Trip to Pingoli with Kanwarjeet

Kanwarjeet and I met in Pune last week, where we also spent 2 days with Shruti. Shruti told us then about some village near Kudal town in south Maharashtra, where somebody still makes Pata-chitra (or paitings of stories which are then sung). Kanwarjeet had also heard a similar thing long time back about a man in village Pingoli near Kudal. He thought maybe it’s the same place. And so when I met him again in Goa, we decided to visit this person in Pingoli village. Kudal is about 80km from Panjim.

We left home early at 6.30am with a cup of tea and one rusk. It was raining cats and dogs that time. We had to take a local private bus to a town Mapusa, from where we would get some inter-state government bus for Kudal. The short distance private buses in Goa are called rockets, but one cannot see a slower bus than them. Anyways we got one, which dropped us at Kudal bus station. Soon afterwards we got a Kadamba bus (Goa state transport bus) which was heading for Pune. It was pass through Kudal. These are fairly comfortable buses, with ordinary fair and just one door which is at the back. This bus had two drivers, one sleeping and the other driving the bus. One driver would drive till Kohlapur, and then the other would take over till Pune.

Bus rides in this region specially in this season is amazingly beautiful. There is so much of greenery, its almost like a highway going right through a thick forest. There is rain everywhere, lakes and ponds along roads, paddy fields full of water and palm trees, and hundreds of seasonal waterfalls falling along side the road. We crossed two rivers on way to Kudal, both almost touching the bridge from underneath. Kanwarjeet said, its highly likely we may not be able to return as the water may cross the bridge by afternoon. It was exciting for me to imagine that.

Its so much fun to travel with Kanwarjeet as he has millions of stories to share. And like me, almost all of them are his own personal experiences. And just like me he enjoys to tell these stories and even repeat them with same enthusiasm again and again. I do the same, often being pointed out by friends that I’ve already told them this story. And I would always think so what, hear it again. So when KJ would do the same, I would make sure to listen to it again with the same enthusiasm and not stop him in between.

We reached Kudal bus station at 9am. As both were hungry, we went to a small tea shop next to the station, had warm tea with vada paav, chhole bhaji and poha. Yummy and only yummy it was. Warm tea on a rainy day is even more better. Pingoli village is 4km from Kudal bus station, and so we decided to walk our way in the rain. It was so much fun to walk through puddles of water, protecting oneself from the water coming from underneath due to passing vehicles and not worrying about water falling from the sky. And walking gave us more opportunity to talk and laugh. We reached Pingoli after a 20min walk, only to be told that we have come to wrong place. We were looking for Thakar Adivasi Kalaa Aangan, which actually was on the Kudal Panjim highway and not in the village Pingoli. And so we had to go back again to Kudal and then another 2km on the highway to the Kalaa Aangan. This time we took an auto back, which was run by an old muslim uncle.

It was pouring heavily when we reached Kalaa Aangan. We had already called up shri Parshruram Gangawane about our arrival, the man we wanted to meet. He was there waiting for us. Parshruam ji is from a tribal community called Thakars, who main profession was to entertain the people. For this they had 11 different types of art forms. They would have puppet shows, shadow puppet shows made from leather, pata-chitras or paintings depicting all the scenes of Ramayana and Mahabharata, magic shows like hitting oneself with burning hunters and not being burnt, then various songs about Devi Bhawani etc. Theirs was a very well organized community which for most of the year traveled (except the 4 months of monsoon) from village to village entertaining the people. In return they would receive so much, that it would be impossible for them to carry all that. And so they would either exchange the access with currency coins (copper coins with hole in them) or just dump the access in the village and move on. The whole calculations actually showed me that they lived with a sense of prosperity. It again questions our conditioning where we would believe a nomadic life is basically a symbol of depriviation. The Thakars wore minimal clothes. The men wrapped around a cloth like a langote, while the women in addition to this wrapped another cloth on top to cover the breasts. The minimal clothes on body was not a sign of deprivation but of the climate in this region. It being a hot and humid all round year, people here traditionally wear just enough to cover the essential body parts.

Interestingly, as we talked more with Parshruram ji, we realized Thakars were not mere entertainers, but played a more significant role in the lives of villagers. He called him the ‘Prabodhakas’ or people who give Prabodhan. Thakars gave lessons on values, on a sense of right and wrong, on morals, on way of living, on life to the villagers. If one understands this correctly, one realizes it’s a community which is highly respected and revered by other communities (and not outcastes or untouchables). The village Panchayat when unable to resolve a dispute, would take assistance of Thakars to help resolve.

