THE PERMANENT ADDRESS

What is the name of this colony?’ the auto driver asked as I handed him the 100 he had asked for the drop home from the town, without a demur.

(For a long time now, I don't haggle with rickshaw drivers in my hometown. I have realized that it isn’t worth the bad blood it breeds between me and the driver who is also trying to make ends meet and fighting odds just as I am. A few units here and there shouldn’t be reason for people to have acrimony between them even if for a while. So I give them what they ask, which in any case isn’t a king’s ransom.)

‘Housing Colony.’

‘I have never come here before,’ the driver said as if he had discovered a new archeological site, looking around.

‘Oh, it has been here since 1980. Nearly 42 years.’

The driver takes a good look at our house, a two-storey building, and asks, a wee sheepishly, ’Won’t it crumble and fall?’

'It hasn’t fallen so far,’ I say smugly, happy that the building has so far stood the test of time and weather.

As I cross the 42-year-old gate, I tell myself that this house, Ganesh Mandir, shall never fall, not until there is wind in my soul. The house has undergone a lot of changes from what it was when Appa bought it as a bare, unfurnished readymade unit in 1980 from the Kerala housing Board in installments. From a no frills, single storey, 3 BR house with red oxide floor to a double storey 4 BR with tiles to traipse on, it has transitioned sufficiently to suit our modern needs. Yet, it remains quintessentially the edifice of those times, with many things remaining intact, from its basic structure to all its furniture. The sofa set is 44 years old, and so is the dining table. The Godrej steel bureaus, a fixture in every household then, have been there from the earliest times, and there stands a Bajaj scooter in the garage as a marker to our humble beginnings and a happy past. From 1976 to now, it has been Appa’s hallmark, even after his tenure on earth expired. KLG 36. It is not a number to us. It is a legacy.

The house is an old soul with a quiet demeanour, although a lot of cosmetic changes have made it look snazzier than what it originally was. It lacks the opulence of a Gulfee’s mansion with none of the newfangled fittings and interiors to brag about. It still carries memories from our initial days in it when there was no water supply, and we used to get water from a nearby Municipality tank in pitchers and pots. Over the years, we saw it fall into disrepair, getting decrepit with age, falling off from ends and corners. The attrition it suffered pained us, like watching a loved one enduring a terminal illness. Termites ate into its innards, roots tunneled into its heart, monsoon rotted its façade, and slowly, it looked all set to become a memory.

Appa who promised to help us put some fresh life into it, left without honouring it, and we were left with a house, which like the auto driver suspected could crumble and become debris should the monsoons press the pedal a bit. Revival and resuscitation of something that had become so dilapidated wasn’t a challenge; it was a nightmare. Most people in the area had resorted to the easiest way out – of relieving the structure of its ailments by pulling the plug off. We saw many old houses in the locality being razed down and new, contemporary edifices being raised in their place. It was an option that we dismissed as unviable because there was a first floor which was only 15 years old.

If something could be done, it had to be exclusively done to the ground floor alone. The mere thought of a restoration of this magnitude beat the living daylights out of us, but one can’t leave a loved one to die without an attempt at revival, can we? We did what it would take to put Ganesh Mandir back in shape. It was arduous; months and months of uncertainty, contractor tantrums, remote control from Dubai, overshooting of budget and inordinate delays later, the house came back to some structural stability. A lot of things changed, but a lot remained the same.

One of the things that has remained constant from the time I can remember is the way our puja altar looks. Although a number of deities were sent into superannuation after the refurbishing, the basic arrangement still looks the same. The three large pictures that adorn the walls of the puja room have been part of my earliest memories. And the Guruvayurappan in the middle is something that has graced our home for 55 years now. It was purchased by my parents at Guruvayur soon after their wedding, and the fact that it still stands tall without peeling off, with only some bit of its original colour paling, is testimony to the fact that the house is in safe hands. Amma wanted to know if we could do a digital enhancement of the picture, but I insisted that it remain as it is. Taking it off the frame might break the paper and even if it is safely separated, any improvement will purloin its sentimental value.

To me, this picture is like O. Henry’s Last Leaf. Till the portrait survives, and till He surveys the precincts with His benevolent eyes, this house will not fall. Every time people quiz me about the purpose of keeping the house when in all probability, we may never return to drop anchor there, I say, ‘It’s a bridge between my past and my future. Burning it would mean razing my identity to dust. To us, our family, Ganesh Mandir isn’t a house. It's our permanent address. It is the quintessence of our life. It is the cradle of our destiny.'

Why every woman should go on a solo trip at least once

(Published in Khaleej Times dated Oct 18)

Ever since the scourge of Covid loosened its grip on us and we gingerly put our lives back on track, a new bug has bitten us, and that too, with a vengeance. Travel. We have all been seized by wanderlust of every conceivable kind. Airports are teeming with travellers despite prohibitive fares and the congestion and commotion are not deterring us. We have all been waiting to break free from the confinement of many months and are scattering ourselves to different destinations in search of distraction from our daily encumbrances.

