a proper gift even if it is a meeting gift or parting gift. The title was something like “In the midst of a winter”. Story of some young boys playing baseball and there was a lot of snow involved in the story. I have long forgotten the story. But this was a book I had read before. It was a book about keeping faith. Now that is the kind of theme that’s OK. But how we can say that we want a harmless gift at the time, it’s the benefit of hindsight that isn’t such-much benefit after all.
Some library went bankrupt across the seas in some country. They auctioned the books. One container full of the books found its way on a ship bound for India. At the auction in Bombay a bookstore from Pune got the container load and these books were found one day on a Pune roadside. I remember three books that I bought (there may have been more). One of these was “In the midst of a winter”. Where is it now? Somewhere ‘in the midst of a winter’!
I read “Love in the Time of Cholera” long after life had moved on in more than one way. I think The Elephant Vanishes would have been a much suitable gift.
I sit on the top of the hill and look down into the elephant house where they have chained the elephant of hope. Its keeper is present there next to it, reality they call the keeper. As I sit there I see strange happenings that the town will hear about in the morning but not know how it happened. The thing that I will not share with anyone, afraid I won’t be believed. Till of course I find a reason to do so (maybe write a story about it). The elephant of hope is tied with a steel chain to the concrete post (as usual). Reality the keeper brings water for hope, puts some leaves on its side, the last rituals before its time to rest for the day. But as the elephant of hope drinks the water ‘the thing’ starts happening. I was thinking about her for some reason when I am brought out of the trance with what is happening down in the elephant house to hope. As if in a continuation of my thoughts of her, the elephant of hope starts diminishing in size. As hope shrinks the keeper of reality stands there adjusting the leaves as if nothing is out of the ordinary. And then it is done. Only the reality and the chain that had held hope was all that remained.
It was the vanishing act I could tell no one about.
PS: The Elephant Vanishes is a ‘good’ book and worth one’s time (in my opinion).
Personally, when it comes to ‘judging’ a book, when required to ‘comment’ on a book, I have got a very limited skill set. Qualifying a book as good or bad is hard task for me, providing a literary and critical review is still something that I can only do in my head. Whether the book is worth the time and effort of a person, in simple terms of yes or no, I can say with some certainty. But then again that will be my take on the book and generally the trend has been that there aren’t many takers of my takes (digressing to avoid the unavoidable thought that popped up just now and referring to the Supreme Court verdict – there will always be enough keepers for any ‘keep’ no matter whose ‘keep’, plus what about all the men who are kept? anyways…).
Coming back to books, let’s take, for example, Chetan Bhagat. He made himself ‘someone’ with five points. Infact got more than five points for the effort, which he deserved to an extent. So, I would say the book is worth the time and effort. Now, from there it all goes downhill (not that downhill is a bad direction all the time but for the Holy Ganges and Chetan Bhagat it seems to be the case). ‘One night’ was certainly not worth the night of effort I put. ‘3 mistakes of his life’ was my second mistake. However, the title of the second book seemed prophetic when I read his third mistake ‘2 states’. Did you notice these numbers in the titles of his books? I just did! Something to do with being an engineer? Maybe. In any case, what my ‘opinion’ on my senior’s oeuvre (to use the fancy word) would be – first book worth your time, other three – let them be his mistakes only.
And yet, to emphasise again, this would be my take. Your take, opinion, view, perspective, thoughts, whatever we may call that may be different.
But we are moving away from the vanishing act. Before Chetan takes another para (all my sympathies are with him in regards to the ‘3 Idiots’ fiasco) let me get back. The object here was not to discuss any particular author or a book, it was to look behind the object of gifting a book and the vanishing act that is not foreseen, forethought, foreplanned (if that is a word!), etc. etc.
I know a guy who gifted two books to this girl he saw, went around, was friends with for a while. Let’s just say that it was me. That way we can look at it more closely. It was to be their (our, I should say) first meet and there was quite a build-up to the meeting. Not knowing what to buy (for some reason I was sure that one needed to get a gift) I opted for a safe option - get her a book (it would be a gift as well as some sort of statement that I am into books, if you know what I mean). But picking a book was not easy. It can’t be the ‘Love Story’, too obvious and the poor girl dies as well. It can’t be a thriller – it’s a gift for a girl. It can’t be a classic – too much of propriety involved there. It can’t be Wodehouse- no propriety there. It can’t be ‘Gone with the wind’ or ‘A Suitable Boy’ – come on who gifts someone they want to say they like or love or something of the sorts, over a 1000pages of such small font!! So after racking my brains for a long time I decided that the book has to be one that I have not read. The ones that I have read will always have something against them. So, out of the few books that I could recognize and had not read ‘Love in the time of cholera’ stood out. Haven’t you seen Serendipity? And Garcia was supposedly a ‘good’ writer.
Big Mistake. Never ever gift a book if you haven’t read it. Plus, if you think about it, even in Serendipity the-girl-who-gets-the-guy is not the one who gifts this book to him, it is the-girl-who-does-not-get-the-guy who gifts that book. But we don’t really pay that much thought when the things are going alright. It’s afterwards that we sometimes focus on our blind spots. The last word of book is something that I should have seen. ‘Forever’ is a tough promise to keep.
After spending half an hour on the treadmill thinking about this whole gift-a-book thing I am still not sure what book can make an ideal gift. At least if one is not sure where that particular relation is heading. There are many harmless ‘good’ books around. I know for sure many girls give many a harmless sort of gifts to keep the advances in a check and also not giving the poor fella a firm negative. Maybe guys do something similar as well but I am not sure their minds are that developed yet.
The second gift (book that my friend gifted) was the kind of book that makes for quite a harmless gift. Infact it works as a proper gift even if it is a meeting gift or parting gift. The title was something like “In the midst of a winter”. Story of some young boys playing baseball and there was a lot of snow involved in the story. I have long forgotten the story. But this was a book I had read before. It was a book about keeping faith. Now that is the kind of theme that’s OK. But how we can say that we want a harmless gift at the time, it’s the benefit of hindsight that isn’t such-much benefit after all.
Some library went bankrupt across the seas in some country. They auctioned the books. One container full of the books found its way on a ship bound for India. At the auction in Bombay a bookstore from Pune got the container load and these books were found one day on a Pune roadside. I remember three books that I bought (there may have been more). One of these was “In the midst of a winter”. Where is it now? Somewhere ‘in the midst of a winter’!
I read “Love in the Time of Cholera” long after life had moved on in more than one way. I think The Elephant Vanishes would have been a much suitable gift.