The Thakars also served as spies for the king. Since they traveled extensively, they had a general sense of pulse of the people, boiling issues and even conspiracies. So the whole community in a way was like a huge, vastly spread system of spies for the king. Imagine a spy who also gives lessons on values and morals, and also entertain people by telling stories of Ramayana and Mahabharata, helps resolve unsolvable disputes, and also carries herbs and shrubs as cure for many ailments. Such a community is ought to be valued in a society and cannot be treated as out caste or second level.

All this raised a fundamental question in my head. When I travel and talk to people like Parshruram ji, I get a different picture of the society (a rich, dynamic, healthy society). While when others travel and interact with the same people, they get a completely different picture (of exploitation, rape, untouchability, starvation etc). How is this possible? Do we talk to different people? Or do we talk about different times? Or do we ask different questions? Ravindra Sharma once warned me. He said if you ask them what are your problems, they will tell you about your problems. If you ask them what are your strengths, your knowledge systems etc then they will tell you about that. And so it actually depends on what questions we ask people, and the way we present ourselves to them. I think it’s important for me to go to them as no expert, as no problem solver, as not the one with solution, but go to them as a student and just live with them and observe. Im sure there will be so much for me to learn. Im here not discounting the efforts of all those people who have gone to the field with an intention to help. I in fact have great admiration for them and their courage. But im only trying to make a point that im seeing a completely different image of India than what ive read in books or have been told. I must also say, that everytime im doing an honesty check with in just to ensure im in the student frame of mind and nothing else. Ive just started a journey, and there is so much more to come my way.

Anyways, the most interesting thing that struck me and KJ was towards the end. When we visited a small museum maintained by Parshruramji, a small board outside read ‘Entry fee Rs. 20 (Rs.50 for foreigners). Photography allowed with special permission on payment of Rs. 50’. Parshruramji had maintained a small museum of various art forms of his community, which many people came to visit. He told us, that earlier the artists got so much that it was a problem to carry all that. Later post independence artists were being treated as beggars. And so now to survive he has put this fee in front of this museum. This was very interesting for KJ and me. The height prosperity was when they got without asking. Then the depreciated phase was when they had to ask people and therefore were treated as beggars. And now the even more depreciated phase is when they have put a price tag on themselves and their arts. I believe this state is worse than begging.

I remember this time during Pune visit, when I stayed over at chi’s place with Charzal and Appu also being present, Chi felt that she doesn’t know the art of selling herself when going for a job interview. In normal terms to sell oneself is actually a symbol of extreme depreciated state of living, but in today’s times it has become an ‘art’ to sell oneself at the best possible prices in job interviews. Appu tried to tell Chi that now she need not sell herself, where as Charzal was giving her tips on how best to sell herself when facing an interview.

I always thought Charzal was one fearless guy I had never seen before. He came all the way from Manipur to study Engg in Agra, not knowing the language, having no contacts at all. Yet he took no time to settle down there, make plenty of contacts, adjust to the new environment and finally pass out with an Engg degree in IT. He then struggled in Pune for 2 years to get a job, when everyone else of his batch got into one. Yet I never saw him worried or scared. He always lived like a free man with a confidence to survive no matter what happens. But this time when I met him, for the first time I saw him scared. Like everyone he was scared of being layed off due to recession, or not get an increment etc. This was shocking for me. His job, his salary, his performance in the company, the money he was now earning, his lifestyle, all that had actually made him weak from inside. I understand for urban grown people like us to feel scared of being layed off, but when people like Charzal or even Amit Tomar start feeling scared it really worries me. They are people who are well grounded, who have the skills other than push buttons on keyboard.

