Jallianwala Bagh

Sadness is profound. I'm not talking about anger or hatred or even jealousy or insecurity. Sometimes, the feeling is absolute and calming. That is the sadness I talk about.

Today I lost something. Something that meant a lot to me. It's strange how lifeless, meaningless objects can suddenly have so much sentimental value attached to them. I attached the value. And now I have lost it. There is absolutely nothing I can do to get it back.

I started thinking through all my travel experiences to a time when a place held such profound sadness for me. And even though there are several places which I visited while I was sad, I would not like to believe that the place itself could not hold happiness. Or that the sum total of my sadness could wash over the history of its joy. As if it was only me, there and then, in that time and place, in that moment, and nothing else.

And then I thought of Jallianwala Bagh.

I remember visiting it. The place held children scampering around with glee. Couples in the corner. A few men lazing in the garden, perhaps taking a nap or soaking the afternoon sun. It seemed like such a chilled out scene.

But I knew that that place did not belong to that time and moment. That place belongs to April 13, 1919. The screams of people I believe still linger on in that space. The bullet holes still pay tribute to the senseless violence that took hundreds of innocent lives. The men, women and children who jumped into a well...so that they'd die as martyrs and not as victims. Acts of bravery and courage. Human strength and endurance. And then there was blood everywhere. And then nothing was left.

I sat in the garden. Looking around, taking in the place. Something had been lost. And there was absolutely nothing I could do to get it back. The pain belonged to a different time and space, but I still felt it right then. I touched my cheek, only to realise that I was crying.

Sadness...profound and absolute.





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Somehow this video from the movie Rang De Basanti, always plays in my head when I think of Jallianwala Bagh.

The View from my Apartment

I live in a high rise building. For this article, I'm just posting pictures which are the view from my 14th (actually the 13th, if you think about it) floor apartment.

It's absolutely gorgeous and I am about to move out in a few months and will really miss this place. It where all the magic happened :)

Travel Curse

I was supposed to fly out to Tahiti in the last week of December. I will write this post in a 10 point form to illustrate exactly how things happened.

1. In August 2011, I was in Delhi (I'm from Delhi) and applied for a Schengen Visa. I was granted this in 2 days and went off to backpack through Europe. I visited several cities, including Paris.

2. In October 2011, I managed to get a seat for a sailing expedition to Tahiti in an auction.

3. Over the next one month, I received information about the trip. In the middle of November I discovered that I needed a visa for Tahiti.

4. With some research, I discovered that I would have to apply to the French embassy. I also discovered that in order to apply in the US, I would have to visit Washington. (I live in Philadelphia)

5. I decided to apply in India. I had finals going on and had no time to make a trip to Washington. Besides, I'd applied in Delhi a few months ago, so there really shouldn't be a problem. Right?
Wrong!

6. I come back and the French embassy refuses to accept my application. I'm a US resident (?) they say.
(the question mark is because, I'm sure if you ask the US, Indian governments they will unanimously agree that I am an Indian resident)

7. The rule is new. And I try everything to convince them to overlook it. I get a letter from the French Consulate in Philadelphia requesting the French Embassy in India to make an exception. I speak to them and explain how I got a Schengen 4 months ago from Delhi, how I have never broken a single travel law, I do not have NRI status, etc, etc, etc. It doesn't work. They just don't accept the application.

8. I have to cancel my trip to Tahiti...which becomes a huge personal and financial loss to me. Screw you travel curse!

9. I change my flights to just one direct flight back to Philly on the 9th of Jan, early morning.

10. Today is the 8th of Jan. I'm supposed to fly out in 9 hours and British Airways tells me that I'm not allowed to Check In just yet. (!?) I'm guessing they've overbooked the flight, in which case, I'm definitely asking for money.*


And so...the travel curse continues...


(*Tip for all: If you're flying a European airline and they overbook you, you can claim $$. Basically, if it's their fault, you're entitled to compensation. If it's the weather, then not so much. Here's the details of the regulation.)

Piya Haji Ali

I had always wanted to visit Haji Ali but despite making several trips to Bombay, somehow never made it there. Last week, I was in the city with a day stretching out ahead of me alone. With my friend busy at work, I decided to make a trip to the mosque by myself.

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As I started my long walk up to Haji Ali, I got distracted by all the pretty things being sold on the side. I stopped and bought 3 bottles of ittar. Ittar is Indian perfume and I bought the smell of the "heavens" called firdaus. Anyway, as I walked into the mosque, I was stopped by a man standing guard at the entrance for the women's section. When I asked him what the matter was, he pointed to my legs, "You cannot go to Haji Ali in this outfit". His tone was harsh and demeaning. I was wearing a medium length skirt and so obviously he could judge me.

I negotiated my way in. He gave me a chunni that i wrapped around my waist like a dhoti. Starting at my waist and going all the way down till my ankles, it covered me up completely.