I sit on the top of the hill and look down into the elephant house where they have chained the elephant of hope. Its keeper is present there next to it, reality they call the keeper. As I sit there I see strange happenings that the town will hear about in the morning but not know how it happened. The thing that I will not share with anyone, afraid I won’t be believed. Till of course I find a reason to do so (maybe write a story about it). The elephant of hope is tied with a steel chain to the concrete post (as usual). Reality the keeper brings water for hope, puts some leaves on its side, the last rituals before its time to rest for the day. But as the elephant of hope drinks the water ‘the thing’ starts happening. I was thinking about her for some reason when I am brought out of the trance with what is happening down in the elephant house to hope. As if in a continuation of my thoughts of her, the elephant of hope starts diminishing in size. As hope shrinks the keeper of reality stands there adjusting the leaves as if nothing is out of the ordinary. And then it is done. Only the reality and the chain that had held hope was all that remained.
It was the vanishing act I could tell no one about.
PS: The Elephant Vanishes is a ‘good’ book and worth one’s time (in my opinion).
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Turkmenistan
An early morning flight more often than not implies a round-about mid-night wake-up alarm. And the company driver was stricter than one would find usually and deposited me at the airport at 2:30 for a 4:30 flight when in this airport a 4:00am check-in would have been well ahead of time. Most likely they fly a single digit number of flights from this airport in a whole day. As was the case I along with two other company employees found myself sitting in departure area with plenty of time to spare. I still had few chapters of David Copperfield on the other side of the bookmark and I was happy to busy myself while the two companions talked about the fishing gear they had purchased and were carrying with them on way to their respective homes.
It was a pleasant surprise to hear the driver exclaim ‘David Copperfield’ as I took the book out of my bag and started reading during one of the trips from office to the hotel. He followed that with “very good tricks, you learning?” At least that sounded like a question to me and not to be found wanting, although I was still in the early stages of the book, and not knowing that this David Copperfield will not be doing any tricks, the kind my driver was talking about, I smiled and just nodded. Another person in the office happened to know the author and commented at David Copperfield being very famous book of Charles Dickens. I was getting a little impressed with the local knowledge of Charles Dickens. Very unexpected for Ashgabat. Maybe it was just that the drivers had never seen a Sardar/Sikh before but they all wanted to make some conversation. Only problem was their limited vocabulary of English and my complete and utter ignorance of any of the languages they could speak. The book in my hands offered a one-two line conversation which kept them happy and which I did not mind. Maybe they all talked about this strange looking guy and also discussed the book as it was strange the way they all talked about it. But then I had it. This third guy made me suspicious that it was not the same David Copperfield they were talking about. “David Copperfield, very famous”. And that’s when I had to take help of the life-saving google and the mystery was solved.
It has been nearly three months since the last line on this article was written. The trip to Dubai seemed to have pushed the Turkmenistan entry really back in the pile of back-log. The article was to talk about “the crazy girl” and to some extent about the wanderlust of Punjabis. Yet, I only managed to get myself to the departure lounge and solve the mystery of David Copperfield. Any-what-how-ever, it is time.
It was a surprisingly cheap flight (USD19.00) from Ashgabat to some town close to Balkanabat. The three-months-delay side-effects. The names have slipped out of the, by nature very erratic, memory. Still. It was a two hour long flight. Decent planes. Alright service. Apparently a part of the propaganda of us being a very developed country was to allow the poor to fly. They could make a return trip (equivalent of Delhi-Bombay trip) costing equivalent of six kg of apples!!! Apparently, who need good food when the flights are subsidized? Anyways, after the flight the ride to Balkanabat was another two hours and one hardly crosses a living thing the whole way. It may be called a beautiful landscape if it was not so empty or maybe it was somewhat beautiful because it was so empty.
We reached Balkanabat and were soon close to the final destination, Schlumberger base (office, workshop, camp all in one enclosed area). I was in the state of being in and out of sleep, neither here nor there, by the time we reached close to the base. The driver made a sound which I heard as “the crazy girl”. I thought I saw a girl standing on the right side of the road. But, I was not very alert and after a few hundred yards or so we turned right and entered the company base.
It is an excellent place considering the out-in-the-middle-of-nowhere location. The camp (or living) area is very well maintained and a lot of water is wasted every morning and evening to keep the place green (the general landscape lacks the green element as well). Room, canteen, office, workshop, office, more workshop, more canteen, more room, some office again and on and on. Few days went by before I realized that I have not stepped out of the base. And another few days went by before I actually went out. In any case, one evening I did step out of the base.
The base is right next to the railway lines and as one steps out the railway station is visible about a mile straight ahead. It has a very Indian rural railway station look. Only the yellow signboard with station name seemed missing. And then there were cows crossing the lines, just to add to that feeling of recognition. So after giving a fair share of attention to the railway station and the cows and the surroundings in general I walked ahead and turned left. The company base is one side of the city. Rest of the city was now straight ahead and was flanked by a hill on the other side. Zoom to the max and click. One just can’t help being a tourist.
As I walked towards that mountain I passed many heaps of discarded metal, concrete and all sorts. Place looked like a junk yard. There were dogs on the road. Dogs with a GRRRRRR in their throats and sufficiently large bodies to make you look behind left or right every now and then. A guy sitting next to a door waved acknowledgement. I nod and move on. People here in this part have not seen many sardars. Their reactions vary from normal to highly abnormal. Girls giggle, sometime even laugh, boys try to keep a straight face but find it difficult and can’t help nudging their friends to catch a look of the specimen. Children start pointing at the funny fellow. The best or rather the worst has been a little boy of seven or eight turning back, finding a very different face in front of him, shrieked and ran to his mother. I try to keep a straight face through all but mostly I can’t help smiling, though many times this annoys me as well.
As I walked I realized that on the left side of the road, some distance ahead, there stood a girl. Slim, average height, long hair and with a very long chain in her hands which she was swinging around in circles. Coming nearer one could see that she was talking and being alone it meant she must be talking to herself. ‘The crazy girl’ I suddenly remembered. I tried not to look/stare in her direction and kept walking straight ahead. At the first round about I looked in all directions, found the roads to be too long to be conquered, and turned back. As I turned back I noticed the girl again. She had few dogs around her. Remembering the GRRRR I was a little apprehensive for the girl. But she seemed not to mind the dogs. They all looked quite peaceful near her. A little puppy was limping towards her. She (for some reason) took a break from the chain swinging and saw the puppy limp towards her. She walked forward and picked the puppy and went and sat on the roadside. After a minute or so, she let the puppy go, got up walked back to her place and started talking to herself and swinging the chain. I kept moving straight ahead and passed her. As I crossed the group of dogs I realized that little one that was limping was not limping anymore.
I came out of the base in the evenings once or twice again and the girl was there. From a distance I could see that her company of dogs was always around. On the day I left for Ashgabat we left early in the morning. She was not there. The dogs were all sitting here and there sleeping, tails tucked in, drooling tongues, GRRRR in their throats.