Anyways, our meeting with Pashruramji concluded by 1pm. We came out to the highway and decided to stop the bus there itself instead of going all the way back to Kudal bus stand. It was pouring. A Maharashtra state bus came, stopped, but it was so fully we could not get onto it. The bus went. More rain. More wind. KJ and I were talking about the state of community and the wrong vision of government since independence. And in between there were so many stories to share. Just then, don’t know what happened a truck passed by and I waved to it. It stopped. I ran towards it. KJ said are you sure. Yes of course, I’ve traveled for 5 years in truck in college. “Bhau Sawantwadi”? “Ho”. And we climbed onto it, keeping one foot on the foot stand and other onto to the cleaners coach. It was familiar for me to sit in there. Reminded me of time in Agra. We reached Sawantwadi bus stand in 30 min, which was 14km from Kudal. We were hungry, and so again looked for a smallish tea stall. Had pooris bhaji and hot tea. At the Sawantwadi bus stand KJ met an old friend Neelu who stays in Sawantwadi. She was typical Marathi lady coming from somewhere. And then came our bus to Panaji. It was a Maharashtra state bus coming from Dasgaon, going to Panaji. We got the last seat right in the end. As we traveled back, we noticed this time the water had almost over taken the bridge. It was scary at the first sight. Another 30 min and we reached home. It was 4pm till then. Yashodara was worried that Anant still hadn’t return from school. KJ said not to worry as he must be playing in some puddle of water. And he was right. The little fellow loves to jump in puddles and get drenched in the rain.

Later in the night during dinner, we told Yasho about our experience. She would connect to her own previous interactions with tribals in Kashalay, a place near Karjat near Mumbai. KJ and Yasho had lived for 5 years in Kashalay with the tribals. At that time they did not understood many of their things. But now, both Yasho and KJ were able to relate to many of those things. We all were very excited, and the dinner went on and on never to be finished. Anant was excited too seeing us excited. A happy family, and I was happy to be part of it for whatever little time.

Dilemmas and Failures

The last few months (almost an year) has been full of failures and dilemmas for me. I came up with fantastic theories about life, about living and yet when it came to me, i failed to live up to them. I failed in my own theories. And that hit me the hardest. To fail is always painful, but its alright to fail in a concept which was given by someone else. But to fail in one's own concept is like falling in one's own eyes. and it is tough, very tough.

I was (and still am) happy about the concepts I came up with. They were my own concepts. They may not necessarily have been new, but the fact that I discovered them on my own made me proud of myself. It was like stumbling onto some aspect of reality on my own. It was like for once not quoting anyone, but oneself. And the more I thought of those concepts, the more foolproof I found them. I actually thought that they work beautifully well in life. And then came a time, when I myself quit on these very concepts. I for once closed my eyes to the reality I myself had discovered. Like for example I had this concept of 'Not walking out' in a relationship, no matter what happens. I called it the 'Bottom line'. I saw this bottom line in many Indian families, including mine. I saw this man full of anger and helplessness beating his wife on a railway platform. And with each blow he gave to his wife, his anger would increase. He was angry at himself for venting out like this on his wife. And then he stopped, and decided to walk away. He decided to leave his wife and a little kid, and just walk away to a new life, to a new beginning. I saw him walk to the end of the platform and then stop. He stopped. He could not walk away. He stopped, turned back and came back to his wife, who sat there watching him leave. He came back to her, sat next to her and started crying. The wife also joined him, and they both wept quietly. They made their own little corner in the middle of the platform, in middle of people walking, trains coming and they cried. They shared there sadness together. For me that was love and only love. Thank god I m not a feminist (and belong to any other ism), otherwise I could so easily have missed that love and interpreted the whole thing as a form of domestic violence. I only saw love in the whole episode. And my theory of 'Not walking out' in a relation got grounded then.
I saw a very ordinary man, who is probably struggling to even arrange for daily meal, did not walk out. I still believe the promise we give to each other, that no matter what we shall not walk out, is the foundation of any relation. But when it came to my relation, I chose to walk out. I kept telling myself, look you can't walk out, yet I did. It was like killing one's own theory, like proving oneself wrong. It hit me hard, very hard.
I now and sit back and think about what happened. And the only reason Im able to give to myself is that its a matter of gap between 'vichaar' and 'vyavhaar'. We first think, and then we try to bring it into our lives in the form of behavior and work. But there is a journey which needs to be traveled from Vichaar in mind to Vyavhaar in actions and then finally to work in life. And during this journey we learn a lot about the theory, we stumble upon those fine, little points of reality which we had missed. I tell this to myself and feel better about me. I feel its still a journey for me where lot remains to be learnt. And so I tell myself, it's ok to make mistakes. But then am I justifying my mistakes? I keep swinging between these two points, and hence the mood swings.

I thought a million times before putting it on a blog. I will do it today. And no editing this time.

