tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88474656373977683512024-03-13T08:47:55.438+05:30My musings<i><b>A space for my expression</b></i>Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.comBlogger483125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-12403329952634565322019-11-11T20:20:00.001+05:302019-11-12T20:04:26.604+05:30Udaipur- not smart but definitely a culturally rich city!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A 5-hour journey, further delayed by connecting flights, had us landing at the smallish Udaipur airport late in the evening. I was grumpy about losing a precious half-day of our tri-city tour of Rajasthan. The cloudy skies and dusty roads—due to major flyovers being underway—en route to our hotel didn’t help to cheer me up. After about an hour of being on the highway, we pulled into the city lanes constricted by narrow roads lined with small-and-big stores. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As we neared our hotel—an ancient <i>Haveli</i>-turned-boutique-hotel, the lanes got narrower and more chaotic. Our driver kept miraculously squeezing the Innova through these, dodging the pedestrians, and the stream of oncoming autos and two-wheelers. Even so, covering the last bit of the journey fell unceremoniously on our shoulders. I had hardly envisioned royal <i>Havelis</i> being located in the thick of such lanes, much less trudging three heavy suitcases up a short stretch to the said <i>Haveli</i>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And yet, our retreat for the next three nights<i>,</i> with its stately ambience and cosy rooms, had metaphorically distanced itself from its immediate neighbourhood. We checked into our room that overlooked Lake Pichola. The captivating view and inviting bed helped us recover slightly from the not-so-great first impressions of the acclaimed tourist destination. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Karohi Haveli</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We woke up the next morning to a glorious sunrise, temple bells, and a birdsong. After a fulfilling breakfast of melt-in-your-mouth aloo paranthas, Indori <i>poha</i> flavoured with fennel seeds and garnished with <i>sev</i>, and some steaming hot masala chai, we began our day—one that was to testify against forming opinions based on first impressions.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">View from our room</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The city palace</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Leela on Lake Pichola</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">We covered the tourist-y attractions like the Jagdish Mandir—visit it to marvel at the intricate carvings on the façade and pillars of this Vishnu temple, the City Palace—a must-visit (whether or not you’re a fan of Indian history) simply to take in the sheer grandeur and ornate architecture, and Lake Pichola—a lake bigger (and better) than Fatehsagar. A boat-ride here is enjoyable for the views of the City Palace on one side and floating lake structures that included
hotels like the Taj and The Leela. The entire breadth wears a festive look when the lights are up at dusk. While these attractions come with their share of wonder and should feature in your Udaipur itinerary, two experiences stood out for me as highlights of the day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Paliwal Arts is a miniature art store-cum-workshop centre located in one of the busy by-lanes near the City Palace. Sanjay Solanki who runs the store gave us a rundown of the traditional artwork of miniature paintings and nail art. Within seconds my and son and I had an elephant and a tiger sketched (respectively) on our thumb nail. The exquisite beauty of each of the miniature artwork
on display—be it on a canvas or silk or on (the most expensive version) camel bone panels </span><span style="font-size: 16px;">(a close replica of the now-banned ivory) </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">was awe-inspiring. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The painstaking art of creating miniature on different mediums is passed down from one generation to another within families—a handful of which remains in form presently. The paints used are organically produced and the paintbrushes are made out of the hair of squirrels. While the themes of the paintings (they depict historical or life events at the backdrop of the Udaipur City Palace or a slice from Lord Krishna’s life) appear to be similar, the difference lies in
the details as every artist lends them a unique, personal touch with their interpretation of the event. The art is being kept alive and made known to the rest of the world through workshops conducted at the store.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There’s no right price for hand-produced art because the effort and love put in by artists to create a masterpiece—and each piece is one for the same reasons—cannot be pegged into currency. Yet, I’d say, the paintings are pretty much affordable, come in a wide-range hence suit every budget. More than anything else, the experience of learning the art or the history behind it is priceless. Purchasing art at such stores can be a small way to help these artisans get their worth in terms of money and name.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After some soul-satisfying dal-baati-churma, we opted to be lured into some shopping indulgence. The weaves of Rajasthan—bandhej (bandhini), Kota Doria, leheriya, applique work, patchwork, Gota-Patti—need no introduction. From sarees, to dress materials, dupattas, bedspreads, quilts, potlis, and embroidered handbags in every hue and shade—you name it, you get it. And, who can say no to the glib and suave Marwari salesman! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Does it get better than this? Yes, undoubtedly. When in Udaipur, do not miss the cultural show at Bagore ki haveli, for the Dharohar folk dance troupe will hold you spell-bound for the evening. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; letter-spacing: 0px;">We watched agape as dancers from three generations, a septuagenarian included, </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; letter-spacing: 0px;">performed—often using interesting props—with skill and easy grace. The folk </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">songs to which the dancers performed were sung live accompanied by traditional instruments. The singers sang full-throated in their inimitable rugged yet pitch-perfect and melodious voices. The puppet show was thoroughly entertaining to the adults and kids alike. Little wonder that the mini courtyard echoed with thunderous
