Cycling Away

 

When I was in school, I pestered my father to get me a cycle, but I could not close the argument with him. Beyond the plain metal frame and two wheels, my vision of a cycle was unshakably tied to the notion of ‘freedom’, a devil-may-care attitude and the capability to simply pedal away from life’s problems. Unfortunately for me, my father too must have arrived at the same calculations as I and forcefully shot down this puerile and feeble attempt at a rebellion. Added to my father’s reluctance, was the very real problem of terrible traffic and road conditions with so many vehicles jostling for space, absence of cyclist lanes, and a general insensitivity towards cyclists on the road. So ended my initial attempt at cycling.

Now, two decades later and with the wind ruffling through my hair, the sunlight on my face, the steady roll of the twin wheels under me accompanied by the satisfied sound of rubber on asphalt and gravel, I am living out my cycling fascinations of yore.

Working from home for the past many months, stuck to a seat and rivetted on the computer screen for hours at end with only a small window to look out of, I was starving for any real interaction with the outside world. Being in a new country was becoming a strange, exciting but ultimately, unfulfilling experience with the global pandemic raging outside and multiple lockdowns coming into effect. As winter descended into spring, I could start seeing the natural beauty of my newly adopted town but could not touch and feel it. I could not walk over the great distances in this vast, open landscape; neither could I drive anywhere since I have no car presently. It seemed I was consigned to the prospect of looking at the blossoming spring beauty through a window.

Then, I got me a cycle – a used one – with a crude silver paint job, iffy brakes, a hard-as-stone (it seems!) seat, a paralyzed side-stand and non-functioning shock absorbers which deliver a truly tactile experience.

So, after my daily shift ends, I cycle out into the unknown streets and lanes of my town, sometimes using my phone navigation but mostly, just venturing out with no destination in mind. In this way, I have acquainted myself with some pretty parks and trails nearby which offer the joy of being under great trees, passing over bubbling brooks or sitting on the newly-sprout green grass. Dandelions with their bright yellow faces are growing all over like weeds, birds noisily chirp from their nests among dense shrubs and thickets, squirrels and hares happily trot everywhere. It is like a symphony of nature and my cycle affords me a ringside view like nothing else. I stop wherever I feel like for however long I feel like; I rest my cycle alongside a tree or just lay it over the grass while I contemplate my place in these surroundings. I have started to take out my cycle for grocery trips too, though there is the constraint of riding back fully weighed down by my purchases which does not make for very smooth or enjoyable riding. Sometimes I also ride through quiet neighborhoods with kids playing or cycling outside while their parents engage in more mundane tasks of mowing the lawn, clearing out deadfall or planting new bulbs out in the garden. My cycle is helping me in slowly exploring the place I call home now.

My experience is also aided immensely by the conscientious and generous attitude of people here on the road. Pedestrians and cyclist have right of way on most crossings, there are designated cycle lanes, sidewalks and pavements are well-maintained – all these go a long way in making my ride easy and pleasurable. I can imagine how if I were growing up in this country and my younger self would have asked my father for a cycle, I hear my father happily saying ‘yes’.

Winter Garden @ 2013

Winter is a good time for flowers. For those homes with a garden, winter is a colourful season – yellows, reds, purples, whites – it is nice to see all those hues splashing and cascading in merry confusion. As I have discovered, it takes very little to get all these colours into your garden and then, into your life. Nature takes care of most of the stuff anyway; the sun happily shines its warmth and light down on the sprouting shoots, the soil nourishes the roots and as the gardener, you have to water and every now and then, do a nip and tuck on the spreading plants.

I had gone along with chrysanthemums and petunias last year for winter. The results I was able to see encouraged me to take on a more ambitious winter project this time. So, I went around consulting garden aficionados, collected young plants, took care with the potting mix and watered and prayed. Nearly 2 months after I had planted the first tiny plant, colours slowly started appearing in my garden. First it was the chrysanthemums who shyly opened their radiant faces to the sunlight; the gay petunias imperiously followed and pretty soon, there were blooms of all colours and shapes. The hesitant pansies started blooming and it is a real joy when the pansy petals with the loved face-like dark prints appear. The zagged-edged dianthuses were not to be left behind and they too joined in the general bedlam of colours. The verbenas too opened their little bell-shaped petals with great willingness. Finally, it was the turn of the big boys – the dahlias with their impressive girth and humongous multi-layer petals.

