The Odisha Odyssey

Chapter - 15 : The Fork

'Get up,' Mama instructed, rolling up a bedsheet into a perfect rope and whipping me where the sun didn't shine. I groaned and sat up slowly, like an ancient mummy being brought back to life. I stayed, watching the sun creep in through the gap in the curtains. With a battle cry, Mama threw them open and picked up her whip. I bolted for the bathroom.

'Come on, become sentient,' Mama coaxed me, smacking my cheeks lightly.

'Sentience is what caused all problems in the first place,' I mumbled through the toothbrush in my mouth.

'I do not want to get to the bottom of that,' Mama declared, throwing up her hands and walking out the door. 'Come down to the canteen when you've evolved.'

I ate with Uncle and Aunty. Mama prodded me with a fork to hurry me up. My parents were already done, sitting excitedly, fidgeting with all the cameras in their lives.

'We've come at a very good time for migratory birds,' Papa said, going over the book of local birds. 'I'm hoping to capture the elusive night heron today.'

We carried some peanuts and oranges and set off. The early morning sky was light blue, with a thin haze over it. 'There's a mild hurricane formation off the Odisha coast,' Papa commented. 'I saw the satellite images today.' 

The landscape changed rapidly. We saw tiny embankments, some filled with brackish water and reeds, while some dry and cracked. The rains started and ended early here.  

There was a diversion in the road, and a guy standing near a tree told us to take the left, along the huge poster of a dolphin. It looked legit. 

Uncle's mustache twitched in suspicion, and he checked Google maps for the correct location. 'No no, it's straight ahead,' he told Chintu. 'They've been planted here to mislead us.' We went straight ahead as Uncle yelled 'Nice try' out the window. 

I saw a drongo sitting on a wire, its forked tail cutting into the sky sharply. We turned into Chilika Lake, the second largest lagoon in the world.

By Dr. Raju Kasambe - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=17996941

The black drongo (Dicrurus macrocercus). The species is known for its aggressive behaviour towards much larger birds, such as crows, never hesitating to dive-bomb any bird of prey that invades its territory. This behaviour earns it the informal name of king crow. Being commonly found on telephone lines, they have a wide range of local names. Local names include Kalkalachi in Sindhi, Kotwal (policeman) in Hindi; Finga in Bengali; Phenshu in Assamese; Cheiroi in Manipuri; Kalo koshi in Gujarati; Ghosia in Marathi; Kajalapati in Oriya; Kari kuruvi (charcoal bird), Erettai valan (two tail) in Tamil; Passala poli gadu in Telugu; Kaaka tampuratti (queen of crows) in Malayalam; Kari bhujanga in Kannada and Kalu Kawuda in Sinhalese. A superstition in central India is that cattle would lose their horn if a newly fledged bird alighted on it. It is held in reverence in parts of Punjab in the belief that it brought water to Husayn ibn Ali, revered by Shī‘a Muslims.

Chapter - 16 : The Water

For a world-famous tourist spot, there wasn't as much a commercial landscape as we thought; a small restaurant that served lunch caught the same day, an Odisha Tourism Department boating office, and a coconut water stall. I made a beeline for the coconuts. 

'Unna helneer kodi,' I spoke from muscle memory, and realized this wasn't Karnataka almost immediately. 'Bhaiyya, ek nariyal paani.' 

He grinned and handed me a giant one. I drank directly from the cut mouth which he'd sculpted like a spout. It was salty and tangy, and most importantly; bountiful. 

'Mama, I've evolved,' I told her sagely as she appeared, grinning. 'Get the ones with thin malai for all of us, we're coming.' She replied.

He opened six, and I downed one on the spot. It was honey-sweet, and even the texture was thicker than any I'd tasted before. I saved one to drink with my family.

'We can pre-order lunch at that restaurant, so it'll be ready by the time we come back.' Aunty said after we were done with the coconuts.

Ordering was easy (except my mother restraining me from asking for one of each), since they had Chilika specials and nothing else.We were by the pier in no time, looking at our kheveyya pulling in what was essentially a large canoe with a roof. After a lot of balancing and weight-shifting, we settled in snugly.

We pushed off, and I felt the familiar sway of the aquatic hammock, the floating sensation, and the descending calm of the water. It was a motor-boat, so tranquility went for a toss, but it faded away once I focused in on other sounds; a trick one of my seniors from music club had taught me.

Our gondolier slowed down the boat, pointing calmly to a patch of water, and nonchalantly muttered, 'Irrawaddy Dolphin.'

We craned our necks in that direction, bewildered, until two dolphins pirouetted over the water in a stunning arc, like a momentary rainbow. Before we knew what was happening, we were all at the edge of boat, clicking away, while our boatman yelped anxiously at us to distribute the weight.

Soon, we were surrounded by them, making our eyes dart about with every flurry they caused. They were sleek, grey-blue Irrawaddy dolphins, with round childish eyes and a fixated smile, which on a human would have been grounds for a restraining order.

'Almost got one,' Papa showed me a very expressive photograph, with splashes of water and a cheeky mugshot - but it was too blurry. 'It's a very short window. They can reappear anywhere, and disappear as soon as you blink.'

All of us relaxed, going back to our posts, much to the relief of our ferryman. We sat and watched the dolphins playing catch with the sun, smiling at us. I felt like joining them.