applause and whistles. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Every dance form, representing a different region of the state, passes down from one generation to another within families. The traditional dances, the anchor briefed us, do not merely carry entertainment value but are closely linked to the personal lives of the rural folk and have a story to tell.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The best piece was saved for the last as the star performer, Jayshree, did the <i>Bhavai</i> dance. Balancing not one, two or three but up to nine pots on her head, she matched her steps to the rapid beats. Not once did her smile or step falter. There was a great deal of beauty and grace to her movements too. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The <i>Bhavai</i> speaks of the times when ladies had to walk several miles in the arid desert to fetch water for daily life. Even in the face of such severe hardships, they would sport a smile on their face when their pots brimmed with precious water. Hence, the dance to express joy and gratitude!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We hear that although the government is doing its bit to encourage tourism and preserve the art, these remain endangered as the younger lot isn't too keen to pursue and pass it on. It would be a shame to let these die a natural death. Then again, tourism is a two-way street. In the hands of the host, it isn’t only about selling attractions to visitors but providing culturally rich experiences for them to take back as true souvenirs. As guests, we could do our bit to include the local flavour in our travel—eat local, buy local, and encourage the local art forms.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Coming back to first-impressions, I was glad I could get past and love the city for its goodness. While the city indeed grapples with providing proper infrastructure and a clean(er) environment for the tourists who come here in droves, yet, what each of us takes back hinges on whether we’re a traveller or a tourist; whether we can look beyond outward appearances and allow the rich history, art and
cultural flavours to touch our soul. </span></div>
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Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-86481804038974470552018-07-04T18:47:00.000+05:302018-07-04T18:47:03.747+05:30The way to a man's heart<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Mariam sat opposite the blazing tandoor roasting kebabs until golden brown. The mid-day sun scorched her fair skin to a similar shade.<br />
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She braved it all. To win back Anwar.<br />
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Anwar, who she knew to be a philanderer. </div>
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Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-1330207290258430502018-07-03T21:22:00.000+05:302018-07-03T21:23:51.807+05:30How to not write- #YeahWrite377<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Yell at the household for not doing their bit to tidy the mess. You end up wasting time you’d rather spend writing, this you remind them with accusatory fingers.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Decide today that the cleaning can wait. Open the word document. Remind yourself that there is a quick link to it on the desktop status bar.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Stare at the clean slate. Then stare some more. Blink away the saline droplets that are threatening to spill over the edge of the pool your eyes are swimming in. Convince yourself that you’ll find the words to translate these tears one day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A fresh mind works, always. It’s a voice you sometimes hear. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Close the empty space before you and step into the doors of Facebook or whatever that’s enchanting and welcoming at that point. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Get swept away in the avalanche of advice by wannabe experts that generously share their wisdom on everything from gardening to making babies, from meditation to taking out the garbage the right way. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Let your head spin in the overdose of virtual hobnobbing and hit the bed with a mid-day hangover.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Take a break, come back rejuvenated, implores the same sagacious voice. Check. Writing breaks in your life now are pretty much regular guests that overstay their visit.</div>
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Read other writers for inspiration. It’s an advice that cannot be ignored. So, curl up and lose yourself in the labyrinths of splendid prose and poetry. The pen you hold, heavy with envy and self-pity, embarrasses you with its juvenile craft. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Sigh. Glance up in time to the sun slipping under the inky covers and jump off to chop your thoughts for dinner. <o:p></o:p></div>
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An idea sprouts up unexpectedly just as the soft <i>paneer</i> goes under the gleaming knife. Swiftly scoop it up before it blends into in the simmering curry before you. Take quick strides to plant the seed into the still-open Word.doc but bump mid-way into your sulking pre-teen. <o:p></o:p></div>
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You lose just a split-second in deciding to nurture your fledgling, an adult-in-progress, over saving the germ of a story. The latter, though, wastes no time in slinking away.</div>
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You’re left to contend with a clean document and a dirty house.<br />