When I see all the richness around me, I look up at the big gardener above and give him a hearty 'thank you'. I forgot to mention the most important tool that the gardener has in his paraphernalia, and that is…love!

(All images shown here are from my own garden; so nothing borrowed J. )

In Deep Waters no longer Still....

The recent spate of floods in the state has affected man and animal alike, uprooting them from their homes and rendering them shelter-less. A tenuous struggle for survival and escape from the rising waters has taken a toll on lives - both human and animal. This is just a collection of pictures of the flood-laden landscape of animals and accompanying little vignettes.

Take a close look at the picture above of villagers gathered around their precious few possessions in a country boat as they paddle to higher ground. The bottom right corner of the pic shows a man perched upon what looks like a little mound, and something resembling maybe a tree stump in front of him. A closer observation reveals that the stump is actually the tip of the trunk of an elephant thrust upwards by the pachyderm to breathe in air, and the man is the elephant’s mahout clinging on precariously to the great beast’s back. The Asiatic Elephant is on an average, 9 feet tall at the shoulder; so the ground must be submerged under atleast 9 feet water.

Deer like the ones shown here sheltering on an embankment, are particularly at threat in the present situation. Deer in the wildlife parks of the state are being compelled to escape from their protected environs. Reports suggest that a large number of deer have entered villages at the fringes of such parks, where some have been bitten by dogs while many others have been injured after getting entangled in fences surrounding people’s homes. A great many number of deer, being the naturally jumpy, nervy animal that it is, have been struck down by speeding vehicles on highways. Added to all these, poachers are having a field day killing large numbers of deer which have ventured out. Venison is highly regarded as a local delicacy and with the deer forced closer to human habitations, they have become exposed. However, while at one end, there are wantonly careless drivers who are mowing down hapless animals and opportunistic poachers killing the animal for their meat, due recognition has to be accorded to the efforts of wildlife guards and conservationists who have rescued and saved stricken animals – deer, rhino and elephant calves, primates. I saw a news footage of a herd of deer that had taken refuge at a football ground besides some cows contentedly munching grass, alongside a group of village kids playing ball nonchalantly in the background.

The rhino featured in the pic here stopped traffic in the busy national highway (NH 37) for almost half a day when it strayed out of Kaziranga park, searching for shelter on the highway. Forest guards fired blank rounds in the air in a bid to chase the rhino away into the adjoining hills. Even as the guards’ efforts proved futile, the busy traffic on the highway slowly and gingerly weaved its way forward under the watchful eyes of the foresters, with the rhino being at times, hardly more than 20 feet away from some of the vehicles. The rhino took its own sweet time however, in moving away from the scene after some hours.

In the midst of all these – nature’s fury, tireless efforts by wildlife personnel and the grimy acts of unscrupulous poachers – I hope and pray that animal (and man) emerge from the present ordeal triumphantly stronger and hopeful.

The Mushroom as an Essential Ingredient of Magic!

It has been raining here quite a bit now and the ground has been sprouting all sorts of greens. Yesterday I saw a mushroom – entirely white in colour and as cute as a button. I plucked it to show my mother. When she saw it, she exclaimed, ’Bang-shaati’. I must explain here that in Assamese, the mushroom is called ‘bang-shaati’ or ‘bang- shota’, the word itself being a conjoint of ‘bang’ meaning ‘frog/toad’ and ‘shaati/shota’ meaning an ‘umbrella’. Therefore, the Assamese word for mushroom - ‘bang-shaati’ – literally means the umbrella of a frog. I tried to imagine a frog sheltering from the rain under the classic umbrella-like top of a mushroom, and surprisingly, that image came to my mind quite easily. As a kid, I remember how I used to collect mushrooms and play with them.

It is fun when you can recall buried-down remembrances from back when one is a kid; somehow the discovery of the tiny, delightful thoughts of a child who was you once, appeal instantly to the adult you are now. I discovered upon subsequent research that I was certainly not the only one who had fantasies about that cap-and-stem form. Tales involving the mushroom are rooted in myriad cultures and folktales.

The mushroom is sometimes called the toadstool – another reference to how the merry frog and the staid mushroom form an instant alliance, atleast in the mind. In German folklore and old fairy tales, toads are often depicted sitting on mushrooms and catching, with their tongues, the flies that are said to be drawn to that fleshy fungi. And surprisingly, it was just as easy for me to imagine a solemn frog planting its small behind on a mushroom to catch a breather, and catch some flies as well!