And after few days, an early morning I found myself sitting in the departure lounge of Ashgabat airport waiting for my flight to Baku reading David Copperfield with two other Schlumberger colleagues on their ways home discussing the fishing gear they had recently bought. It must have been 30 minutes or so since I started reading that I was asked a question in a language I least expected for the place I was at. Generally, they say that Punjabis are found everywhere. I have tested this hypothesis and found that to an extent it was true but not always. For example in Baku in nearly six months the only sardar I have seen is when I look into the mirror. Same was true for Turkmenistan. No sardars here as well (apart from me of course). Hardly any Indians for that matter. Baku, though, does boast of some Indians. In any case hearing, “beta koi pani di botal hai” at Ashgabat airport was a surprise and I looked up from my book and found a sardarji standing next to me. An old man, with hardly any black in the beard, wearing a kurta pyjama and a distant look in eyes. He was asking for a water bottle, an empty one to be precise. It was early morning and it was his time for the bowel movements and in his world they need water afterwards, toilet papers don’t suffice. It was quite a request.
In ‘Tales from Ferozeshah Bagh’, Rohinton Mistry, tells a tale of an Indian who goes to Canada. This particular Indian finds it hard to “take a dump” on the western style commodes. He can only do it squatting. This leads to a lot of embarrassing situations and in the end he decides that he can’t become westernized as he can’t do it the west way and packs up everything and decides to go back to India. on the flight back (most likely before the flight takes off) he eats something which causes some stomach trouble and the toilet of the airplane didn’t allow him enough space to squat and in the end he, one way or the other, succeeds in doing it the west way. But by that time he is already on his way home.
Why I mention this here? No reason in particular. And I did not think this when the gentleman asked me for the bottle.
I did have a water bottle but it wasn’t empty and I did not want to give him the drinking water I had carried along. Had he been somewhat younger I would have just rubbished the request. But here was an old man, truly Punjabi and desi by nature. Travelling to or from some part of world where he clearly did not belong. What were his reasons? I do not know maybe even he himself don’t know. Maybe, just because it was ‘the thing’ these days. Going to Kaneda, Jurman, Amrika. The wanderlust doesn’t leave space for reasons.
I told him to wait and went to the canteen in the lounge, asked them for an empty bottle and the lady there was kind enough to fish one out of the heap of bottles in rubbish bin. This I passed onto the gentleman and he was on his way to ‘relieve the pressure’ from his life. ‘Bahar jana’. That is what we say back home. For both the things, taking a dump and travelling out of our country.
I looked around and found that the sardarji was not alone. I noticed a group of over twenty Punjabis, men, women, boys, girls, sitting in a corner. Turbans, flowing beards, Punjabi suits, duppatas. To avoid the usual situation of having to make a conversation with my own type I busied myself with the book and did not look left right up or back till my flight was announced.
It was a pleasant surprise to hear the driver exclaim ‘David Copperfield’ as I took the book out of my bag and started reading during one of the trips from office to the hotel. He followed that with “very good tricks, you learning?” At least that sounded like a question to me and not to be found wanting, although I was still in the early stages of the book, and not knowing that this David Copperfield will not be doing any tricks, the kind my driver was talking about, I smiled and just nodded. Another person in the office happened to know the author and commented at David Copperfield being very famous book of Charles Dickens. I was getting a little impressed with the local knowledge of Charles Dickens. Very unexpected for Ashgabat. Maybe it was just that the drivers had never seen a Sardar/Sikh before but they all wanted to make some conversation. Only problem was their limited vocabulary of English and my complete and utter ignorance of any of the languages they could speak. The book in my hands offered a one-two line conversation which kept them happy and which I did not mind. Maybe they all talked about this strange looking guy and also discussed the book as it was strange the way they all talked about it. But then I had it. This third guy made me suspicious that it was not the same David Copperfield they were talking about. “David Copperfield, very famous”. And that’s when I had to take help of the life-saving google and the mystery was solved.
It has been nearly three months since the last line on this article was written. The trip to Dubai seemed to have pushed the Turkmenistan entry really back in the pile of back-log. The article was to talk about “the crazy girl” and to some extent about the wanderlust of Punjabis. Yet, I only managed to get myself to the departure lounge and solve the mystery of David Copperfield. Any-what-how-ever, it is time.
It was a surprisingly cheap flight (USD19.00) from Ashgabat to some town close to Balkanabat. The three-months-delay side-effects. The names have slipped out of the, by nature very erratic, memory. Still. It was a two hour long flight. Decent planes. Alright service. Apparently a part of the propaganda of us being a very developed country was to allow the poor to fly. They could make a return trip (equivalent of Delhi-Bombay trip) costing equivalent of six kg of apples!!! Apparently, who need good food when the flights are subsidized? Anyways, after the flight the ride to Balkanabat was another two hours and one hardly crosses a living thing the whole way. It may be called a beautiful landscape if it was not so empty or maybe it was somewhat beautiful because it was so empty.
We reached Balkanabat and were soon close to the final destination, Schlumberger base (office, workshop, camp all in one enclosed area). I was in the state of being in and out of sleep, neither here nor there, by the time we reached close to the base. The driver made a sound which I heard as “the crazy girl”. I thought I saw a girl standing on the right side of the road. But, I was not very alert and after a few hundred yards or so we turned right and entered the company base.
It is an excellent place considering the out-in-the-middle-of-nowhere location. The camp (or living) area is very well maintained and a lot of water is wasted every morning and evening to keep the place green (the general landscape lacks the green element as well). Room, canteen, office, workshop, office, more workshop, more canteen, more room, some office again and on and on. Few days went by before I realized that I have not stepped out of the base. And another few days went by before I actually went out. In any case, one evening I did step out of the base.
The base is right next to the railway lines and as one steps out the railway station is visible about a mile straight ahead. It has a very Indian rural railway station look. Only the yellow signboard with station name seemed missing. And then there were cows crossing the lines, just to add to that feeling of recognition. So after giving a fair share of attention to the railway station and the cows and the surroundings in general I walked ahead and turned left. The company base is one side of the city. Rest of the city was now straight ahead and was flanked by a hill on the other side. Zoom to the max and click. One just can’t help being a tourist.
As I walked towards that mountain I passed many heaps of discarded metal, concrete and all sorts. Place looked like a junk yard. There were dogs on the road. Dogs with a GRRRRRR in their throats and sufficiently large bodies to make you look behind left or right every now and then. A guy sitting next to a door waved acknowledgement. I nod and move on. People here in this part have not seen many sardars. Their reactions vary from normal to highly abnormal. Girls giggle, sometime even laugh, boys try to keep a straight face but find it difficult and can’t help nudging their friends to catch a look of the specimen. Children start pointing at the funny fellow. The best or rather the worst has been a little boy of seven or eight turning back, finding a very different face in front of him, shrieked and ran to his mother. I try to keep a straight face through all but mostly I can’t help smiling, though many times this annoys me as well.