Inspired by the globe-trotting sentiment around me, for the first time ever, I decided to depart from the tradition of travelling with the husband and go on a solo trip to a remote destination. While the joy of going with family and in groups is unparalleled, there is something uniquely empowering about going solo. I wanted to capture the spirit of true travel, leaving behind all the mental baggage I had gathered in the past years of strife and survival. I wanted to know how far I could go when I am unleashed and what new discoveries I would make about life and the world.

Solo backpacking has been in vogue for a while now, and more and more women are stepping out to explore the world without immediate company. I have read about women obsessed with expeditions that regular folks like me may not even imagine because to those of us who haven’t ever ventured out, it is an intimidating undertaking. Especially, with the kind of exaggerated reporting in the media about how perilous the world has become for women, setting out alone is always a matter of great self-doubt and debate for women. Add to it a traditional setting where women’s solo travel can easily be labelled as ‘daring’ and ‘unbecoming’, and as a mark of wild enthusiasm. There are the societal pressures and misconceptions about solo travel and then there is the fear factor that we have bequeathed ourselves from hearsay and imagination. The former did not cause me as much worry as the latter did. It was the fear of walking into an anonymous world alone that was paralyzing, although I had an inkling that it was more of a mental block that stopped me than the real state of the world. It was to rip this fence I had built around me with invented anxiety that I pulled up my socks and tied the shoelaces to go on a mountain trip alone.

The rewards of travelling alone, as I am discovering now, are not small. To begin with, it is the greatest ticket for a woman to taste freedom and an opportunity to break the fetters that she has placed on her herself with years of conditioning. It unlocks the innermost chambers of her power and brings her face to face with what she is truly capable of. It is an acknowledgement of her right to cross the threshold of her home and influence the world with her feminine voice and whispers.

And may we not mix this with the idea of women making huge strides and claiming a place for themselves in the material world. Women have been doing that with ample consistency for a

while, but what solo travel does to a woman is bring her in touch with herself. It puts all the pressures and expectations aside, and she goes on a journey where she is accountable to only herself.

There is a lot of difference in assuming who we are and knowing our true selves. Often, positions of power and influence in the material world only create a version of women that the world wishes to see; it puts them in a mould that fits the description of modern, emancipated women, and in striving to accomplish the superficial image and create false impressions, they lose connection with their real selves inside.

It was in search of this real, raw, rustic woman in me, the one that had lost her true bearings in the melee of the pretentious world that I set out when I packed my bags on my first solo journey shedding all inhibitions. While I am still on it, I am learning things about myself that I never knew because I had been too engrossed in other things. I am seeing the world through a different prism and making little notes for the future. I am taking this sabbatical from my regular life, alone, because I knew I had dimensions that remained to be revealed. Towards this ultimate quest to know what she truly is in the absence of fabricated definition, every woman in the world should embark on a journey at least once on her own.

𝗣𝗢𝗦𝗧𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗗𝗦 𝗙𝗥𝗢𝗠 𝗣𝗢𝗞𝗛𝗥𝗜 - 𝟰

And then there are discoveries you make about yourself when you are out gallivanting without a care. One of them being – you need to take care. Not sure if it is long Covid or there is something else lurking in there unbeknownst, but as soon as I arrived, I realised that my lungs did not have enough power to steer me around the uneven terrains. There are several things a cloistered life will not disclose. It is when we move out of the comfort zone that truths will reveal themselves and make us sit up and take notice.

It was only after I came to the hills that I learnt that I had an irritating health issue which had been in hiding all this while. A few steps on a short incline could get me huffing and puffing as if the next thing I will need is a ventilator. I would hear my heart hammering in my throat, its timbre clobbering my ears – boom-boom, boom-boom - making me wonder if I would soon retch my heart out. It wasn’t mere palpitation; it was sheer breathlessness. A total end-of-the-road scenario. Although it turned out to be a huge limitation on my movements, making me abandon bigger plans on longer and higher routes, I trudged on. Because there was a spirit that was willing, although the body was fussing big time.

When I planned for Karthik Swamy temple, a popular spot roughly 28 kms from Pokhri, I had no clue what I was in for. I was told there was a three and half km trek to the temple from where the car stopped, and it sent alarm bells ringing in my head. But I was also told it was doable. Yes, doable under normal circumstances, but now when the heart was waiting to fall out of my mouth?

With huge worry loaded on my chest, I took the trip accompanied by Kamla’s son, Pankaj, who had by then warmed up to me very much and had started looking up to me as his mother. Such bonding happen very seldom in a world that is losing its essential bearings and I have only my good luck and some old karma to thank for all the love I have received on this trip from people I have newly met. Pankaj learnt from the driver (who was his cousin) that a horse could be arranged to take me up the hill. People normally went on foot, but with the cousin’s contacts, a horse could be arranged. Now I would call this divine intervention. You can call it by any other name – miracle, coincidence, chance, luck.

I am not sure if it was a pony or a mule that cantered in. I can’t tell the difference, but she had a pretty name. Tina. And a fragile-looking groom, Jaspal. Getting me on the horseback was a hilarious spectacle, the horse moving away from me every time I hoisted my leg to get astride. It took four to five attempts for me to finally get into position and start upward to the temple.