As I was searching for more tales, a long-forgotten wisp of an idea from childhood materialized suddenly. When I was a kid, I used to think that the mushroom was some kind of a house; of course, being small, it made logical sense to my kiddie mind that the people living in them must be tiny too!  And to my secret delight, I discovered that again I was not the only one who had the ‘mushroom-house’ idea. The mushroom has been frequently depicted in fairy tales as being an essential part of the gnomes’ identity. Gnomes wheel them around (I don’t know why!), live in them, use them as convenient props and otherwise, make a great fuss about this wonder of the fungi world. In the film ‘The Smurfs’ (2011), the legendary elf-like smurfs are shown living in their own wonder village with a clear, flowing stream and a charming wooden bridge over it, wild lavender blooming all around… and of course, houses made out of mushrooms with colourful yellow, red, orange tops! Other mythical creatures like fairies also conveniently rest under and perch upon wild mushrooms, when they are I guess, tired from all the fluttering around.

Thank God for mushrooms, frogs, gnomes, fairies and ....for imagination!

About Love: Wille zum Leben or as Schopenhauer may say, “It’s 100% Natural!”

The next time you see Handsome Bob and Plain Jane holding hands and evidently in love, slowly recall the name of Arthur Schopenhauer before you inevitably silently mutter in surprise, “Why her?”. The logical next question is, ‘Who is Arthur Schopenhauer?’ He was one brainy dude, a philosopher actually, and rather a crusty one as history announces, but a thinker known for a perceptual clarity which has attracted and influenced many other thinkers.Now Schopenhauer or let’s call him Mr. S, says that when two people fall in love, the real purpose is…um, procreation and furtherance of the species.

Mr. S' work in ‘The World as Will and Representation’ proclaims that all human effort is designed towards furthering a will (or desires in common parlance), which tragically is destined to be unsatisfied. This discontentment later leads to pain and suffering. Here’s what Mr.S says about love.

• Mr. S calls love ‘wille zum leben’ or ‘will to live’. The romantic condition is by extension of this ‘will’, just as inevitable as feeling hungry or thirsty.
• Nature succeeds in pulling wool over lovers’ eyes by deceiving them into thinking that the love and companionship of their mates are essential for their lives’ happiness. When in fact as Mr. S says, it is not so…you’ll be unhappy with or without your loved one. Yes, love as Mr. S puts it, is nothing but Nature’s deception.
• Guys look for complementary physical features (mainly) like a sharp nose, nice eyebrows while girls typically look for ruggedness, strength and security. In other words, we search for the most ideal mate so that the offspring from such a union leads to a perfect specimen (imperfect love with perfect result, result here is a baby).
• Mr. S also has a comforting word for people who get dumped – your partner’s rejection is not necessarily a condemnation of you personally; it is just that he/ she has found a better mate who can produce a more perfect specimen. Gee, I don’t how rejected lovers are meant to construe this as comforting.
• Once the baby comes in, Nature’s agenda is fulfilled. The physical attraction now being thoroughly worn down, the two people formerly in love, are destined to spend an unhappy existence together or, just part ways.
• Since we look for complementary mates, short girls will fall in love with tall guys and yada-yada. Hence, the first question in this piece, ‘Why her?’

I feel a natural (that word again!) tendency to dismiss these basifications as hokum but I will not. Empirical evidence is just too strong for casually tossing out whatever Mr. S has to say. Further the interpretation of desires as the root of all disenchantment is a philosophy which has been expounded by far too many sources for it all to be just a single man’s ravings. There is a remarkable congruence between Mr. S’s words and the ascetic teachings of Hinduism and the core beliefs of Buddhism.

The remarkable thing about stuff in life is this – if you think long and deep enough, everything can be reduced to insipid, dull details. There is this wonderful moment in the film Local Hero (1983), when a knowledgeable scientific sort explains the phenomenon of the Aurora Borealis to a layman as ‘high energy protons spilling into the earth’s atmosphere..’ and the wonderstruck guy is just too amazed at the colourful display overheard. It is not important to the guy how the Aurora has been formed, perhaps what is important for him and for us too I guess, is just to be present there in that silvery moonlight when that display occurs. I feel the same way about love.