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Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-4188380445225894102018-01-17T12:58:00.000+05:302018-01-17T18:38:03.385+05:30Fuelling ambition | Fiction<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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"Get the inventory in order!" I heard the manager bark as I busied myself before the long line of customers.<br />
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I glanced up at Marianne for a brief moment, in between getting the change for the middle-aged, portly man, who leaned heavily at the counter, clutching packets of Marlboro in his short, stubby palm.<br />
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“Fasst…hon…you think I’ve all day?” He winked at me, his breath reeking of alcohol.<br />
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Repulsed, I banged the coins on the counter and waved him away.<br />
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Marianne held the inventory chart clumsily in the left hand, cradled a phone between her neck and left ear while simultaneously ticking off the items on the list with her right hand.<br />
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“Yeah, Sweetie..today’s when we get your baseball cap and gloves” Marianne now spoke breathlessly over the phone. She hung up a little abruptly, pushed a few Coke cans back and forth on the shelf.<br />
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“Something’s always missing,” grumbled Marianne, her frown deepening as she counted and re-counted. "Shit, I need the money!" She swore loudly.<br />
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I had a déjà vu at that moment when I was the new junior attendant at Costco. I'd patiently wait for salary day and feel a stab of pain to find the already paltry sum reduced, to compensate for the items that would routinely go missing during my shift.<br />
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I kept looking for something more than the missing item.<br />
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I’d pour the frustration into my cello lessons and draw out melancholy notes that, my faithful listeners insisted, tugged at their heart. I chose to believe them. Music filled out the empty spaces in my life.<br />
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When Marianne joined six months back, I found someone I could share the work misery with. We savoured our 15-minute lunch break outside the store. It provided us downtime, enough to simply breathe and recoup for the next few hours of stifling work and humiliation at the hands of the always harried and often entitled customers.<br />
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The foil crackled as Marianne tore opened the packet. She frowned as she took a bite of her cold tuna sandwich. Sweat had stuck her front curls to the forehead like a sort of headband. She looked at my box of hash browns and some salad with extra mayonnaise dressing. It wasn’t the usual fare of bland rice and stew. She raised her brow at me and I quickly explained,” made a few extras at the musical gig last weekend.”<br />
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“It helps to have some talent or at least brains to escape this,” She jerked her head at the store.<br />
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“Say, Marianne…” I hesitated while fishing out a crumpled piece of a pamphlet from my overcoat pocket. “What do you think of this?”<br />
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Her eyes opened wide as a saucer and she snorted, her entire body rippling with laughter. “You serious? Had I the patience…would’ve finished high school long back.”<br />
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I felt a hot flush rise to my cheeks. “Yeah..bad idea, maybe,” I mumbled and hastily thrust the piece of paper, now smudged with the remnants of cream from my fingers, back into my pocket.<br />
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I turned to my cello that night. Every right note spoke to me about perseverance and passion.<br />
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*</div>
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My stomach lurched at the smallish farewell gathering on a crisp morning a month later. My voice trembled slightly as I spoke about finding a job as a part-time cello teacher at a high school.</div>
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My manager and colleagues clapped like automated robots as I took a deep breath and added to say that I also planned to finish school. I glanced at Marianne and she wore a blank expression. My throat went dry and I wondered if it was too late to laugh out loud and say, “Gotcha!” Yet, hearing my own words gave me strength.<br />
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I placed the battered pamphlet on Marianne’s desk, grabbed my keys and dashed out of the station before my knees crumbled under the stress.<br />
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***</div>
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Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-33407005154078200572018-01-10T08:49:00.001+05:302018-01-10T17:41:35.019+05:30Seeking little joys<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YWfR-Z5cB_0/WlT5ULk-4DI/AAAAAAABKl4/uFrgw1obAiM2_Vi6wDTTDpNsFREpEuHxACLcBGAs/s1600/summer-331846_960_720.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YWfR-Z5cB_0/WlT5ULk-4DI/AAAAAAABKl4/uFrgw1obAiM2_Vi6wDTTDpNsFREpEuHxACLcBGAs/s320/summer-331846_960_720.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<strong><span style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-weight: normal; padding: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Anjana’s stubby fingers bristled as she caressed the edges of the woven straw hat. A thin red satin ribbon was wound at its base, with a neat bow. The hat was two sizes large for her. But, she didn’t mind. She simply loved to touch it or see it hung over the nail above the rectangular mirror in her room. <o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-weight: normal; padding: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Whose is that?” Ma asked. They rarely owned pretty things so it stood out.