We approached an island, inviting us with its dense forest and the calls of birds. Papa spotted a flock of Brahminy ducks and stood up. They formed a playful flock of their own, sisters to the dolphins.

Our Charon directed the boat to the coast of the otherworld, and I could feel the dolphins watch us go, leaving no remembrances except ripples in the water.

The ruddy shelduck (Tadorna ferruginea), known in India as the Brahminy duck. In their breeding quarters, the birds are very aggressive towards their own kind and towards other species. The female in particular approaches intruders with head lowered and neck outstretched, uttering anger calls. If the intruder stands its ground, the female returns to the male and runs round him, inciting him to attack. It is a migratory bird, wintering in the Indian subcontinent. Buddhists regard the ruddy shelduck as sacred and this gives the birds some protection in central and eastern Asia, where the population is thought to be steady or even rising. In Europe on the other hand, populations are generally declining as wetlands are drained and the birds are hunted.

Chapter - 17 : The Flock

Everyone stumbled out, crossing a thin plank to land on the island. There were more coconuts to go around, and we gulped them eagerly, thirsty from the salty peanuts we'd munched on the boat. Papa tried to get as close to the flocks of birds as he could without alarming them or falling into the marsh.

'There are so many. Egrets, ducks, herons, storks...I think there's even a darter bird there.' Papa said, almost dropping the coconut malai. 'We've come at the right time for migratory birds.'

Papa sat and explained how the flight pattern and posture was sometimes a more reliable indication of the species, as most colours, patterns and sizes were easily misjudged. I nodded, remembering how lighting and distance had caused a lot of my artworks to mutate in front of my eyes. 

Mama had found another spectacle to direct her curiosity at. There was a lone tree, with a red cloth tied to one of its branches. 

'There's no other tree of this species here.' Mama told me. 'And its not even suited for this climate and soil. How could it have gotten here?' 

Life finds a way, I remembered from Jurassic Park. There was this lingering hope that no matter what we'd done or do to the planet, it'd always heal. A dog crossed the marsh in front of us, sending the little stilts and redshanks scurrying about, flapping their wings in alarm. One particular stilt hopped closer to us, separating from the flock.

The black-winged stilt (Himantopus himantopus). The scientific name Himantopus comes from the Greek meaning "strap foot" or "thong foot". The breeding habitat of all these stilts is marshes, shallow lakes and ponds. Some populations are migratory and move to the ocean coasts in winter. The diet of the black-winged stilt is variable according to season, but typically comprises aquatic insects, molluscs, crustaceans, spiders, worms, tadpoles, small fish, fish eggs and seeds. With its long legs, it can wade into deeper water, where it may be seen snatching insects that hover over the water’s surface, dipping its head below the water to catch small fish, or pulling small worms from the mud.



'There's another spot up ahead, where we'll see lots of birds.' Our oarsman grunted. 'We should leave for that.'

Everyone climbed back in gingerly, and our flock sailed off to see others.

Chapter - 18 : The Kite

We'd left all land far behind. The only indication that we were still in a lagoon was a tiny green line at the horizon - the peacock island. That's where we were going for the birds.

On the way, we saw various groups of migratory birds, exhibiting themselves like the inauguration procession of all participating countries of the Olympics. 

'What are those poles sticking out of the water?' Mama pointed at some stilt-like branches the birds were perched upon.

'They use those for fishing. They attach nets to them and enclose a specific area where schools have been observed.' Chintu told us. 'The birds observe this and perch upon them, ready to have their fill before the fishermen come back.' He grinned. 'The early birds get everything.'

Egrets and pond herons perched close to the nets, cocking their heads to the side and waiting for the right moment to pounce. My father and his camera were doing something similar.

'Grey heron,' he pointed with an excited whisper. Our captain rowed slowly along the nets, until we could see every black stripe on its neck. We were all admirably quiet, and there was no sound in the lake except the ripples caused by our vehicle and the soft clicking of cameras.

A cattle egret flew by and landed on a grassy marsh right in the middle of the water. 'Look, a black-headed ibis. It's near threatened - I've only seen it here and in Bhavnagar,' Mama said. Another ibis joined it, and the trio frolicked together, preening their feathers and sunning.

'A gull,' Papa pointed to one of the fishing poles. Never a dull moment. 'We can get a really close look.' And the boat, as if it had heard him, nudged itself in that direction. 'This is Nat Geo level,' I commented, looking at Papa's photos.

The black-headed gull (Chroicocephalus ridibundus). In the breeding season, the head turns completely black. They primarily feed on worms, insects, fish and carrion. They are migratory birds; however, huge populations have been found far inland, a very uncommon trait among gulls. 



Terns, cormorants, egrets of all sizes, and the solitary grey heron - all flitted about like pieces in wizard chess, part of a larger hive mind directing the game.

We made our way back in silence, glimpsing more birds and the occasional dolphin, all of us heading off together for lunch. The sky had grown brighter and the sun warmer, and our throats thirsted for coconut water again.

As we alighted from the boat, a Brahminy Kite landed on one of the closer poles, with its back to us.

'This is also a breeding ground for a lot of birds. Most of them will stay here until their younglings can fly with them southwards.' Mama told me. 'What joy it is, to see your child make his first flight.' She squeezed my shoulder and left.