As I walked I realized that on the left side of the road, some distance ahead, there stood a girl. Slim, average height, long hair and with a very long chain in her hands which she was swinging around in circles. Coming nearer one could see that she was talking and being alone it meant she must be talking to herself. ‘The crazy girl’ I suddenly remembered. I tried not to look/stare in her direction and kept walking straight ahead. At the first round about I looked in all directions, found the roads to be too long to be conquered, and turned back. As I turned back I noticed the girl again. She had few dogs around her. Remembering the GRRRR I was a little apprehensive for the girl. But she seemed not to mind the dogs. They all looked quite peaceful near her. A little puppy was limping towards her. She (for some reason) took a break from the chain swinging and saw the puppy limp towards her. She walked forward and picked the puppy and went and sat on the roadside. After a minute or so, she let the puppy go, got up walked back to her place and started talking to herself and swinging the chain. I kept moving straight ahead and passed her. As I crossed the group of dogs I realized that little one that was limping was not limping anymore.
I came out of the base in the evenings once or twice again and the girl was there. From a distance I could see that her company of dogs was always around. On the day I left for Ashgabat we left early in the morning. She was not there. The dogs were all sitting here and there sleeping, tails tucked in, drooling tongues, GRRRR in their throats.
And after few days, an early morning I found myself sitting in the departure lounge of Ashgabat airport waiting for my flight to Baku reading David Copperfield with two other Schlumberger colleagues on their ways home discussing the fishing gear they had recently bought. It must have been 30 minutes or so since I started reading that I was asked a question in a language I least expected for the place I was at. Generally, they say that Punjabis are found everywhere. I have tested this hypothesis and found that to an extent it was true but not always. For example in Baku in nearly six months the only sardar I have seen is when I look into the mirror. Same was true for Turkmenistan. No sardars here as well (apart from me of course). Hardly any Indians for that matter. Baku, though, does boast of some Indians. In any case hearing, “beta koi pani di botal hai” at Ashgabat airport was a surprise and I looked up from my book and found a sardarji standing next to me. An old man, with hardly any black in the beard, wearing a kurta pyjama and a distant look in eyes. He was asking for a water bottle, an empty one to be precise. It was early morning and it was his time for the bowel movements and in his world they need water afterwards, toilet papers don’t suffice. It was quite a request.
In ‘Tales from Ferozeshah Bagh’, Rohinton Mistry, tells a tale of an Indian who goes to Canada. This particular Indian finds it hard to “take a dump” on the western style commodes. He can only do it squatting. This leads to a lot of embarrassing situations and in the end he decides that he can’t become westernized as he can’t do it the west way and packs up everything and decides to go back to India. on the flight back (most likely before the flight takes off) he eats something which causes some stomach trouble and the toilet of the airplane didn’t allow him enough space to squat and in the end he, one way or the other, succeeds in doing it the west way. But by that time he is already on his way home.
Why I mention this here? No reason in particular. And I did not think this when the gentleman asked me for the bottle.
I did have a water bottle but it wasn’t empty and I did not want to give him the drinking water I had carried along. Had he been somewhat younger I would have just rubbished the request. But here was an old man, truly Punjabi and desi by nature. Travelling to or from some part of world where he clearly did not belong. What were his reasons? I do not know maybe even he himself don’t know. Maybe, just because it was ‘the thing’ these days. Going to Kaneda, Jurman, Amrika. The wanderlust doesn’t leave space for reasons.
I told him to wait and went to the canteen in the lounge, asked them for an empty bottle and the lady there was kind enough to fish one out of the heap of bottles in rubbish bin. This I passed onto the gentleman and he was on his way to ‘relieve the pressure’ from his life. ‘Bahar jana’. That is what we say back home. For both the things, taking a dump and travelling out of our country.
I looked around and found that the sardarji was not alone. I noticed a group of over twenty Punjabis, men, women, boys, girls, sitting in a corner. Turbans, flowing beards, Punjabi suits, duppatas. To avoid the usual situation of having to make a conversation with my own type I busied myself with the book and did not look left right up or back till my flight was announced.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Five Years
This entry in gone by Dickenson-Austen era may have been titled with use of word vanity or pride or any other near synonym. But I will just let it refer to the very obvious of titles and try to hide (or maybe not) the self indulgence of the entry in the lines instead. I may not have written this entry had it not been for the small email on the group and that got me thinking on doing a slightly larger version of ‘the thing’ and in the process get back to blog world after a reasonably long gap. Anyhow.
So, it’s been five years since I joined the current company I work for/with/at. 17th Oct 2005 (seniority date as they call it). The probability of this event at that time (when I was in prime of my job hopping days-10 months with Tata and six months with EVS) on the likelihood scale was ‘highly unlikely’. But then stranger things have happened. When writing that little email the main two things that I mentioned were the resignation letter around end 2008 (which for various reasons didn’t achieve the goal it was meant to but achieved one or two other ends including stock options (yeah more money), a transfer, etc. etc.) and the experience of writing a resignation letter (having worked on the draft for three months although in the end it ended up as a one liner, no point being all nice and complicated when resigning I thought, after all the hard work on various drafts). That experience came in handy when Shyamala showed me her resignation letter and which I found out did not say what she wanted to. So, re-writing her resignation letter ensured she did get what she wanted (a transfer to India). Apart from that resignation letter mostly it’s been an alright-OK relationship, these five years have been.
But these five years have had many many other highlights and lowlights. Considering the fact that the company and the job was dream job for most of IITians during the days of job hunting I think landing this job was in itself a highlight.
Five years is a long period. This blog started almost with this job. The first entry was written while travelling from Bombay to Kakinada for the first time. And if one thinks about it I did manage to stick around a company long enough to get a business card. Five continents and 14 countries (I have kept a count), countless places (obviously I have not kept a count), and nearly through a second passport (no need to keep a count) means that the tag of the globe trotter has been partly earned (though how much of these places I have been to have I actually seen is a totally different question, a globe-trotter may not essentially be a globe-explorer).
Mind clogs up, it draws a confused blank. When one would think its five years that one has to talk about and there should be enough to write about. People can write novels on an hour’s happenings. But I guess it’s still a long time before I can bring out the happenings of last five years as a memory. It will be ‘finding’ a memory when sufficient time has elapsed. Right now there is just too much of Schlumberger in the last five years and that’s not a very good sign if I sit here on a Sunday and write about the ‘big blue’.
Though I have to be thankful to the ‘big blue’ for very many things. And the first is my first air journey. They had paid for Delhi-Bombay round trip for the interview. It’s a totally different thing that by now it appears that I have had enough of economy class. The novelty wears off and it wears off faster if you have sufficiently long legs (or the flights are long, don’t get me started on what happens if legs and flights both are long). Then there are the wonders. Atop Eiffel and the Great Wall. And the best of all the sea, the oceans. Working in the middle of the monster is a thing in itself. Many a sunsets and sunrises surrounded by the lashing waves, pure unadulterated joy. Million moons on the surface of waters. The whale jumping out of the waters to do whatever she wanted to right there in front of your eyes.