Some left over traces of what we were

In the middle of the hills lies Timbuktu collective. Timbuktu, originally is a place in Africa which was considered to be far off from 'civilization'. I guess thats why Bablu and Mary decided to name their organization Timbuktu. They probably wanted to to be far away from the modern civilized world. Timbuktu is 7km from Chennekothapalli, the nearest village. It's in Anantpur district in southern Andhra, known for its scanty rainfall. Due to less rain, the villages are located at quite a distance from each other. The nearest metro is Banglore city, about 160km from Chennekothapalli.

It was lunch time, everyone sat together in the Pakriti Badi (nature school), one of the many schools run by Timbuktu collective. Eating with hands somehow made the food even more tasty. As I ate, I watched Subbureddy, serve sambar. He must have been 7 years old. His one arm did not have a wrist, but he was as efficient as others. The other kids too, took him to be just like everyone else. No one thought that he has some body part missing. And so there was no special treatment given to him in their behavior. This gave me a sense of reassurance. I always felt, we lot of times over do our care specially for those whom we feel have been hard hit by nature or society. I feel its a delicate balance one must maintain between taking care and not over caring. And so I called subbureddy. He served me sambar. Then I requested him to give me some water also. He put his bucket down, took the glass from my hand and went to the earthen pot. He kept the glass on floor, then lifted the lid off the pot, put it against his chest and held it using the other hand (the lid placed in between the little chest and the deformed hand). He then lifted the glass and put it inside the pot to fill it with water. And then again kept the glass on the floor. Then he put the lid back on the pot, took the glass and gave it to me. All this was one smooth action. It didnt require any thought from him. It seemed to be hardwired. I thanked him, and kept watching him while he continued serving sambar.

Kalyani took us to a village called Hariamcheruvu, some 7km from Chennekothapalli. We wanted to meet some weavers there. I saw a handloom for the first time in life, and a weaver weaving. It was an amazingly patient and humble job. The weaver would make the saree thread by thread. He would put one thread, then change the whole settings, then place another thread and then change the settings again. They say its a job of a mind which is calm and peaceful. It seemed so true to me seeing the weaver weave. And to have a mind in peace given all the economic hardships they are facing is simply amazing. I can't think of any other word than courage. And I think this courage comes from an underlying faith that things will be good. The faith in future, the faith in nature (or god). I believe its the same faith which Gandhi thought was India's strength.

We also met a shephard in Hariamcheruvu. A shephard is someone who makes threads from wool of sheep. He was 96 years old. He had quit working about 2 years back. He proudly told us that he can still walk, and read (and of course speak). Only recently he started having trouble with his hearing, but if one would speak coming near to him, he would understand. Kalyani asked him, if he still had some hand made thread left with him. He sure did. He started emptying his bag (made of old cloth). He slowly emptied it completely. Right at the bottom was a bundle of thread, he had made it himself from sheep wool. In every marriage this man is required to tie this thread around wrists of the newly wed.

Indian marriages (and even other festivals) are such that it calls for participation from every caste in the village. Caste is actually a poor word to describe the hindi word 'Jaati', which refers to profession. It is said, that 39 'Jaatis' or professions make a village. It means that on average each village would have 39 different kinds of professions in it (some may have more and some less). And so marriage is one such occasion, where each profession would contribute. The contribution of this man was the thread he makes from sheep wool. When he decided to quit working, he made sure he keeps stock of the thread with him. He keeps a list of people in the village who are of marriageable age. He is living for them to get married so that he can perform his duty.

The concept of giving, giving till the last breath is still strong in Indian society. To me it looks like one of the fundamental concept on which a society can be founded. This man was living to give. If someone tells him not to worry about his duty and just relax, Im sure he would die the next day.

Then something happened. I dont know what it was, but this man gave us a small portion of that thread. The thread was the most valuable thing he possessed. He gave a part of it to us. To me it is the most cherished gift I had ever received. I didnt know what to say. There were a few drops that made my eyes wet. We then moved on.

Next we visited a potter family in another village called Polepalli. The old potter was now ill, and so he stopped making pots. So his wife, borrowed some money and bought about 50-100 pots from near by village and stocked them. The reason was same. Just like the shephard, even a potter has a responsibility to perform in marriages (and other festivals). The lady potter wanted to make sure that her husband's retirement does not effect this responsibility adversely. She had borrowed money to make sure the family is able to contribute.