Spring’s Here

Assam heralds spring with the month of ‘Bohag’; as per the Assamese almanac, 1st day of Spring falls on Apr 14th this year. Nature of course, follows its own primordial clock cocking a snook at man-made numerals. So, we already have green buds stretching their tender necks out on trees, the violet-white ‘kopou’ flower (an orchid whose blooming is traditionally associated with Spring’s coming), and the cuckoo shrilly calling out (another omen for Spring’s onset) in the nippy mornings.

The spring festival of Assam (Bihu) traditionally celebrated as an ode to the season and the fertility and regeneration of all nature, is replete with references to the natural world. So, Bihu songs contain words like ‘phool’ (flowers), ‘kuli’ (the cuckoo bird), ‘kopou phool’ (the orchid – foxtail), ‘bhumura’ (the bee), ‘nodi’ (the river), and of course, those extolling love and romance. So we have among bihu songs, dedicated categories of songs just for l’amour – ‘Joranaam’ (a kind of competitive teasing) where bands of boys and girls attempt to sing the other out through retorts and friendly insults, ‘Prem-peeriti morom-bhalpua naam’ (songs exploring love and affection). There are other types too, some based on history, others about the pangs of separations and still others which are just silly and contain ‘nonsense lyrics’ but nevertheless heart-warming. There is a colloquial quality to Bihu songs which is difficult to find pretty much anywhere else, and with a simple and unpretentious character which stays with you for awhile.

Sample this Bihu couplet:

hahe hoi tumare pukhurit parimgoi, paro hoi tumar salot sorimgoi;

ghame hoi xumamgoi, makhi hoi suma dim galot

[English Translation]: I shall be a swan and swim in your pond, I shall be a pigeon and sit on your roof; 

I shall be perspiration and shall enter in your body; I shall be a fly and kiss your cheeks.

Even as I am writing this, I hear a cuckoo calling out persistently somewhere outside. Yes, all the signs are here – Spring has come visiting!!

The Collective Consciousness of a Storm named Bordoisila

The first of the spring rains hit the city yesterday morning bringing a brief respite from the dust blowing around. This cycle of dust storms and then, rains in this period (Mar-Apr) is a regular phenomenon in this part of the world though, signaling the onset of Spring and sometimes, continuing well into the later part of April. There is an interesting Assamese legend explaining this local phenomenon. This legend bears telling in a dark room lit up by the feeble light of a hurricane lantern  with the wind howling outside, just as I heard this tale for the first time so many years ago. We call this fierce wind the “bordoisila” and legend has it that she is a married lady.

THE OVERTURE

So, in the mid of March (which is the Assamese month of Sot), Bordoisila rushes to her mother’s home (Assam), flying like the wind and in her haste, bringing a trail of destruction in her wake. So, when we are well and truly in March, dust winds blow around, picking up dirt and stray stuff and whirling them around.

THE CRESCENDO

Sometime later towards the second week of April, when Bordoisila leaves her mother’s home, she unleashes another series of frightful bursts in her wake. Only this time she is sad after her short maternal visit; so she burst into tears. If the heaving dark masses of rain-laden clouds wasn’t such an ominous sight, the manner in which massive rain clouds assemble in the sky seemingly at a moment’s notice turning day into night, is undoubtedly one of nature’s most awe-inspiring tricks. Blinding lightning flashes and loud thunderclaps follow with heavy rainfall, and you can feel the full force of Bordoisila’s agony all round you. It’s a nice legend though and if one stops to think about it, bridled passions and the accompanying emotional outpouring which often follows, is very much human nature and by extension, a part of all nature itself.

Numerous rituals have been built around the legend of Bordoisila and the quaintness of these traditional rites handed down over the years, is simply heart-pleasing. One of these rituals is a poem still being taught to children in the villages – “Sotor bihut Bordoisila makor ghoroloi jai, gos gosoni ghor duar niye uruai” which literally translated means, “Bordoisila, the symbol for whirlwinds, visits her parents in the month of Sot, uprooting trees and houses along the way.”

Another short couplet ritually forms a charming part of Bihu-naam (Assam’s spring-songs). It goes like this:

"......nalbirinar paah, brahmaputrot halise jalise, boga koi bogoli nil aakaxot urise,

aahise bohagi tai maa'kor ghoroloi bordoisila hoi..........."

Literally translated (to the best of my abilities), it says, “Alongwith the new buds on trees and the brimming waters of the Brahmaputra, the frolicking herons in the blue sky, Spring comes to us in the form of Bordoisila visiting her mother..”