“But in spite of the passage of many years and long wandering, the pull of the home remains. No exile can escape the malady of his tribe, that consumption of the soul.” Nehru’s words bring the lense of perspective in focus, or rather takes any focus away. Every wanderer at the end of the day, month, year, season, wanderlust, turns back (or perishes in the hope of getting back). Walking down the streets of Perth and avoiding a street which is not well lit, hoping to find someone to talk in Hindi/Punjabi at the office, having to explain that only salads is not what vegetarians eat to every other inquisitive idiot, having to explain to all American junkies that baseball is not really comparable to cricket, and the Latin Americans can’t really believe that any game can take longer than 90 minutes, and among a list which includes many other ridiculous questions (oh really, the hair stops increasing in length after a while!!!), all the tiny things and details bring home the fact that ‘home’ is faraway. Yet these are momentary lapses and unsavoury indulgences in nostalgia.
Let’s try to conclude in a cheerful way. Of course one should never let out the fact that a person’s life, to use the too often used word (is it?), sucks. Actually, ended up taking a break here. It’s a serious business. Coming up with some eureka moments. Plus I don’t want to run around naked. Ah. Naked reminds me of something. After watching a game of baseball (the Drillers, Tulsa, Oklahoma) and then an hour or two at some bowling alley we headed towards the destination where most of the company trainees head during their first trip to Tulsa. A strip club. You have to agree that definitely cheers one up. That and a visit to the Hooters. So, we are in the queue to enter the club (for some reason I keep typing clud!!!), we as in the six students and our class instructor (a lady, but nothing scandalous as I found out later, these strip clubs are visited by equal numbers of both sexes). So, we were in the queue and when it was my turn they refused me entry (as I was wearing a ‘head scarf’ according to the security). Well it was nothing new in the USofA to be discriminated for one reason or the other. But this guy had a different reason. He explained that there are local gangs with the identification being the color of head scarves and they have had trouble in the past so no entry till the head is covered with a scarf. Now that’s a shame. Isn’t it? Having come so close to the Big (and some were really big as I found out later) American Dream. Although a bit (actually a lot) disappointed I put up a brave act and told the guys to go ahead and not change their plan because of me. But the treat was on our instructor and she would not let a ‘head scarf’ ‘screw’ up the plans. One of the guys in the group had a baseball cap and she somehow convinced the security manager that as long as I keep the baseball cap on I was OK. Finally, I could live those few hours of my great American dream (though with a baseball cap on).
Having read Tolkien one just can’t help but quote the master every now and then. Here is hoping that he was right when he said ‘Not all who wander are lost’.
So, it’s been five years since I joined the current company I work for/with/at. 17th Oct 2005 (seniority date as they call it). The probability of this event at that time (when I was in prime of my job hopping days-10 months with Tata and six months with EVS) on the likelihood scale was ‘highly unlikely’. But then stranger things have happened. When writing that little email the main two things that I mentioned were the resignation letter around end 2008 (which for various reasons didn’t achieve the goal it was meant to but achieved one or two other ends including stock options (yeah more money), a transfer, etc. etc.) and the experience of writing a resignation letter (having worked on the draft for three months although in the end it ended up as a one liner, no point being all nice and complicated when resigning I thought, after all the hard work on various drafts). That experience came in handy when Shyamala showed me her resignation letter and which I found out did not say what she wanted to. So, re-writing her resignation letter ensured she did get what she wanted (a transfer to India). Apart from that resignation letter mostly it’s been an alright-OK relationship, these five years have been.
But these five years have had many many other highlights and lowlights. Considering the fact that the company and the job was dream job for most of IITians during the days of job hunting I think landing this job was in itself a highlight.
Five years is a long period. This blog started almost with this job. The first entry was written while travelling from Bombay to Kakinada for the first time. And if one thinks about it I did manage to stick around a company long enough to get a business card. Five continents and 14 countries (I have kept a count), countless places (obviously I have not kept a count), and nearly through a second passport (no need to keep a count) means that the tag of the globe trotter has been partly earned (though how much of these places I have been to have I actually seen is a totally different question, a globe-trotter may not essentially be a globe-explorer).
Mind clogs up, it draws a confused blank. When one would think its five years that one has to talk about and there should be enough to write about. People can write novels on an hour’s happenings. But I guess it’s still a long time before I can bring out the happenings of last five years as a memory. It will be ‘finding’ a memory when sufficient time has elapsed. Right now there is just too much of Schlumberger in the last five years and that’s not a very good sign if I sit here on a Sunday and write about the ‘big blue’.
Though I have to be thankful to the ‘big blue’ for very many things. And the first is my first air journey. They had paid for Delhi-Bombay round trip for the interview. It’s a totally different thing that by now it appears that I have had enough of economy class. The novelty wears off and it wears off faster if you have sufficiently long legs (or the flights are long, don’t get me started on what happens if legs and flights both are long). Then there are the wonders. Atop Eiffel and the Great Wall. And the best of all the sea, the oceans. Working in the middle of the monster is a thing in itself. Many a sunsets and sunrises surrounded by the lashing waves, pure unadulterated joy. Million moons on the surface of waters. The whale jumping out of the waters to do whatever she wanted to right there in front of your eyes.
“But in spite of the passage of many years and long wandering, the pull of the home remains. No exile can escape the malady of his tribe, that consumption of the soul.” Nehru’s words bring the lense of perspective in focus, or rather takes any focus away. Every wanderer at the end of the day, month, year, season, wanderlust, turns back (or perishes in the hope of getting back). Walking down the streets of Perth and avoiding a street which is not well lit, hoping to find someone to talk in Hindi/Punjabi at the office, having to explain that only salads is not what vegetarians eat to every other inquisitive idiot, having to explain to all American junkies that baseball is not really comparable to cricket, and the Latin Americans can’t really believe that any game can take longer than 90 minutes, and among a list which includes many other ridiculous questions (oh really, the hair stops increasing in length after a while!!!), all the tiny things and details bring home the fact that ‘home’ is faraway. Yet these are momentary lapses and unsavoury indulgences in nostalgia.
Let’s try to conclude in a cheerful way. Of course one should never let out the fact that a person’s life, to use the too often used word (is it?), sucks. Actually, ended up taking a break here. It’s a serious business. Coming up with some eureka moments. Plus I don’t want to run around naked. Ah. Naked reminds me of something. After watching a game of baseball (the Drillers, Tulsa, Oklahoma) and then an hour or two at some bowling alley we headed towards the destination where most of the company trainees head during their first trip to Tulsa. A strip club. You have to agree that definitely cheers one up. That and a visit to the Hooters. So, we are in the queue to enter the club (for some reason I keep typing clud!!!), we as in the six students and our class instructor (a lady, but nothing scandalous as I found out later, these strip clubs are visited by equal numbers of both sexes). So, we were in the queue and when it was my turn they refused me entry (as I was wearing a ‘head scarf’ according to the security). Well it was nothing new in the USofA to be discriminated for one reason or the other. But this guy had a different reason. He explained that there are local gangs with the identification being the color of head scarves and they have had trouble in the past so no entry till the head is covered with a scarf. Now that’s a shame. Isn’t it? Having come so close to the Big (and some were really big as I found out later) American Dream. Although a bit (actually a lot) disappointed I put up a brave act and told the guys to go ahead and not change their plan because of me. But the treat was on our instructor and she would not let a ‘head scarf’ ‘screw’ up the plans. One of the guys in the group had a baseball cap and she somehow convinced the security manager that as long as I keep the baseball cap on I was OK. Finally, I could live those few hours of my great American dream (though with a baseball cap on).