I stayed on the pier, waiting for the kite to fly away.

Chapter - 19 : The Flight

The sky is vast, my child, and the wind is wild, but you are strong,
And I have held you in my warm embrace from the storm, for far too long,
So flap your tiny wings as nature sings, and take this song,
And fly away, my child...fly away.

Remember what I taught, don't be distraught, by slips and falls,
And soar with eyes towards the sky, and don't be shy, when summer calls,
As you grow up, you'll see what life can be, how it enthralls,
So fly away, my child...fly away.

Maybe, one day you'll find this world's designed to foster none,
Maybe you'll find on every fir, a predator, a loaded gun,
You'll melt and fall ashore, when once you soar, too close to the sun,
But not today, my child...not today.

When you have tots awaiting their first flight, remind yourself,
Of this doting ditty, and sing when you bring them behind yourself,
Miss me in the clouds, my angel, when you fly to find yourself,
Now fly away, my child...fly away. 

By Challiyil Eswaramangalath Vipin from Chalakudy, India - Brahminy kite series #3, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3667672

The brahminy kite (Haliastur indus). It is distinctive and contrastingly coloured, with chestnut plumage except for the white head and breast and black wing tips. It's about the same size as the black kite and has a typical kite flight, with wings angled, but its tail is rounded instead of forked. It is primarily a scavenger, feeding mainly on dead fish and crabs, especially in wetlands and marshland, but occasionally hunts live prey such as hares and bats.They may also indulge in kleptoparasitism and attempt to steal prey from other birds. Brahminy kites have even been recorded taking advantage of Irrawaddy dolphins herding fish to the surface. In Hinduism, it is considered as the contemporary representation of Garuda, the sacred bird of Vishnu. For the Ibans of the Upper Rajang, Sarawak, Borneo, a brahminy kite is believed to be the manifestation of Singalang Burung when he comes down to earth. Singalang Burung is the ultimate deity of incomparable qualities and superior abilities in every dimension. He is also known as the god of war.

Chapter - 20 : The Fish

'This is a special bhangan fish, only found in Chilika lake. Also presenting the Chilika crab, and the Chilika tiger prawns,' the waiter told me, looking at me like I was Hannibal Lecter. He stretched his arms and kept the plates warily, as if I was going to bite his hand off.  

'It has a unique texture - it actually tastes like how one would expect a brackish water fish to.' Papa said. 'It's not that fishy, Rupa,' he turned to my mother and offered a piece. 'You might like it.'

Mama took a piece delicately and chewed it. 'I give it an F for fishy,' she concluded, 'But yes, nowhere close to the seawater ones.'

After everyone was done, me and Papa set out to dismantle the crab, while Aunty told us about how expert Odiyas would just tap a spoon at the right places and break open the shell. I was hungry, so I just crushed everything and put in it my mouth. 'It's good,' I grimaced, chewing on the shell and waiting for the meat.

'Why do I hear crunching?' Papa asked and Mama burst out laughing. I scowled and passed the crab to him, watching in awe as he opened up the exoskeleton like it was a candy wrapper.

The hard-earned crab meat was delicious, with a tough, juicy consistency. I ignored the masala and simply focused on the main attraction.

'Have your carbs,' Mama glared at me. 'These aren't "snecks",' she imitated our Konark guide. I curled my hand up like a darter bird's neck and pecked at the crab meat.

By Kaippally - Own work, CC BY 2.5, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2167223

The Oriental darter or Indian darter (Anhinga melanogaster). Like the cormorant, it hunts for fish while its body is submerged in water. It spears a fish underwater, bringing it above the surface, tossing and juggling it before swallowing the fish head first. The body remains submerged as it swims, and the slender neck alone is visible above the water, which accounts for the colloquial name of snakebird. Like the cormorants, it has wettable feathers and it is often found perched on a rock or branch with its wings held open to dry. In some parts of northeastern India, darters were are used by tribals to capture fish from streams. A ring is tied around the neck to prevent them from swallowing the prey just as is done with cormorant fishing in parts of Southeast Asia.


I took some rice reluctantly and moved on to the tiger prawns. They were the easiest to eat, succulent and almost creamy. However, the thickness of the larger variety meant that almost none of the flavour of the spices it was cooked in percolated through - not that it needed it.

'In most cases, the gravy is only for the rice, it doesn't really bother the seafood,' Aunty smiled, reading my mind. 'Marine life comes with its own flavours.'

'Yeah, how's that mercury tasting?' Mama asked, immediately collapsing into a fit of giggles, while I protested. And then we compared the sustainability and nutritional benefits of being a vegetarian vs being a carnivore.

'As all resources are dwindling, animal farming will have a larger energy and carbon and nitrogen footprint,' Mama concluded, banging her fist on the table.

'No footprints if I eat the legs,' I muttered, and Mama punched my stomach.

We got the bill when I was on my last prawn, and I looked back out into the water to see it darkening. It was just 4 pm, and the day was already ending. I saw a distant flock of storks, probably flying on to where summer was calling them. I followed them with my eyes until they winked out into the sky.

'Come on,' Mama smiled at me and made for the car. I took one last look at the fish, and followed her.