In one of my conversations with Kanwarjit, he had mentioned that its one of the most fundamental needs of humans to share. It's the need to share beyond our family which completes us. And I think this completeness is both as an individual and also as a society. But what we were seeing here was more than sharing. Or shall I say different form of sharing. The usual meaning of sharing is, that one first fulfills ones needs, and then share with others whatever is extra. But here it was different. It came from the concept of first sharing and then consuming whatever is left. This seems to be the foundation of Jajmani, whose trace we were seeing there.

Navjyotiji defines the word Rakshas as, “someone who worries about swayam ki raksha” ( a deamon is the one who is worried about one's welfare). Traditionally the concept has been to leave one's welfare into the hands of others, while accepting the responsibility of a part of others' welfare. The concept has been to give the best product of one's work to others, while keeping the left over for one's consumption. This has also been one of the very few critique of Gandhi I have come across. Gandhi insisted that one must first produce for oneself and then share the rest, while the weavers were of the view that if they take this approach, their profession would die. The profession would die if one starts keeping the best produce for oneself.

I feel there is still so much for me learn (and also un-learn). The prospect of more traveling, or meeting more people excites me more than ever.

The need for a private space

Private space! What does it mean? Why do we need it so much in today's time? Was its need the same even in previous generations? I do not know.

Me and many people i know of my generation feel a need to that space, which is just reserved for oneself. That one little space, that one little moment where one is just with oneself, where one can fully live an emotion or a thought. A space where not even we ask ourselves why are we thinking a thought or why are we feeling an emotion. It's a space where one faces oneself in the mirror truely. That is probably what this private space gives one.

So where do i get this space? I buy my own house away from my parents, to enjoy this space. Or i have my own room in the family house, which gives me this space. If not even a room, i at least have a few private moments in bathroom, which are just for me exclusively. Every one in my house finds whatever little private space available. I guess everyone needs it as badly as i do.

But there is one person in the house who doesn't have this space. She is Pooja, who has come from Bihar state to help us out in our work. She has traveled almost a thousand miles to wash our plates, to clean our floor, to wash our clothes, to make our beds every morning. And she is learning to do all that slowly. She is learning how i like my food being served, how i like to see my room. She is learning the way i like the sheet tucked in the bed, how i like to see the pillow placed on the bed. She is trying to learn the reason behind why eat different rice, while for her its different. She is trying to learn the meaning of what i mean by the word 'hygiene'. She is learning all that with full details and specifications.

And in between all this learning and making mistakes, she misses her family back in Bihar. She misses the open fields in her village. The idea of concrete walls all around is completely new to her. And so while she misses all that, she might also feel the need of that much valued private space. In my house, she finds that space either in one corner of the kitchen, or in the small balcony in my house or on the stairs in the building in afternoon when no one uses them. These are the places where she sits unnoticed, quietly trying to live the emotions and thoughts which she controls all day.

Dasvidaniya-what does it mean?

Dasvidaniya! Dasvidaniya. Wondered what it meant. Someone told me its a russian word. I heard this when the movie of this name released. In the film the character while going away from a friend waves and says Dasvidaniya. So i thought means saying bye. The word Alvida came to mind. Then when the movie ends, it says 'Dasvidaniya-The best goodbye ever!'

The best goodbye ever. The best goodbye ever.

I wonder what does the word ever signify here? Will there be no better goodbyes now? or will there be no goodbyes now? Is this goodbye the last goodbye, never to meet again? I still don't know.

Did I scare you?

It was a winter afternoon in Delhi. The winter sun is really pleasant in Delhi. Most people prefer sitting out in the sun on off days. We were all gathering in our Pitampura house. This is where my grandparents (nana-nani) lived. It was some family occasion, and we were all reaching there from where ever we had been. I was coming from Agra, where my college was.

Just as I entered the building, with my bag on the shoulders I felt as if the elevator had opened and someone just got in. I ran towards it, and just as the door could close, I stuck my arm inside. The door opened again. There was a school girl inside. I walked in.

I kept my bag down, and pressed number 5 for the fifth floor. Since I was coming straight from hostel, I did not get the opportunity to shave for the function. It had been more than a month since I shaved last. And so I had a good healthy beard on me (some people I know, might object to the word healthy here).