Having read Tolkien one just can’t help but quote the master every now and then. Here is hoping that he was right when he said ‘Not all who wander are lost’.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Talking Letters - 3
Baki/Baku,
It’s been a while we had a chat. Been rather inconsistent with writing. I have my reasons (excuses).
Few weeks ago the company magazine editor (for the Geomarket) sent an email asking for articles. They generally prefer few pictures with write ups and among their favourites is group of company employees going out and doing something not related to work. So wrote on the trip to Gobustan (plus few pictures). I am sure they will put it in the magazine unlike ‘the pipe story’ that must have been rather depressing. By the way, it is not all true. Had to change what happened with Tom to avoid safety guys coming after us. Poor fella actually broke through the mud volcano’s wall and was going down but for the two people standing on either side. According to him 'for an instant it felt bottomless'. That’s that.
The other article on time curve, well, it is rather about how you have been shot at various stages over last five months. But of course I did play with the photo sequence. The sequence as stated in the article differs from sequence the photos were shot. I just had the photos and made up the story. The rearranging of the photos doesn’t take the theme away. Still time will curve forward.
What I was thinking was that time may travel forward but the records of what happened in bygone times is how we know about past. And history as known to us is what the people recording those events chose to record. So time isn’t all powerful. We can record time upside down and all mixed up. But how does it matter to time how it is recorded, it doesn’t need to show off. Must be tired of itself anyway.
Looks like me and you are not meant to bear each other for a long period. Your govt. has refused the work permit two times and is sitting on third application. So, I will be travelling around for next few months. Turkmenistan, Dubai. Heard Turkmens are no better either. Last two Indians from my company were refused visa, so let’s keep the fingers crossed. This was partly the reason why we decided to make a trip to Gobustan. Many from the group are in line of being refused their work permit, so making the most of whatever time people have here.
Otherwise it’s usual. Few Indians from Bombay office are here temporarily. First time in five months had a meal with someone at home. Usually it is me and NDTV 24X7 newsreaders (rather sensation and gossip creators, but apparently they are better of the entire lot when it comes to news!!).
Have started collecting photos of all the statues you have. There are heaps of these, I guess Russians (and now Azeris) like building statues of people, unlike Mayawati it is only one statue per person (but will have to dig the dirt on all the personalities so may leave that).
Let’s see if I last here few more months.
Omar Bouquet
It’s been a while we had a chat. Been rather inconsistent with writing. I have my reasons (excuses).
Few weeks ago the company magazine editor (for the Geomarket) sent an email asking for articles. They generally prefer few pictures with write ups and among their favourites is group of company employees going out and doing something not related to work. So wrote on the trip to Gobustan (plus few pictures). I am sure they will put it in the magazine unlike ‘the pipe story’ that must have been rather depressing. By the way, it is not all true. Had to change what happened with Tom to avoid safety guys coming after us. Poor fella actually broke through the mud volcano’s wall and was going down but for the two people standing on either side. According to him 'for an instant it felt bottomless'. That’s that.
The other article on time curve, well, it is rather about how you have been shot at various stages over last five months. But of course I did play with the photo sequence. The sequence as stated in the article differs from sequence the photos were shot. I just had the photos and made up the story. The rearranging of the photos doesn’t take the theme away. Still time will curve forward.
What I was thinking was that time may travel forward but the records of what happened in bygone times is how we know about past. And history as known to us is what the people recording those events chose to record. So time isn’t all powerful. We can record time upside down and all mixed up. But how does it matter to time how it is recorded, it doesn’t need to show off. Must be tired of itself anyway.
Looks like me and you are not meant to bear each other for a long period. Your govt. has refused the work permit two times and is sitting on third application. So, I will be travelling around for next few months. Turkmenistan, Dubai. Heard Turkmens are no better either. Last two Indians from my company were refused visa, so let’s keep the fingers crossed. This was partly the reason why we decided to make a trip to Gobustan. Many from the group are in line of being refused their work permit, so making the most of whatever time people have here.
Otherwise it’s usual. Few Indians from Bombay office are here temporarily. First time in five months had a meal with someone at home. Usually it is me and NDTV 24X7 newsreaders (rather sensation and gossip creators, but apparently they are better of the entire lot when it comes to news!!).
Have started collecting photos of all the statues you have. There are heaps of these, I guess Russians (and now Azeris) like building statues of people, unlike Mayawati it is only one statue per person (but will have to dig the dirt on all the personalities so may leave that).
Let’s see if I last here few more months.
Omar Bouquet
Gobustan - Petroglyphs and Mud Volcanoes
It was over a casual conversation while sipping a drink at Fashion Café (Baku city center) that plans were made for a weekend trip to mud volcanoes. That was Sunday and I had forgotten about it till Nazli’s email on Wednesday afternoon asking for confirmation of numbers who will be joining for the trip. She had made a plan, organised a vehicle with the help of driving coordinator and the entire itinerary was well laid out in the email for the trip to Gobustan mud volcanoes. Of all the things, initiative for having fun is what most of us usually lack, on this occasion Nazli did not. I added my bit of idea of visiting the ancient rock paintings and she graciously added that to the plan and also found out that these are called petroglyphs (as her next email indicated).
Talking of initiative and energy, internet was well researched and about fifteen page handout was prepared for people to read and educate themselves. All Nazli. Well since Nazli did went all the way to take this trouble it was only fair I (and I hope others as well) should read it. Here is what I would have otherwise not known:
The highway runs parallel to Caspian for most part of the journey. I was on the other side of the vehicle and had a rail track running parallel to the road. We crossed many out-of-use carriages but never crossed a train on the way. Development or rather the developed world is slowly catching up on this side of Baku. There is an assortment of factories along the road. But for most part it seems a quiet landscape.
As we neared Gobustan driver had a chat with Nazli and decided that it was better if we see the petroglyphs first and then go to mud volcanoes. This saves some time on road seems to be the argument. We were glad that Nazli was along as none of other eight could speak the language. So off we went to petroglyphs. Few very rusty steel poles and not-so-very threatening fence and a lot of sheep welcomed us at the gates (supposedly as there wasn’t any real gate there) of the 4400 acre world heritage site and another five minutes of drive up the hills and we were there. Water bottles, check; cameras, check; we were off to watch history when suddenly the table under a rock caught attention and a group photo had to taken. Tripod out and two different cameras shot the moment. With nine pair of legs it is hard to maintain a single direction so it was after a little while that we managed to make our way to the MUSEUM. The lady made us pay three manat each and took two manat for every camera. The receipts for the two manats for cameras were never issued. The museum literally ended before it even started. Probably, they can do a better job at a world heritage site.
