The Odisha Odyssey

Chapter - 1 : Rendezvous 

'Where are you, Danish?'

'I'm right outside the airport. Next to this SBI bank ATM.'

'Okay, see if you can find something to eat. We're coming.'

I took a huge breath of the clean air and stepped away from the entrance. Bhubaneshwar airport was tidy, not very crowded; and there was a fair bit of greenery in its vicinity. 

I walked to the canteen - it was dusty and abandoned. There were cab drivers standing in defensive formations, looking at me like I was a sign of the resurgence of the colonial period.

I plucked some tamarind pods and chewed on them for a while. The tang and acid dissolved whatever little drowsiness I had left, and I strolled towards the untended gardens. There were some schoolgirls sitting near the edge, making floral patterns out of blades of grass. I recalled how much talent and heritage this state had. And I was about to receive a week long reminder.

A tiny Indian myna landed on the ground, picking out some twigs. It flapped once and flew back to its nest, chirping along the way, as if telling me to return to mine.

Acridotheres tristis (locust-hunter, dull), the common myna, is an omnivorous open woodland bird with a strong territorial instinct, and has adapted extremely well to urban environments. They often use the nests of woodpeckers and parakeets, evicting their young ones. They roost in mixed flocks and display aerial maneuvers like starlings.

The Sankrit term shuksarika, which refers to the rose-ringed parakeet (shuk) and the common myna (saarika), is used to indicate a pair or a couple, probably because both birds are vocal and capable of mimicking human sound. In addition to saarika, the names for the common myna include kalahapriya, which means "one who is fond of arguments" referring to the quarrelsome nature of this bird; chitranetra, meaning "picturesque eyes"; peetanetra (one with yellow eyes) and peetapaad (one with yellow legs).

Your nest is where your parents are.

I ambled back to the airport. They would be here any minute.

A car turned into the road, and two blurry faces came into focus as my Mama and Papa, beaming at me.

"I have held my heart in my hand, 
 And am waiting for home to come..." 

Chapter - 2 : The White Mountain

'How are you, Danchu?'

'Here, we brought vadas for you.' 

'Why did you bring your clothes in a rucksack? They'll all look like origami figures now.'

'You've grown so thin. Are you trekking through grass and eating it too?'

'Since when have you not shaved or cut your hair? We'll turn you into an Egyptian priest.'

'We missed you, Danchu.'

I recovered from the onslaught of love and said my namaste's to my brother's in-laws. They smiled at me jovially, amused at seeing a working adult reduced to a sheepish toddler in seconds. 

'So, what's the itinerary?' I asked incoherently, gobbling vadais and taking huge sips from a juice bottle.

'We're on our way to Puri right now, from where a bus leaves for the Konark Art Festival.'

'On the way, we'll see the Shanti Stupa at Dhaulagiri. It's near the banks of the Daya River.'

'Is that the one which turned red after the Kalinga battle?'

'Yes,' Papa nodded approvingly. 'Right now we're driving through erstwhile Kalinga.'

I caught a glimpse of the Daya River as we turned right. I could imagine Ashoka standing at the shore, his thoughts running as torrentially as the water; the foundations of a religion laid down by a single remorseful thought.

Our car pulled up to the Stupa. I saw people thronging to it, chattering excitedly and taking photographs.

The white monument glowed like a sepulchre for a dove; a forgotten totem for peace and redemption. Something that was to serve as a reminder of what life's journey was about was now just a really nice background; another economic and social tool.

Spilopelia chinensis, the spotted dove. Because of the white-spotted black collar patch, it is also called the pearl-necked dove or lace-necked dove. It appears in moist regions, mostly found on the ground where they forage for seeds and grain or on low vegetation. The females are slightly smaller, and the juveniles do not have the neck band. In Japanese culture, the dove symbolizes longevity and respect and is dedicated to the god of war Hachimanu. The dove with a sword, heralds the end of the war. 

It is an important symbol in Native American culture too. The Blackfoot tribe associated it with protection and safe return from battle, and dove feathers were often carried by war leaders as talismans to help them bring their men back safely. In some Eastern Algonquian tribes, turtledoves were associated with the spirit world, and heard at certain times, their cries could be omens of death. To some California Indian tribes, they represent foolishness and naivete. The Cherokee associate mourning doves with acorns, and for a whimsical reason: the mourning dove's cooing cry sounds like the Cherokee word for acorn, 'gule'. The Aztecs and other Mexican Indian tribes saw the bird as a symbol of love; associated with the goddess Xochiquetzal and often depicted on wedding ornaments. 

As I approached the Stupa, I felt my pessimism melt away. Here, people were happy. Here, they weren't fighting, they weren't worried; they could just look away wistfully in any direction and be at peace with themselves. Maybe that was the ultimate aim of every religion.

We saw some strange Mandarin-esque inscriptions on a nearby pillar. Mama stared at it for a while, delving into the subtle imagery and trying to figure out what it could mean. She always held a fascination for languages and visual art. With a twinge of guilt, I remembered I still had to design a fictional language for her book.

Papa took a photo of a poster near the entrance, detailing the entire history of the Stupa with dates and names. I picked out whatever I remembered from my history textbook, correlating it with the timelines given in the information. I wished I had a bird's eye view of history; to see what had been happening anywhere in the world, at any given time in the past.