I started feeling that my look was making this girl a little uncomfortable. It seemed for her, the elevator was shrinking in size, and she wished for more space. It was also taking its sweet time to climb up to fifth floor. And it seemed unlikely anyone else would join us in it, as we climb up. I looked at this girl (being careful to not stare at her, just look). She seemed to be coming directly from her school, as she still had the uniform on and a little bag on her shoulders. She definetly seemed uncomfortable with me in the elevator. And was probably cursing the elevator for moving too slow. The distance between us would be not have been more than a feet, with only my bag lying in between us.

For some reason I kept looking at her. And she was looking everywhere but me. She looked at the door, then looked up the electronic display to see which floor we had reached. It was still the second floor. Then she looked at her wrist watch. It was a small cute wrist watch, much like those which girls wear. And then again she looked at the electronic display. Maybe she thought of getting down on the next floor itself, and then walk up the stairs. She wanted to take a decision, but she could not. It was one of those moments, where one senses trouble but isn't sure if it is actually trouble. Waiting for the trouble seems suicidal, while the fear of embarrassing oneself when there is actually nothing to fear of is also there. My friend tells me, how often girls face this dilemma in their lives. This girl seemed to be in a similar situation.

I realized me and my beard were making her uncomfortable. And the fact that I was looking right at her were making things worse. But I was still looking at her. To me, it seemed I know her. It seemed that I have seen this girl before, somewhere. It seemed I know this girl. But where? I just couldn't recollect. And while I was trying to recollect, I kept looking at her (which by now would have been staring at her).

"Nancy", I said loudly. She looked at me with a sense of amaze. "Nancy?" (this time it was more of a question. "Jhummu Bhaiya", she said loudly, with a sense of relief and excitement and happiness. It was a mixture of all that. She was my cousin Aditi (fondly called as Nancy in the family, as I was called Jhummu). "Kaisi hai yaar? Did I scare you?". She hugged me. We were meeting after many many years though we lived in the same city. Our mothers were sisters, and we were cousins.

Long time back, our mothers had some difference of opinion as a result we never visited each others' house. As we grew up, we started demanding seeing our cousins, meeting them, but somehow the opportunity never came. This occasion at my grandparents' house was the first such occasion in many years, where the whole family was gathering. And it so happened I met Nancy in the elevator.

The door opened, and we were on the 5th floor. The elevator which was moving too slow just a while back, seemed to have broken the sound barrier and got to the floor in a flash. As we entered the house, the whole family was there. All my uncles, aunts, elder cousins and even the younger ones. My grandparents were having a blast with so many people in there. In all, I think we were 4 generations in that house that day.

Mumbai day II -- Visiting Giriraj, Afghan Church and Hanging Garden

Day II begins from II Grenadiers mess. I get up early and go for a walk outside. The santri at the gate salutes, saying " Ram Ram saab". Each battalion in army has its own way of wishing each other. I guess for the Grenadiers it is 'Ram Ram'. 'Ram Ram' happens to be a very common form of wishing and greeting each other in western U.P. Once as a kid while I was going to my village along with dad, I remember a muslim man sitting on the way wishing us that way " Ram Ram ji" and my father responded back by saying "Ram Ram ji". I then asked dad, as to why a mussalmaan would also wish taking Ram's name. I don't quite remember his exact answer, but that incident left a mark on me. It just showed the character of our country, our society. We intellectuals can interpret this incident in anyway we wish, but that will not change anything.

Anyways, back to Mumbai Artee had to buy something from Tanishq which was located near Churchgate. I had plans to visit Giriraj who lives near Bombay Hospital, walking distance from Churchgate. So I decided to accompany Artee and Mausiji to Tanishq. It was 10am, and the shop had just opened. As we entered it, I already started feeling out of the place. What was I doing there? As we reached the counter a lady was already sitting there attended by a sales girl. The first sentence I heard in the shop was that of this lady, complaining why the air conditioner was not working. The day had just started, it was hot at all, but this lady wanted an a/c. It simply put me off. I told mausiji that I was leaving and would meet them in afternoon. I just walked out. Walked to Marine lines and sat on the platform facing the sea. Nice breeze blew across my face, and at that time of the day not many people were there. The traffic on the road too was minimal. Sitting there and watching the sea was really good. It was one of the few moments this time when I felt the sense of belonging to the city.