Chapter - 21 : The Flower

We sat at the back and corroborated our identifications of the Chilika birds with Salim Ali's book. 'We did see terns there, right?' I asked Papa as I peeled an orange, poring over the photographs in the book. 'Don't spill orange juice on it,' Mama told me sternly. 'And yes, we saw the whiskered tern. There is a good photograph, I think.'

The whiskered tern (Chlidonias hybrida). In breeding plumage, it has a black crown and white cheeks and sides of neck. It prefers shallow terrestrial freshwater wetlands, freshwater swamps, brackish and saline lakes, floodwaters, sewage farms, irrigated croplands and large dams. They eat mainly small fish, amphibians, crustaceans, insects and their larvae. There are three main methods of feeding; plunging, dipping and hawking. Plunging involves a hover then dive, with wings raised above water. They may also hover and dive to take insects in paddocks. Dipping means that they fly low over water, skimming the surface to take insects from on or just below it. Hawking is taking insects during flight; mostly over dry plains.

'There's a better chance of spotting more varieties at Bhitarkanika Sanctuary.' Papa said. 'There'll be aquatic, migratory and arboreal birds there. We're going day after tomorrow.'

'Yay,' I said and went back to eating the orange. Mummy took the book from me and gave it to Papa.

Dusk embraced us as we drove back towards Puri. The sun had lost its excited white and turned a melancholy yellow. The sky looked like a drop of bright paint on a wet cerulean cloth.

'Hey that's a kewra flower!' Papa piped up, looking out the window. Chintu stopped the car and we all dismounted to take a closer look. Out of sheer luck, the flower fell as soon as we touched the branch. I picked it up and Papa took a photograph.

It was very slender, with velvety white petals. There were a lot of white pistils with pale yellow stigmas. And the smell, of course, one of the most heavenly I had ever experienced. I remember Papa had once sprinkled kewra water on sheerkorma (milky vermicelli sweet dish) for Eid.

'Natural kewra essence is now really expensive. Our institute gave the process which is used to manufacture the synthetic version everywhere.' Papa said proudly.

I put the flower in the car, and spotted a white-breasted kingfisher on a tree stump. I nudged Mama - she was already ready with the camera.

I looked back to see Papa looking at a bee-eater and a drongo on the telephone wires.

We also spotted three black-winged stilts near a pond; two female and one male.

'It's like a conference of birds.' Mama chuckled. I looked at her quizzically. 'The Conference Of The Birds is a masterpiece by Attar of Nishapur.' She explained.

'In it, the Hoopoe guides all birds towards the Valley of the Simorgh, a legendary bird, to find enlightenment. Each bird represents a flaw in humanity that keeps them from nirvana. They begin the journey, and a lot of them die, but thirty birds make it - to find that they themselves are the Simorgh. Simorgh in Farsi means thirty birds, incidentally.'

'Woah,' I gushed. 'It's the quintessential finding-yourself-through-a-long-journey parable.'

'Although the Simorgh is also an actual bird,' Mama continued. 'It is widely believed to be the Persian counterpart of the Phoenix.'

We called out to Papa and he jogged to us, showing us a picture of the two small birds with the sun in the background. He clicked one last picture of the Kingfisher as it flew off, and we got back into the car.

Night was very close, and the motion of the car was like a lullaby to my senses. We would reach our hotel in an hour. Gobbling the last orange slice, I stuck my nose inside the kewra flower like a sunbird and smelt it for the last time, carrying off the fragrance to my dreams, to bring to the Simorgh.

"If Simorgh unveils its face to you, you will find

that all the birds, be they thirty or forty or more,

are but the shadows cast by that unveiling.

What shadow is ever separated from its maker?

Do you see?

The shadow and its maker are one and the same..."

- Farid ud-Din Attar, Maqāmāt-uṭ-Ṭuyūr (The Conference Of The Birds) 

Photos, courtesy of Razi Abdi and Rupa Abdi.

Rupa Abdi's Blog: https://travelnaama471249025.wordpress.com/
Anjana's Blog: https://anjlifeexperiences.wordpress.com

Vedant's YouTube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC_-wTP-OKAF6HskDOqSeREw
Vedant's Instagram Page: https://www.instagram.com/vedantsapra/

The Odisha Odyssey

Chapter - 8 : Crimson Crowing

My eyes opened of their own accord, and I stared up at the blue ceiling, a canvas from which the colours of my dreams were dripping away. I waited until the last drop had flown away, and sat up. It was 5 am.

I put on slightly warmer clothes and slipped out, walking past the ever-darkening aquarium, and welcomed Pratyusha - the twilight before the dawn, entering the beach. As I trudged through the sand, I could see the local fishermen dragging their nets and boats out of the water. I remember Aunty telling me that they would cook fresh catch for early risers by the coast.

The wind was strong and cold. I walked closer to the water - it would be pretty warm right now. The incoming wave proved me wrong.

'All right then,' I whispered and took off my slippers, keeping them out of reach. It was time to battle the waves.

The first one almost knocked me off my feet, more because of the chill than the force. My body adjusted quickly and I waded in further, until the waves were staring down at me. My footing was strong, but I knew one violent breaker could wash me away. I stayed, synchronizing myself with the Rhythm of the ocean.