Stepping into the main hall, I looked up to marvel at the gorgeous mirror work on the ceiling. At the same time, a lot of women looked down at the dhoti-esque cloth and started murmuring among themselves. Soon, one woman gestured at me to come forward. I went up to her and she chastised me - Why is your head not covered? What religion are you? Are you married?
The questions came at me like paint dripping from a wet brush. Each new drop fell at a different spot on the canvas creating a complete picture, just as each new question helped crystallise her perception of me.

Once she established that I was alone, not muslim, single, I was made to sit down beside her. She started off with her story. A woman has no identity without a man, she said. As long as you have a man in your life, people will love and respect you. But if the man doesn't exist, then you don't exist. I asked her what happened to her man. He died a few years ago, she said. The children couldn't bear the burden of feeding an extra mouth. So everything had to be sacrificed - a house, a family, a life. Living from one mosque to another, under the protection of Allah, waiting to be called to him. Waiting, waiting. That was all she lived for, she said. That, and chastising young girls, I thought secretly.

She explained to me how God was merciful and so I would be forgiven for my sin. But he will probably not grant my prayers because of my insubordination. And in the future, I must always remember to cover my legs and my head. With that, she lay down to rest. I understood that I had been dismissed.

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Later, while walking back, I came across a year old homeless child on the street. This girl was crying from hunger, fingering a biscuit packet that she had not yet learnt how to open. I sat down next to her, ripped the packet open and fed her the biscuit. She rejected it at first, but eventually her spit broke down the biscuit into soggy matter that her inexperienced mouth could chew. An old beggar man sitting next to her said to me, "You fed a poor child with nothing to gain for yourself. Allah will bless you for this good deed." And I couldn't help refute his claim by exclaiming, "But, I'm wearing a skirt!"

The Air of Lahore

As I walked across the Wagah border into Pakistan, I felt as though I was stepping in to a looking glass. To my Indian sensibilities, everything seemed the same as India except for the air. The air curled and settled quietly in nooks, crack and unseen corners. The differences were too subtle to be seen by the naked eye. Like the air, it was a mere feeling that I could feel dance lightly on the tip of my nose and consume me entirely with every breath I inhaled.

On a rickety little bus to Lahore, we drove along the muddy waters of Ravi at midnight. The quick cool breeze blew my hair and brought to me the wet-earth smell of freedom. As I looked out of the bus window, I saw lights dancing on the river. It looked like a woman adorned with jewels – the shining yellow gold with the smoother green tones of emeralds. As the bus came to a red light, I noticed that there were patterns in the colorful lights – a drum, a crescent moon and other Islamic symbols mirrored in the water. The weathered face of the bus driver explained to me that Friday night was a night of festivities after the prayers of Jumma. During Jumma, all sins were absolved and so on the following night, people would rake up new sins for the following week’s prayers.

In Lahore, I paid a visit to the tombs of Jehangir and Nutan, the only Mughal royalty not buried in India. Dome-shaped archways, intricate work on austere marble floors, stone walls and ceilings; I walked with a suffocating silence deemed fit for respecting the dead. The precedent was set by the locals loitering around in the area. Everyone was quiet but watchful. I watched the eyes of the women whose faces had been lost forever behind the veil. I watched myself being watched by men. They stared openly, shamelessly. Perhaps wondering why I was exposed. Cover your head, their eyes seemed to say, cover the skin on your arms and the slight hint of curves along your waist. My Indian skin must have looked Pakistani to them. It was a hot summer’s day with an uncomfortable air. In the pond at the center of the historical landmark, I watched my reflection feel stifled.

The evening began to creep into the sky and I decided to visit Cuckoo’s Den, a famous upscale restaurant. While dining on the rooftop of this café, I could smell sweet perfume and expensive alcohol in the air. I watched as the sun set peacefully in to the Badshahi Masjid on the west side. The red sandstone and the white marble of this structure paid the perfect compliment to the orange afterglow. The vastness of the sky almost seemed contained by this “Royal Mosque”, one of the largest in the world for religious devotion. It was created as a symbol of Mughal grandeur, beauty and religiousness.

As the sky darkened and the air turned blue, I noticed a staccato rise in the activity to the east of the restaurant. From my bird’s eye view, it became clear that the grandeur of money was offered to beauty for a different sort of religion. Sexual devotion masked in dull gold, shiny red, eroded hands, empty faces, orange flesh, black hair and white bones. Women were not asked to cover up here. Here, there was no female shame. The east of Cuckoo’s Den displayed the red light area of Lahore, Heera Mandi. By asking around, I discovered that Cuckoo’s itself used to be a brothel that was converted in to a restaurant. A painting of a semi-clad, shapeless woman bargained - “I am deaf and dumb. Living with two sick babies. Charges are Rs 100 only. You can ask for discount.” Plain negotiations nestled between negotiations with God and those with love.

When I think back to my trip, I remember the thick air, with its stark differences.

Pity and piety. Love and loathing.

And Lahore, the city of contradictions.