We climbed up, and instinctively started taking a parikrama of the sanctum sanctorum. With Mama, I observed the various motifs and engravings - some symbolic, and some pretty apparent.

'They had such amazing breasts in the past, man. Don't you guys ever regret not being born a few centuries earlier?' My mother asked me, immediately dissolving into a fit of giggles. I smiled sheepishly and shook my head. My mother said the most scandalous things in the most sanctimonious places.

The entire journey of Siddhartha and then Gautam Buddha was depicted in the walls. I saw a particularly interesting pictogram of him being revered by three planes of existence.

'Animals and birds, humans and the heavenly beings,' My mother explained, pointing to each level. 'All paid homage to his wisdom and enlightenment.'

'Are those apsaras?' I asked, looking closely.

'Yeah. Nothing gets the girls like nirvana.' And she dissolved into another fit of giggles. We chortled away to the edge.

There was a concrete, yellow lion staring out at the city. We looked at the same direction as it; looking for some distant cloud in the infinite blue.

'Is it safeguarding the peace?' I asked Ma.

'Peace is inside you. There is no bigger threat to it than yourself. Once you've protected it from your own individuality; it's untouchable. I think the lion represents this very struggle.'

This gem of wisdom, a minute after talking about ancient breasts - my mother, ladies and gentlemen.

Papa met us from the opposite side. 'What do these various positions mean?' I asked, pointing to the Reclining Buddha behind the meditating one.

'Their origin, I think, is from the various poses Buddha took in his life, in front of disciples and historians. Now they've come to mean different aspects of Buddhism itself - serenity, overcoming fear, acceptance, etc.'

'And the Laughing Buddha?'

'Oh, that's actually a Chinese monk.' Mama smiled, catching up to us. 'Nothing to do with Gautam Buddha. It's a common misconception - sort of a misnomer, actually.'

'Let's take a photo with the Stupa.' Aunty called, and we descended the steps, rushing to the centre.

'Camel's paw,' Papa pointed to a common tree, the leaves of which look like a camel's foot. He was forever on the lookout for flora and fauna, and travelling with him could rekindle your love for nature; or even cause it.

My parents hugged me tightly as the camera clicked. It finally sank in; this was my first trip with them since 1st year of college.

'Let's go on to Puri,' Uncle stated, smoothing out his mustache. 'The tour bus for Konark leaves at 3.'

On our way back to the car, we had some sugarcane elixir, and Papa urged me to try a starfruit. 'It's called kamrakh in Hindi,' he laughed as my mouth contorted at the incredible sourness. 'We used to eat it outside Aligarh Muslim University.' And then we had an extensive discussion on the effect of different organic acids on taste and nutrition. Chemistry was another one of my father's passions.

I spotted a Holly Blue butterfly as everyone sat in the car. I chased it for a while, and then went back to the vehicle.

"I have buried my fear in the land, 
 And am waiting for the rain to come..." 

Chapter - 3 : The King Fisher

'Ma, is that elephant grass?' I asked, looking out the window at some giant reed-like plants with white inflorescences.

'Me and Papa had the same confusion.' Mama turned to face him. 'These are estuarine mud-flats; aren't feather reeds more likely?'

'Maybe I can get a better photo from here.' Papa aimed his DSLR out the window. Our driver, Chintu, slowed down. Once he was done, Papa flashed him an appreciative smile, and he resumed his speed.

'Danish, observe the telephone lines on your way. Apart from the usual fare of pigeons, crows and ravens, you'll invariably see drongos, bee-eaters, Indian rollers and kingfishers. Look, a white-throated one, on that tree stump.'

Halcyon smyrnensis, the white-throated kingfisher, can often be found well away from water where it feeds on a wide range of prey that includes small reptiles, amphibians, crabs, small rodents and even birds.  Their prominent perches include the tops of buildings in urban areas or wires. Halcyon is a name for a bird in Greek mythology generally associated with the kingfisher. The specific epithet smyrnensis is an adjective for the town of Izmir in Turkey. It is the state bird of West Bengal.

The first pair of the mythical-bird Halcyon (kingfishers) were created from a marriage of Alcyone and Ceyx. As gods, they lived the sacrilege of referring to themselves as Zeus and Hera. They died for this, but the other gods, in an act of compassion, made them into birds, thus restoring them to their original seaside habitat. The phrase 'Halcyon days' refers specifically to an idyllic time in the past, or in general to a peaceful time.

I looked at the tiny, inscrutable silhouette and stared at Papa, befuddled. 'That's like guessing the color of someone's underwear from their palm.'

'Well, yes, if you hang out your underwear on telephone lines,' Mama burst into laughter.

'Even I was baffled at first.' She explained. 'But it's not that hard; it just requires practice. After a while, a vague silhouette, or size, or call, or even posture is enough.'

'Goals,' I muttered to myself. 'That's a drongo, right?' I pointed to a shape in the distance. 'The tail is typical.'

'Shaabaash. See, you're getting it already,' Mama patted me on my back.

'We're here.' Uncle sat up straight, looking out the window at a very faint coastline. 'Puri.'

The air smelt fresher and saltier. Faint aromas of seafood rose up to welcome my senses. It had been so long.