To make Bordoisila feel welcome in her mother’s home, people do their own bit in their homes. A traditional comb made of bamboo called ‘kakoiphoni’, and wooden stool called ‘borpira’ is left outside in the courtyard for Bordoisila to comb her tresses and rest awhile, before continuing along her journey.

I am sure that cultures worldwide have built their own legends and traditions around local storms, so many of whom have feminine names (‘Mala’, ‘Laila’, ‘Melissa’ and the fearsome ‘Nina’); I wonder why?!

Name’s Winter, Heart’s Sunny

Her name is Winter. She is a dolphin. When she was around 2 months old, Winter got entangled in a crab trap. Post rescue, Winter’s tail had to be amputated. Anyone who has ever seen a dolphin rejoices in the fluid, powerful strokes with which the creature swims (or rather, plays!). Well, Winter could neither do fluid nor powerful. What she did do was this – she created a special place in a few people’s hearts who set about the task of getting her to swim. A team of experts assembled to design and create a prosthetic tail for Winter (around 50 – 60 “test” tails & a newer, improved prototype is being developed) moulded around the amputated stump with a special gel which is now known as Winter’s Gel. Dedicated trainers worked tirelessly to help Winter swim with her new tail. And they succeeded.

Winter stays in Clearwater Marine Aquarium, Florida where she is a star attraction. Winter’s gritty tale of loss and redemption has already served to infuse hope and strength in several people, particularly those who themselves have amputated limbs and are now using prosthetics. Winter’s Gel has been used successfully by injured veterans and amputees to reduce the pain of their prosthetics. It is a testament to Winter’s courage and the love and skill of the experts who work with her, that their efforts have today impacted many people’s lives in a positive way. Below is a short clipping from the end credits of Dolphin’s Tale (2011) where Winter stars as herself, showing how people intuitively seek and receive Winter’s reassurance.

It is in ‘Scent of a Woman’ (1992) where Al Pacino’s character speaks out, “But there is nothing like the sight of an amputated spirit. There's no prosthetic for that.” These words are I guess, true for most people but for atleast 1 dolphin happily swimming away in a giant pool in Florida, an amputated tail has not led to an amputated life!

Nature Ground Cover Inc. – over & above!

The carpet must be one of the oldest home decoration thingy that’s there – indeed the oldest one dates from BC and was found preserved in ice! Before nylon, polyester, acryclic and other synthetic blends came along, carpets were made from wool, hair, cotton, silk and even metal. And there have been amazingly elaborate and huge carpets woven by the hands of men. Perhaps the earliest idea of something like a carpet came to man from observing nature’s own ground cover.

A day-long trip outside the city drove home this point for me.

Carpet#1 – Simalu – The large crimson blooms of the ‘Simalu’ flower paint the sky red in the months Jan – Mar; as evident from the pic, they also do a good job of colouring the ground beneath a deep red. Interestingly the pods in the flower exude a cotton which has traditionally been used for filling pillows and cushions. It is said that when in full bloom, there are very few flowering trees than can compare with the simalu.

Carpet#2 – Looks like an indigenous cockscomb – The pic might give an impression that the plant has actually been cultivated as a crop cos the ground cover is so intense. Truth is, it grows wild but grows in such a close-cropped fashion as to be almost mistaken for a cultivated swatch. It was growing adjacent to a garden patch where garlic was being grown. The tall green stalks and up-thrust, featherlike spikes of tiny red blossoms of the plant do an effective job of carpeting the ground.

Carpet #3 – Indistinguishable pink moss-like plant – The pic was taken in a field which had been left fallow for the season. As my guide informed, this plant grows profusely for a very short time in fallow fields (it evidently needs the full heat of the wintry sun cos if you notice in the pic, it doesn’t grow under or near the harvested paddy stalks) before disappearing just as mysteriously as it arrived. 

Princess Petunia!

The petunia is easily one of the most colourful garden flowers around. Months back when I was planning my winter garden, the petunia was on top of my ‘grow-well’ list. I saw all those wonderful pics of the flower on the net, and frankly I would become greedy seeing all those colours. I told myself, ‘I want this flower bad’ and bought close to 50 seedlings out which only about half have survived. But the ones that have survived and are now blooming and the colour they splash around, make all the effort worthwhile.

For me certainly, the petunia arrived late to the party. It started blooming in other people’s gardens in Jan itself but it made me wait till mid-Feb. And just like many good things that come late, the petunia is easily the show-stealer. Take a look for yourself. 