I gauged each billow, trying to determine how high the level of water could be when it reached me, and bracing myself accordingly. Soon I was drenched from head to toe, but the waves were just getting higher. I tried jumping with the crescendo, using my stomach as a surfboard. The waves kept taking me back and forth, until I felt like I was on an aquatic hammock, one of the long-dissolved sand sculptures.

There was a haze in the sky, so I couldn't spot the sunrise rainbow, but the horizon changed hues in the same progression, like an iron rod in the hearth, from steel gray to a warm orange. It melted away into the clouds, leaving behind pinpricks of orange in the sky.

Another mammoth wave brought my senses back to where I was, and I turned to the shore. A giant billow crept up behind me and whacked me on my head, reminding me who was boss. I chuckled and went back for my slippers. A kid dragged his father to the shore, wanting to play with the ocean too. I waved to them and walked to the fishermen, who were picking out the goodies from their nets. A particularly friendly resident told me all the local names for the fishes, pointing to a large stingray in awe. 'Pakat,' he explained. 'Crocodile man.'

I nodded and said, 'Steve Irwin,' and he gave me a congratulatory slap on my back.

The sun crowed crimson behind me as I resumed my way through the sand, back to the hotel. The last wave I saw rushed in and erased my footprints.

By Philip Pikart - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=39531989

The red junglefowl - Gallus gallus. The male's tail is composed of long, arching feathers that initially look black but shimmer with blue, purple and green in good light. The female's plumage is typical of this family of birds in being cryptic and adapted for camouflage. During their mating season, the male birds announce their presence with the well known "cock-a-doodle-doo" call or crowing. Males also make a food-related display called "tidbitting", performed upon finding food in the presence of a female. The display is composed of coaxing, cluck-like calls and eye-catching bobbing and twitching motions of the head and neck. During the performance, the male repeatedly picks up and drops the food item with his beak. The display usually ends when the hen takes the food item either from the ground or directly from the male's beak. 

Chapter - 9 : Lord Of The Universe

'Jagannath Puri is a global tourist hotspot - a must-see if you're into temples,' Aunty declared over our breakfast of idlis, vadais and omelettes.

'I love temples,' Mama replied, 'preferably enveloped by peace and quiet and not plastic.'

'Forget it then,' Aunty laughed, and we all joined in. 'But no, the temple itself is nice. And the stories and rituals are very interesting.'

I packed a small bag and rushed out of the hotel. Me and Mama glanced at the aquarium on our way out; it had grown darker. 

We left in the car, going through narrow lanes and crowded streets, emerging onto a roundabout that opened up to the widest road I had seen - the walk of the Juggernaut. 

Chintu, our driver, took the car into a narrow alley and stopped by a village pond. 'There are buses that will take you to the temple from here,' he told us as we got off. 'I'll be here when you get back.'

We climbed aboard the bus. I played a game of blink with a wide-eyed kid. His mother smiled at me and wiped his nose while he protested silently. Mama looked at me and smiled, 'Missing your childhood, Danchu?' I grinned and looked out the window. For me, it was still going on.

The bus took off, went up to half the distance, and dropped us off. 'What is this, a relay race?' Uncle grumbled as we walked the rest of the way. We reached the area where the slippers and shoes had to be deposited. 'You three go on, we'll wait outside,' Papa reasoned, taking all our phones and wallets and cameras. 'Someone needs to take care of all this, anyway.'

As I entered the walkway, I saw two ravens perched atop one of the spires, like Huginn and Muninn; relaying what they were seeing back to Odin. All religions were built upon the same foundation; that someone was taking care of all this.

The common raven, Corvus corax. In some Western traditions, ravens have long been considered to be birds of ill omen, death and evil in general, in part because of the negative symbolism of their all-black plumage and the eating of carrion. In the Jewish, Christian and Islamic traditions, the raven was the first animal to be released from Noah's Ark. Ravens along with crows have displayed unusual intelligence; sometimes said to surpass that of dolphins and chimpanzees.  

Chapter - 10 : Pariah

The stones felt cool to my toes, and slightly damp. Mama was right; the strength and enduring quality of temples couldn't be vanquished by any of the vagaries of mankind. And yet - mankind had built these. Was there, after all, an otherworldly force that we invoked when we crafted rock and mud and stone into an object of devotion? 

“A rock pile ceases to be a rock pile the moment a single man contemplates it, bearing within him the image of a cathedral.” 

― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

Aunty told us the various stories of the elaborate Rath Yatra. 'There is a Snana Yatra in which the idols are bathed, after which they fall ill from a fever. In this time only certain Daitapatis are allowed to visit them and take care of them, for two weeks. After this, the legendary Rath Yatra begins.' 

'Unfortunately,' she sighed as we took a round of the Vimana - the sanctum sanctorum where the three deities; Jagannath, Balabhadra and Subhadra, are lodged on the Throne Of Pearls, 'People from other religions are not allowed to enter the temple during this time.' 

Mummy shook her head. 'I'm pretty sure that was not the intention. We keep dividing ourselves like this, and eventually everyone will become a pariah.' 