We checked into Victoria Club, a plush hotel right at the beach. Me and Ma stood in the lobby, staring at the aquarium.

'The water looks dirtier than your clothes.' She commented dryly.

'Ma,' I started, but she waved away my feeble protests regally and walked off to our room.

'There's a sand sculpture in the garden.' I said excitedly.

'Kids are so easily impressed these days.' Mama smirked back. 'Wait till you see the sand art festival at Chandrabhaga Beach.'

After depositing our caravan of bags in our rooms, we hastened to Panthanivaas for lunch.

'So,' Uncle looked up and peeked at me from over the menu card. 'One of everything, or two?'

As Aunty chortled, I looked at my parents, who grinned sheepishly. 'We may have told them that everytime you sit down to eat something, UNESCO moves that species up from Least Concern to Jurassic Park.'

Scowling to myself as Mama pulled my cheeks, I ordered golden-fried prawns, catla fish curry and mangsha tarkari, as my Odiya friends Shreya and Nityasa had suggested.

'They'll take a lot of time,' Aunty said, smiling sadly. 'Here, service is pretty relaxed.'

I perused the menu again, silently crossing off items I would be trying and making a note of the ones I had to have later. Gurai roshogulla was definitely at the top.

The menagerie arrived sooner than expected, and I smiled widely, arranging three plates around me.

'Watch out marine life - the King Fisher is here.' My Papa joked, setting off everyone at the table.

"I have set my hunger at ease,
 And am waiting for spring to come..."

Chapter - 4 : Rufous, Green And Blue

We climbed into the Tempo Traveller that was to take us to Konark. Three geriatric couples got in with us, settling down into the seats behind us. I couldn't judge whether the creaking was coming from them or the vehicle. 

'Danish, we're stuck with oldies!' Mama whispered in mock horror, tugging at my sleeve. 'What do we do now?'

'I know the feeling,' I replied, staring pointedly at her. She rapped me on the back of my head in a swift move.

'We still have stamina, okay,' Mama crossed her arms and turned up her nose. 'We climbed that hill in Coorg last year, with you. Don't forget, I can still kick your ass.'

'Kung-fu Mama,' Papa whispered from her side, and we both lost it. 

'Namashkar,' a genial fellow entered, folding his hands, with a voice as silky as his suit. 'Myself good name Konark guide. We shall visit Chandrabhaga beach for sand art, followed by a visit to Konark Sun Temple, and the Konark Music and Dance Festival just in front of it. There will also be snakes.'

The vehicle panicked for a second before realizing he meant 'snacks'.

'Enjoy,' he smiled an incredibly toothy grin, the kind people give just before they hold you at gunpoint. 

The vehicle set off. I opened a window, and a familiar breeze brought back a familiar song. 'Baaro krishnaiyya, ninna bhaktara manegiga...'

The carrier pigeon I had sent in Bandaje had returned. 

Soon, we were out of the city, following the beach on our right, with a grove of dense forests on our left - a colour palette of rufous, green and blue.

Merops orientalis, the green bee-eaters, are mainly insect eaters and are found in grassland, thin scrub and forest often quite far from water. Several regional plumage variations are known and several subspecies have been named. The entire plumage is bright green and tinged with blue especially on the chin and throat. The crown and upper back are tinged with golden rufous. The flight feathers are rufous washed with green and tipped with blackish. A fine black line runs in front of and behind the eye. The iris is crimson and the bill is black while the legs are dark grey.

The little green bee-eater is also becoming common in urban and sub-urban neighborhoods, and has been observed perching on television antennae, only to launch into a brief, zig-zag flight formation to catch an insect, then return to the same perch and consume the meal. They show an ability to predict whether a human at a particular location is capable of spotting the nest entrance, and then behave appropriately to avoid giving away the nest location. The ability to look at a situation from another's point of view was previously believed to be possessed only by primates.

The swaying of the trees and the rhythmic, soft roar of the waves lulled me to a hypnagogic state. For a while, I stared out into the endless sea, until I felt motionless, suspended in a dream I couldn't wake up from. Another forest interrupted my trance, and now we were flanked by an endless sea of green. I fell asleep somewhere between the last line of Baaro Krishnaiyya and my last memory of such a road.

I awoke to the hustle-bustle of people and other vehicles, and the largest beach I had seen yet. We were here.

"I have hung my thoughts on the trees,

 And am waiting for the breeze to come..."

Chapter - 5 : Kingdom Of Dirt

There were tourists from all over the world, gawking at the intricate, yet soft sculptures on the coast. Even the participating artists spanned the globe - we could see their names and countries written on placards right in front of them, along with their exhibit numbers.

They were putting the finishing touches as we walked along. There were assistants spraying mist on the sand, while the artists patted it down with a trowel. They were using it to shape the major contours and planes too, while using their hands for the subtler ones.

Buddha seemed to be a common theme in all the artworks.

'Pain is certain, suffering is not...'

'Notice the variance in his smile, across all creations. I never knew there could be so many shades of peace. Even the curve of his eyelids, the degree of their openness; they're almost narrating the path to salvation.' Mama stated, as we dodged crowds and water, hopping along the ground like sandpipers.