Soon we were climbing the rocks to find the ancient civilisation for ourselves (museum had not been much help). Over next 30 minutes or so we did find it along with many other things. The rock paintings included few animals, boats, a pregnant woman (more like a bunny!!) and assortment of various other shapes and sizes. I am no archaeologist and few minutes of rock staring were enough for me. The musical rocks (rocks used as musical instruments!!) were interesting and did produce some good musical sounds. Soon one by one we retired from petroglyph watching to generally stone and cliff and distant sea watching. Ionut in the meantime had found a group of 15 odd touring girls and was busy getting himself captured in their cameras. Making his own bit of history there I suppose.
Found a Toot there and tasted few little fruits straight of the branches. Nathan didn’t find these good but Emily did. And then we saw the desert rose. A lone shoot of a rose in the middle of lot of dead dry grass and three pink roses. But this was not all too encouraging to ensure that we stayed a bit longer. And we were on way to the next destination on time.
After a bumpy ride on the mud track the driver let us out and pointed upwards towards a track. The mud volcanoes were close and we could all smell the petroleum in the air. The short climb was soon over and we all beheld little cones mushrooming out on a little plateau. They were not much of volcanoes to be frank. We could walk right up to the volcanoes and in fact stand over some. To put in Nazli’s words these were “Cute”. And cute they were. Ranging from few inches to few feet in diameter at their mouths and from 5-10 meter height these mud volcanoes are possibly the friendliest type. They were burping there occasional gas burps, plump, plump, some small, some large enough to be caught on cameras. The place did revive some spirit with the feeling of a little adventure being accomplished.
We could actually make the volcanoes burp more by exerting a little pressure on the sides. In fact one actually stands on the dry exterior with the muddy interior still in fluid shape and that’s how the little pushes lead to more burps. There was a lot of slippery exterior as the mud overflowed to the sides. Slipping on these was easy and one had to be a little careful.
There was a little hill some distance away and soon Kennedy and I were on our way to that little lonely hill while others busied themselves with taking the pictures of little cute volcanoes. This was possibly the largest among the mud volcanoes at this place. Soon Tom joined us. The place was quiet and a lovely breeze was coming from the sea. Sun was out and it all made for a lovely day. Good time to be out.
Suddenly, the place where Tom was standing gave way or so we thought. He had slipped on mud. After the initial shock me and Kennedy (incidentally standing on either side of tom) grabbed his arms and pulled him up. After the initial little shock the laughter started. Finally the adventure that had been missing was here. Tom’s hand and one leg were covered with volcanic mud and so was his camera. According to him an attempt to capture the different patterns of the mud lead him what would eventually be a slip. Soon the others arrived and each had their share of laughter as did Tom. There was sufficient recreation of the event and plenty of the pictures taken of the mud covered Tom and recently christened mud volcano in Gobustan, Mt. Tom.
For 15 manat per head the trip was well worth it and thanks to Nazli’s efforts well organized. And that was that. A relatively short trip to Gobustan but fun nevertheless, especially at the expense of Tom. Driver was kind enough to let him in the vehicle in the mud covered condition. A towel was provided for him to put on the seat. And off we started the return journey.
The highway is well laid and the vehicle is moving on comfortably back to where the trip started. We just had some snacks in form of few Doritos and M&Ms each drowned down by water all kindly provided by Nazli. On hungry stomachs this feel like a delicacy and with tired legs and bodies the group slowly starts to doze off. After a while Kennedy looks around and finds most of the heads rolling onto sides. He smiles and closes his eyes. The Caspian looks clean here and an occasional group of swimmers can be seen on the uninterrupted length of the sea shore. Caspian almost looks beautiful. The light music on iPod, a steady speed of the vehicle on a smooth highway, the magnificence of Caspian and the tiredness in the legs and I also join the club of happily dozing heads shortly.
Talking of initiative and energy, internet was well researched and about fifteen page handout was prepared for people to read and educate themselves. All Nazli. Well since Nazli did went all the way to take this trouble it was only fair I (and I hope others as well) should read it. Here is what I would have otherwise not known:
- Azerbaijan and its Caspian coastline are home to nearly 400 mud volcanoes, more than half the total throughout the continents.
- Mud volcanoes have a direct relationship with the presence of oil and gas fields.
- A drilling accident offshore of Brunei in 1979 caused a mud volcano which took 20 relief wells and nearly 30 years to stop the eruption.
- Gobustan rock art cultural landscape has more than 600,000 rock paintings, on average dating back 5,000-20,000 years (inscribed as a world heritage site in 2007).
- These petroglyphs (rock paintings) were discovered by accident in 1930s by workers of a stone quarry.
The highway runs parallel to Caspian for most part of the journey. I was on the other side of the vehicle and had a rail track running parallel to the road. We crossed many out-of-use carriages but never crossed a train on the way. Development or rather the developed world is slowly catching up on this side of Baku. There is an assortment of factories along the road. But for most part it seems a quiet landscape.
As we neared Gobustan driver had a chat with Nazli and decided that it was better if we see the petroglyphs first and then go to mud volcanoes. This saves some time on road seems to be the argument. We were glad that Nazli was along as none of other eight could speak the language. So off we went to petroglyphs. Few very rusty steel poles and not-so-very threatening fence and a lot of sheep welcomed us at the gates (supposedly as there wasn’t any real gate there) of the 4400 acre world heritage site and another five minutes of drive up the hills and we were there. Water bottles, check; cameras, check; we were off to watch history when suddenly the table under a rock caught attention and a group photo had to taken. Tripod out and two different cameras shot the moment. With nine pair of legs it is hard to maintain a single direction so it was after a little while that we managed to make our way to the MUSEUM. The lady made us pay three manat each and took two manat for every camera. The receipts for the two manats for cameras were never issued. The museum literally ended before it even started. Probably, they can do a better job at a world heritage site.
Soon we were climbing the rocks to find the ancient civilisation for ourselves (museum had not been much help). Over next 30 minutes or so we did find it along with many other things. The rock paintings included few animals, boats, a pregnant woman (more like a bunny!!) and assortment of various other shapes and sizes. I am no archaeologist and few minutes of rock staring were enough for me. The musical rocks (rocks used as musical instruments!!) were interesting and did produce some good musical sounds. Soon one by one we retired from petroglyph watching to generally stone and cliff and distant sea watching. Ionut in the meantime had found a group of 15 odd touring girls and was busy getting himself captured in their cameras. Making his own bit of history there I suppose.