Looking at God’s Garden

Nature's Bouquet: Dianthus radiant in the centre,
Phlox in the top left & right ,
Petunia smiling shyly in bottom left

Winter for me as for many others I suspect, is a season associated with late mornings, snug quilts, piping bowls of hot soup and outings to the countryside. This winter however, has been different. The season has acquired a different meaning for me now – it is now also the season for chrysanthemums, dahlias, petunias, marigolds, dianthus, pansies and so many other pretty flower varieties that thrive in our short winter.

During my trips to florists to buy (mostly) roses and gladiolus, I had always admired the sunny faces of the blooms, the hint of fragrance in the air and the natural cheerfulness which a nice bouquet almost always induces.  Looking at them, I asked myself ‘How difficult will it be to grow my own flowers?’ Starting from January last year, I tried my hand at growing flowers and got my answer. Growing flowers is not an easy task but when the flowers bloom (for all too short a time, it always seems), one is rewarded.

Below are some pics of my winter blooms.

Portrait of the Countryside in Winter

I was fortunate to take 2 trips through the countryside this month – once by road and again by train. Though Assam has great bio-diversity across, both the trips I undertook were along the Brahmaputra valley, which is sub-tropical. As the name itself suggest, the river Brahmaputra is the principal geographical feature here, influencing as it has for centuries now, both the land and the people that live in it.

To be sure, when you are in these areas, the perceptible difference between summer and winter landscapes is not great. Nevertheless to the discerning, winter landscapes in the valley present uniqueness. The first sign that winter has crept in often lies along the roadside in the tall, silver stalks of the kohua bon. These slender reeds thrusting their tall cottony stalks into the sky grow in big bunches, creating large undulating splotches of silver and green. The second sign grins in your face with blossoms of varying shades of yellow, rising up from flower beds, tumbling down from corners of walls, the bamboo fences of peoples’ dwellings – marigolds and black-eyed susans. These two flowers grow profusely in this season, often voluntarily, with little care, presenting their sunny faces and soaking in the wintry air.

Fields of winter paddy clothe the ground in gold, often wreathed in mist till late in the day. Of course, when you are in the valley, you can trust the river to present the starkest feature of the season. Every winter, the deep waters of the Brahmaputra recede, unearthing large sand-banks (chaporis) of clayey soil, stretching for miles around. This wonderful illustration of regenerative nature provides sustenance to man and beast – people grow varieties of winter vegetables and mustard here, and animals like the rhino and large herds of elephants, make these chaporis their winter home, feeding on the grasses that grow in this short season.

Winter is also the time when you find entire roadside markets of vendors selling oranges, with their citrusy smell pervading the road. People do take advantage of the nippy air, the receding river, the soft sun and the vistas that nature presents and go out; picnicking by the shores, even in the fallow paddy fields by the road. Sometimes these picnics (bon-bhuj) are interspersed with little trips to wildlife sanctuaries like Pobitora and Kaziranga, where an early morning jeep or elephant safari is succeeded by large meals prepared by the families themselves al fresco at the picnic sites (on the river shore, or by forests, or near hilly glades, or by streams). December and January is the time for such excursions, and they come out in droves – in cars, in minivans, small and large buses. Yes, winter is fun!

To Scotland & Back

I am yet to go and see the sights of Scotland, but evidently atleast one Englishman who had, came down to Shillong and fell in love with its low verdant hills, the ever-present mist and the picturesque lakes. And he must have been the one to coin Shillong with the much-beloved moniker - “the Scotland of the East”.

Shillong the state capital of Meghalaya (“Abode of the Clouds”) is perched at an altitude of 1,520 meters (4,990 feet) above sea level. Shillong was a tiny village till 1864, when it was accorded the status of the new civil station of the Khasi and Jaintia hills. During the colonial period, it was an integral part of the erstwhile British provincial states of Eastern Bengal and Assam and served as the capital even after independence. Shillong thus became Assam's capital in 1874 and remained so for a century

With Shillong being the capital even in the British heydays, it remained the epicenter of administrative affairs, followed naturally by trade and commerce ties. Officers put up residence in Shillong, their families soon followed uphill cos after all, the ‘Scotland of the East’ with its salubrious climate, was and still is a comfortable address. Schools came up, shops opened and Shillong became a city.