It was 10.30 am by now, and I called Giriraj. We were suppose to meet at 11am. When I had called him yesterday for an appointment, I made sure to use Kanwarjit's name. That made him grant me 30 min on sunday morning. I was to reach at 11 sharp. I walked to Bombay hospital from Marine lines. On reaching the gate of his apartment building, the guard stopped me. I told where I intended to go. On carefully seeing my twice from top to bottom he said ,"Chautha mala" (fourth floor) pointing towards the lift. The word 'mala' is used in Mumbai meaning floor level. In Delhi the for commonly used word is 'manzil'.

I rang the bell at exactly 11am. Giriraj was waiting for me. And we started talking. I spent first 5 min telling about myself, my research area and how Kanwarjit told me about him. After listening to me, he asked me a direct question (not wasting much time) "How can I be of any help?". "oh no no. I dont require any help. I just thought of meeting you. I heard that you had spent some time with Dharampal ji when he was in Wardha. And I thought you would be able to give me some guidance regarding my research area." He looked a little surprised to me. I think he had assumed, I was there for some work. Being a senior IAS officer, many people must be visiting him through some reference for some work or the other. And he thought I was one such person. It took some time for him to realize that I was just visiting him 'Bas Aise Hi'. The concept that someone would visit without an agenda at all seemed so difficult to believe. In modern time, I would be called a 'vella person'.

Well soon he became pretty comfortable and we began talking. I could sense his comfort by his body language. He became a lot more informal now. Folded his legs and sat on the cot. Spread his arms. While he spoke, his hands moved more freely now. I too became a lot relaxed. I bent backwards and used the back rest of the sofa. Soon his wife came and served me Poha. Aaah, lovely. Poha and vada paav were two things I was missing desperately. Soon the 30 min were over, but we were just talking. He was talking about his experience in Yavatmal distt when he was posted there as a collector. His interactions with the farmers and artisans. His interactions with Dharampal ji. His understanding of the Indian culture, and it being a possible solution to all modern day problems. He also talked about the critique of Indian tradition, esp the dalit question. And the major challenge was to mould Indian tradition in todays times. Soon it was over an hour. I was wondering when to ask for leave. He then asked me, "how busy are you today?". "Not much I said". " Good, then lets have lunch together and continue this conversation"....

What to say, I was glad. This man too was enjoying this meeting, just like me. He then went inside and got some old photographs. Then he got a dhoti, which was hand made by some tribals living in Andhra-Orissa border. He showed me the quality of the cloth, and the work which was put in to make that dhoti. We then talked about weavers and other artisans. I told him about this book which Kanwarjit gave me recently 'Art and Swadeshi'. We then had lovely south Indian lunch. And after lunch again we talked. Our 30 min meeting lasted for 2 and half hours. It included a nice yummy poha and a lovely lunch. I was really happy to meet him, and Im sure he too was. He then directed me to the bus stand, and told me which bus to take for Colaba.

I reached back at the mess. In the evening we went to visit Mausaji. Artee also took me to Afgan church, one of the land mark in the cantt area. It was built by the British after the Afghan war. Later in the evening, Artee took me to a drive. We landed at the Hanging garden in Malabar hills. An old Gujju lady guided us to it. It seemed a nice place. A green patch in the middle of concrete jungle. People had come out in the evening for walks. All kinds of them, old couple, kids playing, old parsi women, fat men and women trying to burn body fat. So we decided to walk round the park too. It was too tempting for me, and so I took out my sandals and walked bare feet. I was also trying to see how Artee would react to it. I also wanted to encourage her to walk like that. But she didnt. Then she said, lets walk on the grass. The grass was wet, and I could feel it. It was more fun walking on grass bare feet. I then told her what Abey George told me some months back. I told her, we hardly get a chance to touch soil in our lives. Most of the time we touch concrete or plastic or rubber, but no soil. After this, she too took off her shoes and socks and walked bare feet. I don't know how she felt, but I was really happy to see her 'break free' (in my terms).

We reached back at the hospital by 8pm. Then I had dinner. And then by 9.30pm I decided to leave for Vashi. My mausaji and mausiji there were getting worried. They didnt think much of the idea of me traveling late in the night. I took a bus from R.C church for CST. And then a local train at 10.20pm for Vashi. I reached home at Vashi by 11.30pm. I was glad to see Mausiji and Mausaji. I kind of felt free also. Took off my clothes, with just my chaddi on. I was at home now, kaisi sharam.