Actitis hypoleucus (coast-dweller, white breast) has greyish-brown upperparts, white underparts, short dark-yellowish legs and feet, and a bill with a pale base and dark tip. Juveniles are more heavily barred above and have buff edges to the wing feathers. 

The common sandpiper forages by sight on the ground or in shallow water, picking up small food items such as insects, crustaceans and other invertebrates; it may even catch insects in flight. In the Nukumanu language of the Nukumanu Islands (Papua New Guinea), this species is usually called tiritavoi. Another Nukumanu name for it, matakakoni, exists, but this is considered somewhat taboo, since matakakoni means "bird that walks a little, then copulates", in reference to the pumping tail and thrusting head movements the Actitis species characteristically perform during foraging.

'Look at the foliage!' I exclaimed, pointing at the depiction of a Bodhi tree. 'How are they getting that texture with sand?'

The artist turned and smiled at me. I flashed her a thumbs up sign. I was definitely trying this when I went to Chennai for margazhi. 

'Well, this takes the cake.' Papa caught up to us, pointing at a miniature fort created by a local Odiya sculptor. 'There's windows, a proper jaali like in an actual jharokha. They're making holes in sand. Holes.'

I kept staring at the delicate structure, a frail design held together by rough water and runny sand, which the next gust of wind could bring down like a house of cards.

'I would give this one first prize simply for Buddha's expression.' Mama pointed to the second-last exhibit. 'I have not seen such contentment and empathy captured in even marble sculptures.'

'I liked that one best.' I pointed to the one in the middle.

'It has a slight agitation,' she commented. 'Like there's an inner turmoil which only subtly shows itself.'

I nodded. Maybe that was my favourite kind of peace; an acceptance of chaos.

We turned around and walked back, etching the depictions into our memories; the remembrances more fragile than the sculptures themselves. The smiles seemed to change as we passed them again, perhaps reflecting our state of mind.

We saw Uncle, Aunty and Papa walking up ahead. 'Papa, did you get good photographs?' I called out.

'I did, but they're really grainy.' He grinned. I slapped my forehead.

'Come. Let's go find some snakes.'

We went up ahead to a wooden cottage, right at the road leaving for the Konark Temple.

'What happens to these sculptures tomorrow?' I asked my father.

'There'll be high tide tonight, and next morning, they'll be washed away into the sea.' Papa smiled ruefully. He slapped me on the back, understanding my astonishment. 'Creating for the sake of creating. This is one of the pillars of Buddhism - letting go, resisting attachment, no matter how beautiful the object.'

I nodded. That was probably the wisest way to look at it. I always liked to think that when we made something heavenly, we were simply channeling the heavens; higher forces that worked through us. Letting go was simply returning it to them.

I looked back at the heavenly ocean; we were its artworks too, and one day we would return to it. I tore my eyes away from the kingdom of dirt and went inside.

"I have written my woes on the sand,
 And am waiting for the waves to come..."

Chapter - 6 : Highlights 

The vehicle stopped near a barricade, about 500 meters from the temple. 'They won't let us through,' the driver rumbled to our guide. 

'Aise kaise?' He bellowed indignantly, puffing up like a male bird during mating season. 'I've given them kharcha paani.'

'Silk Smitha's losing it.' Mama whispered, her eyes opening wider with alarm. 

He almost jumped out the window, dazzling us with a flash of silk, and landed right in front of the uniformed guards, like a matador about to perform his coup de grace. 

The policewoman there reduced him to tatters, and he came back with a sheepish smile and a visibly less shiny suit. 

'Would it be too much trouble if we got down and walked to the temple?' he asked through his teeth. 

Amid incoherent grumbling, everyone got down and started walking. 

There was a huge crowd, and a flock of pigeons hollered above us. My parents always needed peace and quiet near temples; everywhere, actually. I hoped they wouldn't be disappointed.

My mother immediately stopped near an insignia of a lion crushing an elephant, studying it intently, oblivious to the babble around her. 

Peace is inside you, she'd said. 

'This symbol depicts the victory of Hinduism over Buddhism in this region,' one guide explained. Papa looked at him skeptically. 

'The thing about history is,' my father started, coming up to me. 'Who really knows?' 

I nodded. 'Especially religion, symbolism and the likes. We extrapolate their society,  ethics and beliefs from ours, and fill in the blank spaces accordingly. This could change the very essence of the original.' 

'What were they trying to tell us?' Papa mused aloud, walking off to some quieter gardens. I walked around the temple, chasing the remnants of the dying sun as it cast blue shadows in its wake. The stone was cool to the touch, and it had an aura of serenity.

As dusk welcomed night, the lamps came on, rendering the temple a mosaic of umber and incandescent yellow highlights. I went inside the sanctum, humming to myself, trying to find its resonant frequency.

I descended the steps on the other side, landing near one of the giant stone wheels. All noise seemed to fade away around it. I looked at the engravings. Time had weathered away most details, but the concepts were immortal. We just had to uncover them.

"I have gathered a pile of stones, 
 And am waiting for God to come..." 

Mama beckoned to me from the exit. Me and Papa followed. It was time for the highlight of the day.

Since the Sun Temple is the backdrop for the Music and Dance festival, the event was pretty close by. There was an amphitheater, almost full by the time we reached. A camera drone flew overhead, projecting its live feed on two giant screens flanking the arena.