The pariah kite (now deprecated, called black kite), Milvus migrans. Black kites are most often seen gliding and soaring on thermals as they search for food. The flight is buoyant and the bird glides with ease, changing directions easily. They will swoop down with their legs lowered to snatch small live prey, fish, household refuse and carrion, for which behaviour they are known in British military slang as the shite-hawk. They are opportunist hunters and have been known to take birds, bats, and rodents. They are attracted to smoke and fires, where they seek escaping prey. This behaviour has led to Australian native beliefs that kites spread fires by picking up burning twigs and dropping them on dry grass. The Indian populations are well adapted to living in cities and are found in densely populated areas. Large numbers may be seen soaring in thermals over cities. In some places, they will readily swoop and snatch food held by humans.

We turned a corner, and a priest jumped out at us, offering to do a puja in honeyed tones, that would assure me a beautiful bride. Mama waved him away with the authority of a monarch, and said, 'It's a nexus here. They've marked their targets and have taken their positions like snipers.'

'Yeah, you have to be really careful.' Aunty strode on, savagely unmindful of the pundits-for-hire clamouring around her. 'Don't even make eye contact.'

And the two women soldiered on with their noses in the sky, like a still from a thuglife video.

Mama wanted to stay a bit longer, for it was calming and homely inside the temple complex. I tried looking at the various patterns in the granite and correlating them to real-life objects. I found a Ganesha-shaped erosion on one of the tiles. We could be in the news tomorrow, I chuckled in my head.

'They'll be getting bored outside,' Aunty called from the exit. 'Let's go.'

'Or robbed,' Mama whispered to me and immediately succumbed to a fit of laughter. I looked up at a Pariah Kite flying above us, and walked back out to the world.

Chapter - 11 : The Swift King

'My God these white guavas are refreshing.' I gurgled, chomping on a particularly juicy one. 'It's juicy, and has a strange crispiness to it.'

'Allahabad safeda,' my father observed. 'Another regular snack outside Lucknow University.'

We took two kilos and walked back to our car, observing cows and hawkers wandering aimlessly on the congested path. Mama observed people - I could see from her expression that she was trying to live vicariously through them, imagine their minds, conjecture about their lives.

'What do you think they pray for?' she mused to no one in particular. 'What is their concept of God, or living? Do they have one, or is it cast aside because of the struggle to make ends meet? Is religion a luxury?'

I didn't answer. A leper sat on the corner, raising his hand mechanically, his eyes bearing a glassy, finished look. I looked back to the temple, wondering if God was a luxury. 

We got into the car, and set off for Raghurajpur, a Heritage village which had been conceived specifically to facilitate the Jagannath Yatra. It was the source of the best Pattachitra and palm leaf engravings in the world. We were all very excited, specially me and Papa, who always had a keen interest in visual art. 

Raghurajpur was slightly on the outskirts, but the way was well-marked. Our car entered a tiny, cozy grove, and we emerged into the village. I saw two swifts chasing each other, darting through the nooks and crannies of the houses.

By Keta - Detail of Apus_apus_flock_flying.jpg, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2817682

The common swift, Apus apus. Swifts have very short legs which they use primarily for clinging to vertical surfaces (hence the German name Mauersegler, literally meaning "wall-glider"). They never settle voluntarily on the ground, where they would be vulnerable to accidents and predation, and non-breeding individuals may spend up to ten months in continuous flight, setting a record for highest uninterrupted flights. Common swifts are 16–17 cm (6.3–6.7 in) long with a wingspan of 38–40 cm (15–16 in) and entirely blackish-brown except for a small white or pale grey patch on their chins which is not visible from a distance. They have a short forked tail and very long swept-back wings that resemble a crescent or a boomerang. Their call is a loud scream in two different tone pitches, the higher of which issues from the female. They often form 'screaming parties' during summer evenings, when 10–20 swifts will gather in flight around their nesting area, calling out and being answered by nesting swifts.

We stopped the car just behind the first house. A resident smiled and came up to us. 'Welcome to Raghurajpur,' he spoke in perfect English. 

Chapter - 12 :  Fractal

Every house was adorned with art. There were wall paintings, door hangings, and elderly members sitting outside, crafting sculptures and painting.

As we walked, staring in awe at everything, people gathered around us, asking us to visit their house. 

'Do they think we're foreigners?' I asked Mama. 

'Don't flatter yourself,' she smacked my cheek. 'We're just prospective customers.' 

One eager youngster came up to me and pestered me to come with him. I assured him we'd go everywhere. 'No one comes later,' he wailed and kept insisting. Suddenly, he disappeared. I whipped around to see him grovelling to another group that had followed us. Mama looked at me and snorted. 'I told you we're not special.'

'I feel like a Gopi. You were right - these males.' I said dolefully. She laughed profusely at that. 

We finally followed an artist to his house, greeted by his father, a Presidential Award winner in Folk Art. He was in the middle of an intricate border design for his latest work.

They sat and explained to us the entire process; from the drying and flattening of the palm leaf, the forging of the metal blade that created those hair-like incisions, to the simple smearing of soot and lo! The artwork came alive. They showed us a tiny demo, a 30-second display of a miniature Ganesha, perfect down to his mooshika vahana. 

He unveiled a few of his older creations, showing us tiny intricacies through a magnifying glass. The closer we looked, the more strokes and embellishments we found. It was as if they had travelled through every level of the fractal dimension to add detail.