Found a Toot there and tasted few little fruits straight of the branches. Nathan didn’t find these good but Emily did. And then we saw the desert rose. A lone shoot of a rose in the middle of lot of dead dry grass and three pink roses. But this was not all too encouraging to ensure that we stayed a bit longer. And we were on way to the next destination on time.
After a bumpy ride on the mud track the driver let us out and pointed upwards towards a track. The mud volcanoes were close and we could all smell the petroleum in the air. The short climb was soon over and we all beheld little cones mushrooming out on a little plateau. They were not much of volcanoes to be frank. We could walk right up to the volcanoes and in fact stand over some. To put in Nazli’s words these were “Cute”. And cute they were. Ranging from few inches to few feet in diameter at their mouths and from 5-10 meter height these mud volcanoes are possibly the friendliest type. They were burping there occasional gas burps, plump, plump, some small, some large enough to be caught on cameras. The place did revive some spirit with the feeling of a little adventure being accomplished.
We could actually make the volcanoes burp more by exerting a little pressure on the sides. In fact one actually stands on the dry exterior with the muddy interior still in fluid shape and that’s how the little pushes lead to more burps. There was a lot of slippery exterior as the mud overflowed to the sides. Slipping on these was easy and one had to be a little careful.
There was a little hill some distance away and soon Kennedy and I were on our way to that little lonely hill while others busied themselves with taking the pictures of little cute volcanoes. This was possibly the largest among the mud volcanoes at this place. Soon Tom joined us. The place was quiet and a lovely breeze was coming from the sea. Sun was out and it all made for a lovely day. Good time to be out.
Suddenly, the place where Tom was standing gave way or so we thought. He had slipped on mud. After the initial shock me and Kennedy (incidentally standing on either side of tom) grabbed his arms and pulled him up. After the initial little shock the laughter started. Finally the adventure that had been missing was here. Tom’s hand and one leg were covered with volcanic mud and so was his camera. According to him an attempt to capture the different patterns of the mud lead him what would eventually be a slip. Soon the others arrived and each had their share of laughter as did Tom. There was sufficient recreation of the event and plenty of the pictures taken of the mud covered Tom and recently christened mud volcano in Gobustan, Mt. Tom.
For 15 manat per head the trip was well worth it and thanks to Nazli’s efforts well organized. And that was that. A relatively short trip to Gobustan but fun nevertheless, especially at the expense of Tom. Driver was kind enough to let him in the vehicle in the mud covered condition. A towel was provided for him to put on the seat. And off we started the return journey.
The highway is well laid and the vehicle is moving on comfortably back to where the trip started. We just had some snacks in form of few Doritos and M&Ms each drowned down by water all kindly provided by Nazli. On hungry stomachs this feel like a delicacy and with tired legs and bodies the group slowly starts to doze off. After a while Kennedy looks around and finds most of the heads rolling onto sides. He smiles and closes his eyes. The Caspian looks clean here and an occasional group of swimmers can be seen on the uninterrupted length of the sea shore. Caspian almost looks beautiful. The light music on iPod, a steady speed of the vehicle on a smooth highway, the magnificence of Caspian and the tiredness in the legs and I also join the club of happily dozing heads shortly.
Three points on a time curve
It is early February and after looking around ten apartments in two days, apartment number 3 on the list is picked as a suitable abode for the near future. As usually happens when one moves into an apartment which has a view of the sea, you take out your camera and capture few moments. Freeze that particular second as it ticks by. The window of the bedroom is opened, the sea captured and as an afterthought I click the street below. Window closed and seconds tick by.
If someone asks me the postal address of the place where I live, I will not be able to tell from memory. In fact I won’t be able to tell the flat number I live in. It is not written at the house entrance and the one time I read the flat number and the address was in the SMS which Yana sent me after I had moved in and which I looked at only once while filling in a checklist for the apartment some time ago. I know it’s on seventh floor or rather floor number 7, you step out, turn right and the first door on left hand side. That’s the door the key which I have works in. The building is one of the four blue buildings on ‘sixth parallel’ as I learned after a little struggle with the taxi drivers. Natik helped me out with the parallel concept. That means now I know how to get to the place I have my lodgings at and since no post is ever coming my way here I may live next three four years, or whatever time I have to, here without the need to look at the address of the place.
The time moves on, as it has a bad habit of doing, and one day a snow-storm arrived, rather unannounced. The window was opened once again, this time to see the snow and the snow storm. First snow storm and first real-snow for me. Otherwise, first snow was a couple of weeks ago when I was still in the staff house. It was in Baku as well but it was just a little snow and not really as exciting as this big storm. And again the camera came out to click the city covered in white. And as an afterthought again I clicked the street corner down below. The window is closed and the time moves by.
From the blue buildings to ‘Mothercare’ it is about a 10-15 minutes walk. 15 if I start well ahead of time and can afford a royal stroll. I make it in 10 if required. The bus drivers have by now got used to my just-in-time approach and usually cut me a few seconds slack. Though one time one of them did say something in Azeri pointing at his watch and I pretended it was so hard to understand what he was saying and just smiled a guilty little smile and buckled up for the ride to the office. Buckled up, and sometimes eyes closed, till 10 Salyan Highway.On the walk from the blue buildings to Mothercare I have made few unspoken-to-acquaintances. Taxi drivers waiting for their respective passengers at the corner next to blue buildings, seven in the morning every day. The cleaning ladies on the street with their scarves saving them from the dust which they freely distribute to one and all who dare to cross by, I have to make a run when I cross. The meat shop guys getting ready to execute various bulls and lambs in the way that would make the kill suitable to eat for the people with faith (or without). The three old ladies walking their leisurely walk in the opposite direction (lately there have been only two). One young lady walking her rapid quick pace, the old man just finishing his cup of tea and getting ready to open his shop (I have now started nodding a greeting to him), and various other not so mobile acquaintances including trees, houses, streets and roads. Ten to fifteen minutes of the morning, everyday.
Most of the beings (living and not so living) age in one simple straight line with time. Trees do get old but they have a habit of making it seem different. They are on the trail of time and on journey to death, but they have a habit to grow young and old every year in cycles. Grey, dark, green, gold. Naked, covered (in green and in white of snow if the nature wants so). Full of bounty, empty and dry as desert. They have their way of beating the straight line of time. Or maybe time has put them in this curve of going in circles while moving on a straight line.
It is nearly five months since I moved into this home. Every now and then the window has been opened again. To let the Sun in. To let the air in. Once, uninvited, few flies came in as well which I had to, late at night, chase to stop all the ‘peeennnpeeennn’ in the room. The window opens more often on Sundays and so it was that the knob was turned today and after soaking in the view and taking few deep breaths of what I will have to say was ‘fresh air’ I looked down towards the street. And for the first time I took out the camera to specifically shoot the corner of the street.
They say if you have two points you can draw a straight line. But time hardly travels in straight line and even though today I captured the third point, only time knows if this point will find a place on this particular straight line.
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