The stage lights came alive, and the full glory of the show hit me. After the inauguration and introductions, the event kicked off with a troupe of Kathak dancers, depicting Vrindavan - specifically Krishna's relationship with each Gopi and how he teased them and played hard to get. The central feature was him disappearing altogether, to teach the Gopis a lesson for fighting over him.

'Has his fun and then never calls them back. You males.' Mama quipped playfully as she handed me a packet of groundnuts.

The music transitioned seamlessly with the moods of the depiction. There was a female singer, who was also playing the flute. She, the sitarist and the other singers harmonized in most places, and there was even a beatboxer, who had a jugalbandi portion with the tabla and pakhawaj.

'The male dancers are really graceful,' Mama said, appreciatively. 'Do you have any in Raag?'

I shook my head, and immediately received a kantaap from Papa, who was using my shoulder as support to record the performance.

After a climactic display of chakkars and relas, the dancers assembled one by one in a final formation; akin to a Rubix cube finally being completed. The music crescendoed and ended with a flash, timed perfectly with the lights; leaving silhouettes of the dancers emblazoned into the night - and my mind.

The next group was an Odissi ensemble from Bengaluru - amazingly synchronized, they made really good use of the stage space, making me wish we were sitting in the center. The Mangalacharan and the Aaravi Pallavi were the highlights.

Their unifying theme was dance itself - its history, evolution and modernization through the ages. The subtleties were lost on me, but I could relate to the differences in styles they were trying to portray. I wished I had an Odissi dancer with me.

The Pallavi picked up pace, and the dancers grew more energetic, while staying true to the inherent grace and fluidity of the art form - my favorite aspect of Odissi. I remembered the ending sequence from college - the final obeisance to the Guru, the Supreme Deity and the audience. I clapped along with the others, and didn't stop until the music had ended.

'Will we be able to catch the Gotipua performance tomorrow?' I asked Papa as the program wrapped up.

'Tomorrow we have a different itinerary. But you can catch this festival every year.'

We walked back under the dreamy LEDs, casting cerulean highlights on our faces, painting us like a flock of blue jays. I grinned from ear to ear as I climbed into the van. What a welcome to Odisha.

Picture credits: Wikipedia

Coracias benghalensis, the Indian roller or blue jay, is best known for the aerobatic displays of the male during the breeding season. They are very commonly seen perched along roadside trees and wires and in open grassland and scrub forest habitats. The largest populations of the species are within India.

The breast is brownish and not blue as in the European Roller. The crown and vent are blue. The primaries are deep purplish blue with a band of pale blue. The tail is sky blue with a terminal band of Prussian blue and the central feathers are dull green. The neck and throat are purplish lilac with white shaft streaks. The bare patch around the eye is ochre in colour. They have a long and compressed bill with a curved upper edge and a hooked tip. The bird bathes in open water by plunge-diving into it, a behaviour often interpreted as fishing. 

The Indian Roller is said to be sacred to Vishnu, and used to be caught and released during festivals such as Dussera or the last day of Durga Puja. A local Hindi name is neelkanth, meaning 'blue throat', a name associated with Shiva (who drank poison resulting in the blue throat). Adding its chopped feathers to grass and feeding them to cows was believed to increase their milk yield. It is the state bird of Odisha. 

"I have sung and danced to a poem,
 And am waiting for art to come..."

Chapter 7 - Black, Grey And Sapphire

We had our dinner in the same wooden cottage - a sumptuous meal of pulao, daal and dahi-baigon (brinjal with curd), topped off with buttermilk and roshogulla. Everyone ate silently, saturated by the palette of experiences in a single day. All the lights of Konark had winked out, save our restaurant, casting an eerie yellow amid the black landscape.

As we lumbered back to our van, the solitary light was gone too. We climbed into our minds and set off, back into the dreamscape.

The dark, sapphire blue washed over the inky trees and grey sand. I looked out as we passed through the barren stretch of road again. The beach was a different entity in the moonlit night; threatening with its infinite depths that could swallow you, yet soothing with its hymnal tide and ebb. 

My parents, Uncle and Aunty had fallen asleep, traces of moonlight illuminating their calm countenances. I glanced back out the window. The moon was full, and the waves were advancing onto the shore. The sand sculptures we'd seen were probably scattered dust in the water by now, returned to the heavens.

I flew along the shades of darkness, like a bird tinted with the hues of the night.

Nycticorax nycticorax, the black-crowned night heron stands still at the water's edge and waits to ambush prey, mainly at night or early morning. Notice the effective camouflage against its muddy habitat. 

They primarily eat small fish, crustaceans, frogs, aquatic insects, small mammals, and small birds. They are among the seven heron species observed to engage in bait fishing; luring or distracting fish by tossing buoyant objects into water within their striking range – a rare example of tool use among birds.

Giving in to the lullabies of Nidra, my eyes closed into the moon, and my last thought was, I'm here. 

"I have found my way back home,
 And am waiting for my heart to come..."

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 Red Garden

Chapter - 1 : Into The Blue

A blue flower was a central symbol of inspiration for the Romanticism movement, and remains an enduring motif in Western art today. It stands for desire, love, and the metaphysical striving for the infinite and unreachable. It symbolizes hope and the beauty of things.