With the creation of the new state of Meghalaya in 1972, Shillong ceased to be Assam’s capital. Thereafter, there was a reverse influx of Assamese families from Shillong. In Guwahati, it is easy to come across people who used to work and live in Shillong, grown men and women who recall wistfully, the wonderful times when as schoolchildren in Shillong, they would roam in Police Bazaar, go trekking in the hills all around, slurp steaming hot soup in roadside stalls around Bara Bazaar and go off to the Polo Grounds to watch the archery competitions and place their bets. The Shillong of yesteryears can still be seen in their memory-laden eyes, and it makes for a very pretty sight. 

A newspaper article last month about the beauty of monsoon in Shillong and the accompanying inflow of tourists that it invariably brings, prompted a family visit in the 3^rd week of June. Shillong is 104 km from Guwahati but for all the difference between the sweltering heat of Guwahati and the coolness of Shillong, you might think that the two places are in two different continents. It is presumptuous to assume that any beauty, even the beauty of a place is meant for consumption of the soul cos beauty and natural beauty at that, should not be cumbersomely burdened with a ‘purpose of being’. But for whatever it is worth, I drank in through my senses, the sights, smell, tastes and sounds of most that Shillong offers.

We put up at Umiam Lake (or Barapani) near Shillong; nestled among all the pines, with the turquoise waters of the lake in the background. For an all-too-brief period on that 1^st day, the lights went out and we spent some blissful moments in candle-light, with the crickets singing in the forests beyond and a starry sky above. A ritualistic visit to Shillong for most includes a trip to Cherrapunji village, now called Sohra, which our school GK books never tired of reminding, was ‘the wettest place on earth’. The sobriquet now belongs to Mausynram (another village nearby). The trip to Cherrapunji often comes accompanied with spray-like rain, which if you playfully poke your face out of the car and heavenwards, drenches it with cool, invigorating minuscule beads of water. In this journey again, more often than not, you will drive through cottony wisps of cloud which descend suddenly upon the road, just like long-lost friends. Of course, with all the driving rain and clouds, you might or not get to see the majestic waterfalls that dot the panoramic landscape, and fall out like so many petulant rivulets from high plateaus into the deep ravines below.

To end on a light note, with all the inherent attractions of falls, peaks and lakes, Shillong also holds enough charms to entice the shopaholics in the form of ‘Police Bazaar (called ‘PB’ by the locals) and Bara Bazaar. Stalls laden with goodies with grim-faced proprietors in the front apt to quote any price which catches their fancy, hard haggling with vehement remonstrations delivered with hand gestures and shame-faced expressions and the joy afterwards of carrying home the fruits of a hard-fought battle in a cheap blue/ green/ pink/ what-have-you plastic packet – all these appeal to the deal-sniffing instincts of my mother and brother.

We trudged onwards through many stalls, finally coming onto ‘Grand Tibet Market’ near Bara Bazaar.  With my brother scanning the goods from one stall to another, mother and myself stopped at one stall to catch our breath.

It was then, that I saw the black tee with a silhouetted Slash (from GnR) with his favourite Gibson Les Paul guitar. Well, one thing led to another and I learned a thing about myself – that I was not so different from my mother and brother, after all. So, I ended up buying 2 tees and a pair of jeans from that one stall. On the jeans front, the pleasant-faced lady proprietor shows me pairs in slim fit, narrow fit, ‘crotch-gripping’ fit with the usual line, “Brother, this here is the latest fashion.” She felt a little let-down when I asked for a straight fit pair which I normally wear, and began rummaging around the bottom shelves, obviously stocked much below the ‘latest fashion’ stuff and came up with exactly 7 pairs of my specification. She looks up and smiles wanly at me, asking me if I would like to try them on.

I glanced quickly over the pairs, realizing one thing I’d missed; so I tell her, “Didi, my waist is 34” and most of these are too small.” Poor didi’s eyes rolled up and in a voice mixed in equal measure with irritation and reproach, she says, “Brother, 34” is too big. You should slim down.” To be fair to didi, I am hardly representative of the local populace of Shillong. The people here are lithe, wiry, slender and of average height. Didi’s looks and words have the effect of making me feel like a outsized giant with a waist liable to attract litigations and summons issued in public interest. To add insult to injury, I am now left with precisely 2 pairs to choose. So, I gulp down my wounded pride and choose.

Afterwards, I found myself thinking of an act by stand-up comic Russell Peters (bit reproduced here) about a similar situation he says he faced in China. This is mirth about girth!!