'This is the story of Ganesha, told through 108 miniature Ganeshas,' his father stated, unrolling a giant canvas out on the floor. I looked into each square inch until I felt like I was falling inside it, feeling smaller with every passing second. I looked at Papa; he shook his head too, unable to comprehend the dedication and patience it must have taken.

He reached for his camera, chortling noiselessly. 'I don't think this will do any justice, but I'll try taking a clear picture.' As he clicked away, the father continued, making tiny incisions in the palm leaf and miniscule details with his hawk-eye. As we bought a few souvenirs, and thanked them and left, I could see the focused smile on the father's face as he worked away, slowly yet smoothly; art that sustained his body and his soul.

'Papa, how do you just make an artwork out of thin air?'
'You don't. The artwork already exists in it. You just have to fill in the lines...'

Next, we went to a Pattachitra artist's place. He explained how the canvas is made by taking an old saree and then coating it with the gum of boiled tamarind seeds. After that, it is polished with a mixture of flour and ground chalk stone. Primary colours are obtained from sedimentary rocks and conch-shells (for white); Hingula for red, Haritala for yellow, Khandanila for blue, loamy soil for maroon and lamp soot for black. Resin from the wood apple tree (Indian bael) is used as a blender. What follows is magic.

The brushes are made of mouse hair, attached to a thin bamboo stick. How such precision and versatility can be achieved through the crudest of ingredients, I'll never comprehend. A particular cherry blossom depiction and blue-and-black themed Ganesha caught my eye. Most themes were devotional, but a lot of the designs were abstract and pure aesthetics, without any apparent symbolism or representation attached to them.

He showed us some betel nut wall hangings, and Mama took fancy to a Yin-Yang patterned one. We bought some gifts for my maasi and brother. I kept fantasizing about creating a hybrid specimen of pattachitra patterns on a palm-leaf engraving. I had always been a sucker for mashups.

I saw the drawing of a peacock on one of the walls, and stared, fascinated at the whorls of infinity in its feathers. That sealed the deal; I was making one of these next year.

The Indian peacock (Pavo cristatus). The Greek word for peacock was taos and was related to the Persian "tavus" (as in Takht-i-Tâvus for the famed Peacock Throne). The Ancient Hebrew word tuki (plural tukkiyim) has been said to have been derived from the Tamil tokei but sometimes traced to the Egyptian tekh. In modern Hebrew the word for peacock is "tavas". Many Hindu deities are associated with the bird, Krishna is often depicted with a feather in his headband, while worshippers of Shiva associate the bird as the steed of the God of war, Kartikeya (also known as Skanda or Murugan). A story in the Uttara Ramayana describes the head of the Devas, Indra, who unable to defeat Ravana, sheltered under the wing of peacock and later blessed it with a "thousand eyes" and fearlessness from serpents. 

On our way back, people kept trying to get us to their houses, using emotional guilt and bargaining and everything short of roofies. We hurried to the car. As we drove off, I wondered at the paradox of being dependent on your art for survival; the eternal tussle between the human and the artist in people. Hopefully, the artist would win; or better, hopefully, it wasn't a game.

Chapter - 13 : Sandcastles

We had our lunch at Mayfair hotel, close to Puri beach. Aunty and Uncle insisted we try the Odiya and Bengali thalis for a holistic culinary exposition. I just wanted meat.

When the platters arrived, we bent and looked closely at all the items as if it was a museum exhibit. There was Dalma, dahi-baigon, khajur-tomato chutney, fried brinjal, a spicy curry with balls of khoya in it, chhena poda and mishti-doi among the exotic components. I dove right into it, after a warm-up starter of besara fish. I ended up finishing everyone else's plates; win-win.

'Oh man, this deserves a nice, long walk.' Uncle said, stretching in the veranda as Papa took photographs of a kite perched atop a distant telephone pole. 

'Let's spend some time on the beach this evening,' Aunty declared. 'It's been a lot of travel these past two days.'

'I'll just walk on the beach till our hotel,' I said. 'You carry on, join me whenever you feel like it.'

'Are you sure? It's more than 5 kms.' Uncle asked, astonished. 

'He'll be fine,' Mama waved away his concerns. 'He loves doing what most people consider an ordeal.' She said, beckoning for Papa to come back. 'Masochist,' she muttered to me under her breath and immediately started giggling.

I grinned and set off towards the ocean. 

The beach was empty. The sun was glaringly bright, but the cool sea breeze enveloped me in a protective shield, killing the heat. The soft sand and strong wind made it difficult to walk straight, until I let go of control and just swayed with the forces of nature. I looked to my left, unable to take my eyes off the vast expanse of water stretched out in every direction. I felt not bigger than the tiniest grain of sand, being blown about carelessly in an ocean of other grains. 

At such times it's tempting to think of the futility of your existence, your actions; your infinitesimal blip on the radar of the universe - and yet, when everything loses meaning and purpose and consequence, there comes an overwhelming epiphany of the freedom, the possibilities you get in your tiny lifespan; infinity in every direction, all ready for the taking, whenever you are.

You may be just a spark in an eternally roaring flame; so burn the brightest you can - burn so hot, that you start a fire of your own. 

As I walked, I made promises and bucket lists for every year, musing about places I had to go to, things I needed to do, experiences I needed to have; my ideas soaring higher than the sea eagles flying above me. The very thought of most of them were comforting - but I had to go beyond thought.