I awoke at 5:15 am, with my eyes to the sky outside my window. I sat up and tried to recollect my fading dream; losing a little more detail with every effort. All I remembered was traveling across the mountains on an azure ocean.

I rubbed my eyes; there was no ocean here, just my cycle. And that was with Malpani.

I went to Shankar's room. 'Shankar?' I knocked softly. 'Uunggh,' he grunted.

'I'm going to get my cycle from Surendra's house. Be back in ten.'

'Uunggh.'

I wore my shoes and jogged off. His house was right across, but you had to enter a shady lane, with a long road that looked like an unhealthy teenager's face, to get there. His plush society looked really out of place in its drug cartel surroundings. 

The door was open when I reached. Malpani was packing for his cycling trip to Devanahalli. I would have joined him, but me and Shankar had already decided to attend the National Horticultural Show in Lalbagh Botanical Garden.

'Thanks man,' he'd serviced it and kept it for me while I had been in Chennai and Hyderabad. We still had a cycling trip to plan.

'Kabini Forest, next time?' I asked him as we stood in the lift, clutching our cycles. He nodded, smiling slightly.

I sped back home. Shankar was already up, putting on his shoes. We locked the door, picked up our cycles and set off into the blue.

Chapter - 2 : Orange Is The New Soundtrack

Orange is the closest match to the shade of the sun, so it is symbolic of expansion, growth, and warmth. It is also a color of friendship and community. It beckons us to go out and play with friends, remember good times, enjoy the company of like-minds, and share big smiles all around.

We reached Marathahalli Bridge by the first light of dawn. Splashes of orange ventured into the sky, like waves at the seashore during high tide. The land was coming to life. 

I rocketed down HAL road, with Shankar in tow. The cool breeze was tinged with warmth, and my teeth chattered with both the excitement and the chill. It would take a minute to get used to the cold. Hopefully the thrill would last longer. 

My fingertips grew numb, and my legs started warming up. I looked at the trees flanking me, the neat and spacious sidewalks, the clean, smooth paths and the carefully painted and garnished divider. This was one of the few stretches of road here that looked nothing like India. 

It's sad how so often, we use that phrase as a compliment. 

As on countless cycle rides, I got to thinking again about how allowing only cycles inside the city would solve so many problems. No personal four-wheelers; only public buses for far-away places. The health benefits, environmental impact, parking space gain, reduction in noise and light pollution...and fatal accidents would be a thing of the past - unless you get a scratch on an uncle's vintage Ladybird and he mauls you for it. 

As we were 1 km from Lalbagh, me and Shankar saw some runners on the road. Early morning was the only time they could jog without inhaling the Industrial Revolution.

We hit Richmond Circle and took a left; in a minute, the front gate of Lalbagh loomed over us, with a banner proclaiming 'National Horticultural Show 2018'. I put my soundtrack of thought on pause and dismounted.

Chapter - 3 : White Noise

During the Roman era, white roses were associated with Goddess Aphrodite, who is believed to be the goddess of love and beauty. It is also believed that every rose was white until she pricked herself with a thorn and all the roses turned red.

We took our cycles inside, surprised at the hordes of people interspersed among the hordes of trees. 

'It's a very famous show,' Abhishek told me. 'Happens around every Republic and Independence Day.' I wondered how I'd missed it during my internship.

We rode to the entrance, and saw curtains covering the front. We decided to cycle around the place and find some nice trees to climb.








'You want to go around the lake? We might see some birds.'

'All these jogging uncles will have scared them off.' Abhishek said loudly, and the said uncles turned around to glare at him, running even faster to prove they were still young.

We took our cycles onto the jogging track amidst more dark looks and a lot of uncle-like grumbling.

'Dude look!'

We saw storks, pelicans and egrets flying over the lake, shimmering in the nascent morning light. The rippling of the water and calls of the birds created a chamber of white noise, and we rode towards it.

'Photo, 1+, photo!'

I fumbled for my phone, fighting off Shankar's attacking pokes. They were gone by the time I had pointed the camera towards them.

'Slow af.'

I made a face at him and we continued. There were a lot more sitting on the other side.

'Hey, are those bald eagles?'

'Brahminy kites.' I said after a glance. My bird identification skills had improved since the Orissa trip.

'Look!' I pointed towards a tiny islet just in front of the sun's shimmering reflection. 'A darter bird, cormorant, egret and pelican in one line.' This time I retrieved my phone like a ninja and clicked away. The light wasn't yet very conducive to photography, but it looked more beautiful this way.











I raised my hand above the netted fence and took a picture of the gentle sun through the leaves. We saw various breaks and tears in the boundary, probably made by visitors trying to get a better photo or wanting to get closer to the lake.





All romantics are plagued by an eternal struggle; how to appreciate beauty without smothering it with our senses.

A flock of birds flew by, disrupting my thoughts. I sheathed my mobile in my pocket and we cycled away from the lake.

Chapter - 4 : The Grass Is Greener On Every Side

Green is life, abundant growth, and constant rejuvenation of the spirit. It signifies cheerfulness and new beginnings. It also symbolizes self-respect and well being.