Jaspal kept giving me instructions on how to maintain balance, and where to put weight to make the trek easier for Tina. It was confirmed beyond doubt during that ride that I had a spine in place. And bones in other places too that made their presence known with pokes and prods into the flesh. Every time the path sloped, and the ground got uneven, Jaspal would intone, ‘Tina, pyar se, pyar se.’

The man knew Tina as much as she knew him. He lavished expletives on her whenever she veered a bit, but she didn’t seem to mind. There was a distinct bonding between the two, which Jaspal said was several years old. Tina followed only his instructions and no new groom could get her to behave. Jaspal has been helping tourists go up the hill for eight years now. He made at least two trips a day. He didn’t own the ghoda and was only an employee, and hinted that he made ends meet with his paltry salary and the tips that tourists gave him. I made note of it and had no qualms giving him his due when the trip ended.

Our hike of 45 minutes provided Jaspal with ample time to relate his life story to me. I didn’t ask, but he seemed keen to share it with me.

Sad stories always make me sigh. There was a time when I used to cry; a tear would break in the corner of my eyes when a someone shares a sad chapter from their personal archives. I would spend long hours vicariously feeling their pain, wallowing in their borrowed melancholy that would leave my peace in splinters. But now, I only sigh and don’t cry.

I have learnt that to be compassionate is to understand and appreciate their plight and not to assume their sorrows and emotions as mine. I have suffered self-attrition of the worst kind because of this unhealthy practice of mine. So, I now listen, not laying myself on them like a blotting paper, but quietly offering my shade for a respite. And there are stories galore in this world. Some spill over from burdened hearts, some just fester inside and die.

Jaspal’s wife died at the age of 21, he said, leaving him with three little boys. He spent all his life raising the boys the hard way who now have left him and gone their own ways.

‘Are you married?’ he asked Pankaj on our way.

‘What’s the hurry? I am still young,’ said Pankaj, who was walking it up all the way for my sake.

‘Yes, I suffered for marrying young and gained nothing. You must not do the same mistake,’ Jaspal handed out a life-lesson learned from hard knocks he had taken in 52 years.

I felt a twinge of embarrassment as I watched little children and families trot up the hill, while here I was, looking privileged atop a mule. It was a moment that made me resolve that the first thing I would do when the tour ended was to get my breath back in cadence.

Tina could take me only to a certain height because she couldn’t climb the long stretch of steps leading up to the temple. I was left to my huffing and puffing devices to cover the remaining distance and it is only because of my dogged will that I could make it safely to a spot which gave me a 360- degree view of the Himalayas.

Turning a full circle, I caught in my eyes snow-clad peaks and green mountains all around me, the air so pure that it was impossible for me to believe that my lungs didn’t want to stuff itself with it and revel in its freshness. I spent some time letting my spirit saturate with the ambience and abundant scenery. There was nothing to think about, nothing to fret over. Just the moment of being there in total unison with THAT WHICH IS on a patch of earth with heavenly attributes made for mortals like us.

As per mythology, it was at this spot that Lord Muruga (Karthikeya) parked himself in protest after his brother Ganesha won the test of allegiance that Shiva and Parvathy had put them to. This is the only Karthikeya temple in the North and I wasn’t surprised to spot tourists from Tamil Nādu visiting the little hill-top shrine that has only a rock serving as an idol.

With less than a handful of pilgrims in sight, and the distant vistas spreading out as if the arms of the universe were open wide for me to walk into, I spent some time just soaking in the absolute stillness of the place before starting my downward trek.

At the base, where Jaspal and Tina were waiting, we had some hot samosas made to order. I don’t know what makes Garhwali chai so different and refreshing, but every time I have had a cup, no matter where, it has been manna to me. It is a lapse on my part to not have taken notes on tea-making from them before I left the place. I need a reason to return to Garhwal some other time, and maybe I will use this as an added ruse.

The ghoda-climbing theatrical repeated at the base, and I felt I had some extra bulk that was making the exercise more difficult. Nevetheless, we got on our way down, but not before getting Jaspal to pose for me. I needed to put him in the tour album. These are faces I will imprint in my memory forever.

‘Jaspal bhaiyya, zara yahan dekhiye,’ I said impressed by the pose he was striking with a distant look in his eyes and a beedi to boot between his lips.

The moment I called his attention, Jaspal threw the beedi away, readying for a sanitised pose. I was disappointed and made no bones about it.

‘Bhaiyya, beedi kyon phenka? Uske bagair to photo hi nahin banta,’ I said.

‘Arre! Ek aur jalaoon?’ he asked excitedly, pulling out another stick. As he put it in the mouth, lit it and gave me a grave-looking pose, eyes fixed in an intense gaze, I said, ‘Abhi aap ekdum Deewar ke Amitabh bachchan jaise lag rahe hai.’

The way he blushed at that remark made me think how small compliments can lift a sombre face, and yet how often we grudge it even when it is genuinely called for. I don’t know what might have made Jaspal’s day – the Amitabh compliment, the two hundred rupees that I handed out, or the pat I gave him in the end and said, ‘Tina ke saath khush rahiye.’