The white-bellied sea eagle (Haliaeetus leucogaster). The white-bellied sea eagle has a white head, rump and underparts, and dark or slate-grey back and wings. In flight, the black flight feathers on the wings are easily seen when the bird is viewed from below. The large, hooked bill is a leaden blue-grey with a darker tip, and the irides are dark brown. The white-bellied sea eagle was important to different tribes of indigenous people across Australia. The guardian animal of the Wreck Bay aboriginal community, it is also the official emblem of the Booderee National Park and Botanic Gardens in the Jervis Bay Territory. Called Kaulo in the recently extinct Aka-Bo language, the white-bellied sea eagle was held to be the ancestor of all birds in one Andaman Islands folk tale. On the Maharashtra coast, their name is kakan and its call is said to indicate the presence of fish in the sea. They sometimes nest on coconut trees. Owners of the trees destroy the nest to avoid attacks when harvesting the coconuts.

I started noticing people on the beach. Some in groups, chatting about the environmental and political weather, some alone, staring at the horizon. The city was nearing. I could see litter in the sand, and the ground was getting coarser. The roar of the sea and whistle of the wind gave way to babble and vehicular noise, and soon, I was facing our hotel. 

I shook the sand off my slippers and went inside, leaving my sandcastles behind.

Chapter - 14 : It's Only A Paper Moon

'Danish, don't go too far,' Mama called from the sand. Me and Papa stood in the water like children, splashing each other and daring ourselves to wade in further. At every step I would take, both my parents would yell out indignantly like I was a cow wandering off from the herd. 

This time I stayed back, only confronting waves that came up to my chest. The moon was out, bouncing its silvery light off of the crests of each wave, like a surfer that had come down to ride the tide it had created. 

"Say, it's only a paper moon

 Sailing over a cardboard sea

 But it wouldn't be make-believe

 If you believed in me..."

-Billy Rose and Yip Harburg

I looked up to it; the clear parts were fleshy and orange, and the craters looked much darker, like the plumage of a coucal.

The greater coucal or crow pheasant (Centropus sinensis). They are large, crow-like with a long tail and coppery brown wings and found in wide range of habitats from jungle to cultivation and urban gardens. They are weak fliers, and are often seen clambering about in vegetation or walking on the ground as they forage for insects, eggs and nestlings of other birds. The bird is associated with many superstitions and beliefs. The deep calls are associated with spirits and omens. In British India, it was noted that new-recruits to India often mistook it for a pheasant and shot it to find it "evil flavoured", giving it the nickname of "Griff's pheasant". The flesh was once eaten as a folk cure for tuberculosis and pulmonary ailments.

The waves grew darker and more foreboding, and every roller cast a shadow that hid me from sight until it crashed onto the shore. The wind, already strong, was now blowing us about like origami figurines. 

'Danish, let's go,' Mama called out, barely audible over the sound of the seascape. I turned away, running my hand through the last wave that came in, and joined my parents. We walked slowly towards the city, stopping by to observe some camels and their riders.

'Do you want to eat fresh fish and prawns from the sea?' Aunty asked me, grinning at the inevitable excitement on my face. 

So of course we were standing inches away from the fresh catch frying away in the portable kerosene stove, five minutes later, while I fretted impatiently.

Me and Papa decided to have our fill with the fish and prawns, while the others moved to a restaurant to get a proper dinner. 'We'll meet at the hotel,' Mama called out and trotted off. Her vegetarian upbringing had imbued an aversion to the smell of meat; how she made non-vegetarian food for me for years, I'll never forget. 

The taste was complete, and needed no spices or salt; the catch had its own flavour and texture. The tiger prawns were especially crunchy and tangy. Me and Papa both had our fill for a mere two hundred rupees. 

'Come on, they'll be waiting. We need to sleep early today, so we can reach Chilika Lake in time tomorrow for the birds.' Papa rubbed his hands excitedly; tomorrow was the highlight for the Salim Ali in him. 

We came to the entrance of the hotel. 'I'll come in a while,' I called out to my Papa, and he went on. I sat on a bench in the tiny garden facing the foyer, and looked up at the paper moon. I stared at it until my head started bobbing unconsciously to its sea shanty. I waited until each city light winked out and was replaced by a star in the sky, and went back inside.

"O Raka, so far away,

So far away, I long to see you.

To see you in mighty light,

In mighty light, you sing to the sea,

To the sea I sing, on regal waves,

On regal waves, I long to see you.

O Raka, come down today,

Come down today, I long to see you.

To see you in mighty flight,

In mighty flight, you run with the breeze,

With the breeze I run, on sandy shores,

On sandy shores, I long to see you.

O Raka, don't go away,

Don't go away, I long to see you.

To see you in blooming night,

In blooming night you dance with the stars,

With the stars I dance, under the sky,

Under the sky, I long to see you.

O Raka, just stay one day,

For one day, when I will see you,

I will see you when I'm free.

For when I'm free, we'll sing and fly,

We'll sing and fly and dance for ever,

For ever, I long to see you..."

Photos, courtesy of Razi Abdi and Rupa Abdi.

Rupa Abdi's Blog: https://travelnaama471249025.wordpress.com/
Anjana's Blog: https://anjlifeexperiences.wordpress.com

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