'Is this a baobab tree?' Shankar stared up at a monstrous trunk which had more room than Harry's Cupboard Under The Stairs. 'Aren't they only found in Madagascar?'

'And how do they survive in such temperate climate?' I mused aloud. Bangalore wasn't exactly a meteorological sister to Africa.

'Trees, dude. They can grow anywhere.'

'You remember the giant sequoias from Planet Earth? People live inside them.'

'I wouldn't mind a tree house, man. Anyday. But I move around too much while sleeping - I'll probably fall and break something.'

'You'll probably float down.' I chuckled.

'The Last Leaf,' he grinned and we cycled on, exiting the jogging track and heading for the tiny grove next to it. 

'Let's climb this one.' Shankar spotted a giant Ficus and jumped his cycle to the garden. I followed him. We shimmied up the tree, and rested on a thick branch extending towards the ground. A tiny spread of foliage shielded us from the sun, and we took a brief respite.

'Do you think we can ever screw things up so bad that even trees start going extinct?' Shankar asked as he lay on the trunk.

'Well, we are more than capable of it, but deep down I believe that all of this has happened before, you know? That there was another civilization, another period of history in which humans progressed, evolved and finally reached a breaking point. At that point, some natural catastrophes or just our own unsustainable lifestyles cut down our population gradually, and nature simply waited to come back and sweep the floor.' 

'And the few of us that survived started from scratch?'

I shrugged. 'Humans are brilliantly adaptive, we know that. But nothing is tougher than nature.'

'Speaking of tough, look at those roots,' Shankar pointed to a banyan tree with vines hanging down to within our reach. Well, at least his. 

We jumped off our perches and made for the tantalizing roots. Both of us could jump up and grab them, and we climbed up until the upper roots were in our faces and our palms were burning. 

'What the hell,' we slipped back down and stared at our hands. They were shaking with the effort and the pain of the unforgiving scratches. 'How do monkeys do it?'

'Upper body strength to body weight ratio,' I replied automatically. 'If we learn parkour we can actually develop this.'

'Yeah, but where in India will you do it?'

'Are you kidding? You ever seen the pedestrians during a Kundalahalli Signal traffic jam? The French ain't got nothing on Bangaloreans.'

Shankar chuckled, and we climbed up the tree the conventional way. I spotted a Shikra moments before it flew off, chasing some swifts. 

We went pretty far up, until people started staring at us bemusedly. Some even took pictures. I felt like making bird noises.

'Let's go,' Shankar started dismounting. 'The flower show probably started.'

We cycled around the park to reach our starting point. I saw a squirrel and a flock of pigeons fighting for puffed rice thrown by the onlookers. There was a small enclosure with shrubs cut to form figurines. A few cherry blossoms later, I heard a flute playing in the central arena.

'Mohanakalyani!' I exclaimed as we put our cycles down. What better raga to describe a flower show.

We went towards the entrance, and the white noise parted to reveal the infinite shades it was hiding. 

I walked into the painted world. 

Chapter - 5 : Yellow Brick Road

Yellow represents vibrancy, energy and sometimes, spirituality. The Yellow Lotus Flower is most commonly used to symbolize the Buddha himself. As the flower rises out of the mud and above the murky water’s surface, Buddhists believe that this represents followers that rise above obstacles in order to reach enlightenment.

'Look at all those colours! And they've arranged them into patterns too!'

We were like Dorothy and Toto walking in a strange land, exclaiming at everything. 

'Look at that peacock's tail. Photo, 1+, photo!'

I didn't even fight him off this time, dumbly reaching for my mobile in slow motion. My eyes stayed transfixed at the scene, while my camera took a close-up of my thumb. 

Shankar groaned and took the camera from me. I looked around, trying to find a patch of bloom where I could rest my eyes. 

'They've put a series of gates made entirely of flowers.' Shankar piped up excitedly from beside me.

I took the camera from him and captured a bed of flowers just outside the main attraction.

'Hey, why is this still blocked...' Shankar came up to me and wondered, looking at the white cloth tied over the access. 

We circumnavigated the greenhouse, and finally saw a long line (I say line, although it looked more haphazard than that flock of pigeons eating the puffed rice) towards the west end. Merrily, we entered it, and shelled out the sixty rupees per person they were charging. 

We stepped into an alternate universe; a child's colouring book. There were flowers that sprouted like plants, and plants that bloomed like flowers. From the wall hangings and decorations to even the chandeliers; everything was a floral creation. The main attractions were the monolithic miniatures of Buddha and Shravanabelagola, adorned with a rainbow garden and ornaments. People kept walking into each other and apologizing to thin air, not being able to take their eyes off the panorama.

A young girl asked me to take a photograph of her with a particularly thick veil of alien-looking flowers. I obliged, and couldn't help but notice the similarity between them and Venus fly-traps.

We zoomed in on a velvety sheet of variegated blue flowers, and a line of red lotus-like leaves.

A father held his baby up over the heads of the onlookers, and I could hear him cooing with wonder at the sight. I silently hoped that, decades later, he would retain that sense of amazement. 

'Everything here has won first prize,' Shankar chuckled beside me, breaking my reverie. I smiled. Maybe every flower deserved it.

'Most of these aren't natural, though. Right?' Shankar asked - more of a rhetorical question. 'They wouldn't survive outside controlled environments; or even competition from the natural versions.'

I nodded. This was one of the quintessential dilemmas of the 21st century - was 'artificial beauty' an oxymoron? Had we unwittingly epitomized right angles, uniform and symmetric structures, smooth surfaces and delicate creations as paragons of allure? Perhaps our indefinite absence from nature had resulted in us creating a tainted, mutated version of it.

Or perhaps beauty was just a perennially swinging pendulum, dictated by our innate nature to yearn for what we do not have, while dismissing what we do.

'We'll have this discussion during the Jog falls trip,' Shankar beamed at me, as we rounded back to the entry. 'Right now let's get going, before the traffic wakes up.'

'Actually. Otherwise cycling will be a pain in the ass.'

'It already is.' Shankar muttered, sheepishly adjusting his tracks.

I guffawed. 'When you're back from masters, get a geared cycle and a comfortable seat. Worth it.'

'Definitely. Imagine the freedom - you could go to any beautiful place and make your own trail.'

Metaphor for life, that.

And we left Oz through the same yellow brick road.

Chapter - 6 : In The Pink

Pink flowers hold special meanings in Eastern cultures. The cherry blossom represents the country of Japan and ties into purity, freshness, and the eternal cycle of life. Warm toned azalea blossoms are a symbol of femininity. Pink chrysanthemums are linked to funerals and the afterlife.

'God, I'm hungry...' I breathed heavily, unlocking my cycle.

'When are you not? Here, there's some adirasam left.' Shankar handed me a half-full (or half-empty, depending on what side of the glass-of-water metaphor you're on) packet, and we both chewed noisily under a peepal tree, looking at a kid blowing bubbles, for one second lesser than would have been creepy. 

'I have dry fruits,' and another packet of walnuts appeared. The food, the warm light and the respite unshackled us from sleep deprivation and exhaustion, until we were in the pink again.

'Let's go.'

We climbed onto our cycles. I heard Shankar wincing at the familiar pain, and wondered how he'd managed to come to Turahalli Forest and back on such an average cycle, without getting Baboon Butt Syndrome.

'How are there so many cherry blossoms here?' I wondered aloud as a fleet of pink trees greeted me. We paused at every tree, observing the delicate intricacies in their designs, and the different ways in which each sparse foliage tessellated the sky.

It was difficult to focus on the road, as we took a different route back, finding new nuggets of brilliance we'd missed the first time. The strong sunlight was breaking through the trees now, sending slivers of silver linings our way.

'Wait till the water from the sprinkler catches the light,' Shankar hushed. I didn't know why we were whispering.

After getting some lens flares that would have made J. J Abrams proud, we tore ourselves away from Mother Nature and exited the Red Garden.

All romantics are plagued by an eternal struggle; how to appreciate beauty without getting tired of it.

I had taken a small yellow flower that had fallen from one of the palash trees. When I reached home, it had wilted.

Chapter - 7 : Purple Prose

Purple was the color worn by Roman magistrates; it became the imperial color worn by the rulers of the Byzantine Empire and the Holy Roman Empire, and later by Roman Catholic bishops. Similarly in Japan, the color is traditionally associated with the Emperor and aristocracy. Hence, purple flowers symbolize royalty. 

They say, a red garden of flowers and words, 
At the end of a journey of pedals and whirls, 
As I've seen the journey of colours and birds, 
I'm an unsaid guardian of petals and whorls... 

There's a blue little story of an orange dawn, 
How it tuned white noise to a greener song, 
On the yellow brick road, a minstrel speaks on, 
In a Pink Floyd tune, in a purple sarong. 

But the words dry up and the flowers fall, 
And the birds fly off to a warmer land. 
And the crying minstrel, an unloved rag doll, 
Dies, melts away through the spaces in my hand. 

"My love," I cry softly. "My love, not today!" 
"Wilt for me another day, another day..."

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/

TL;DR

Costs:

1) Entry To Lalbagh: Between 6-9 am, free, and 10 Rs. per person later.
2) Ticket For Flower Show: Rs. 60 per head


Details:

The show takes place for an entire week leading up to the Republic Day (26th January) and another week till Independence Day (15th August). 

Epilogue : Red Rum

Vibrant, passionate and demanding to be noticed, red is the color of love and romance. Red flowers symbolize courage, respect, constancy, admiration and, of course, desire.

Red can also mean danger.

'Ramu called again. He says he can't reduce much for the accommodation, and there's no place to pitch tents except that Forest Department cottage.'

I cut the beans for the poriyal silently.

'Also, he says the two people who backed out might have to pay money because the permissions can't be replaced.'

I stared at Shankar silently.

'Also, there's a Karnataka bandh on Thursday. KSRTC buses may not run. And we won't know until Thursday morning.'

'Kizhunjhidu,' I muttered silently. 'Dude, this Jog falls trip is cursed. Two days left, and still the logistics seems like an obstacle course.'

'Forget all this. Let's watch a Tom & Jerry episode and relax.'

We put on Salt-water Tabby and ate our dinner. I heard the ping of a WhatsApp message.

'Shankar,' I groaned. 'Vedant isn't feeling well.'

I looked at him to find his head inside his rasam saadam.