<o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-weight: normal; padding: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Oh, Mary Amma gave it to me,” Anjana lied. Fortunately for Anjana, her Ma had more pressing duties like making sure the next meal was on the table than cross-verifying facts. <o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-weight: normal; padding: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Sajita Chechi has had a girl,” Ma updated as she rolled out chapatis. She muttered to herself, “Again. .Ah, poor Chechi, God knows how she’s going to fare with 3 girls now!” <o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-weight: normal; padding: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Anjana looked up quizzically at Ma. She wondered how Sajita Chechi’s news was relevant to her. <o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-weight: normal; padding: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“It’s been a rough delivery. I've been asked to help her out. I’ll get double pay,” Ma continued. Anjana nodded.<o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-weight: normal; padding: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Double pay meant overtime, although the pay never seemed enough. Ever since Pa died at the construction site two years ago, Anjana’s conversations with Ma meant exchanging important information in bits and slices. Worry lines creased Ma’s forehead and her mane was streaked in silver. Anjana had learned to befriend silence.<o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-weight: normal; padding: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Anjana walked up to the mirror. She reached up on her toes to place the hat on the nail. As she looked at the hat, now settled crookedly on the nail, she felt a stab of shame and guilt wash over her. It was Mary Amma’s daughter’s hat. But, neither Mary Amma nor Suju Chechi had given it to Anjana. <o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-weight: normal; padding: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Suju Chechi had arrived that summer morning. Brightly coloured suitcases dotted the living room. Excited chatter filled up the spaces. Chechi’s girls bumbled in and out of the corridors, clamouring for attention. Sugary fragrance wafted through, followed by the scent of crispies fired in aromatic coconut oil. Delicacies were being laid out one by one on the kitchen counter. Ma was a superb cook and was usually summoned by the locals for special occasions including annual visits of their children from foreign shores. <o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-weight: normal; padding: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Anjana had accompanied Ma that day at work, a rare occurrence. Mary Amma had insisted that they partake of the feast and celebration. <o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-weight: normal; padding: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The bewitching headgear was lying in one corner, almost abandoned. Anjana’s eyes lit had up at its sight, a pinkish shade of sunset; it was beckoning her. She imagined her to be a little princess, adorning the hat, astride a white handsome horse. <o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-weight: normal; padding: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Her heart had pounded in her chest as she slunk away with the treasure that day. <o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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A harmless trick, she thought. Soon her wooden chest was filled with knick-knacks that had all called out to her with equal urgency. She vaguely felt a sense of wrongdoing each time but also got emboldened and revelled in the merriment.</div>
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<strong><span style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-weight: normal; padding: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“It’s not my fault. They hypnotize me,” Anjana argued with the voices in her head that shamed her. <o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-weight: normal; padding: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“The Gods will be angry!” the voices bellowed this time and Anjana felt a cold sweat trickling down her nape. She decided to seek mercy, at the local temple. She woke up early and washed her hair. She wore the cleanest and best dress she owned, a red and brown checked hand-me-down frock with a brown belt. <o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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Ma had been surprised but agreed to let her go to the temple. Anjana stopped to buy a string of Jasmine for the temple deity. " 2 strings for 30, buy 3 for 50." a voice behind the crowd called out. Silks swished, bangles jangled, as women jostled to get their bunch of fragrant flowers.</div>
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<strong><span style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-weight: normal; padding: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Anjana stood rooted to the spot, </span></span></strong><strong><span style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-weight: normal; padding: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">her hands were hooked in the belt, as though she could prevent them wanting to roam.</span></span></strong><strong><span style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-weight: normal; padding: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> The sunny Chrysanthemums whispered, casting their spell on her. They sat in neat bunches along with the Roses and Polianthes just behind the bundles of strung Jasmine and Oleanders. <i>How they glisten with the dew!They must feel like silk..noo..I must not touch</i>. </span></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-weight: normal; padding: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“And, what does this young lady want?” The flower-seller turned towards Anjana, her wizened face crinkled with a smile. </span></span></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><strong><span style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; font-weight: normal; padding: 0cm;">Anjana answered truthfully, “Just a bit of joy.” In her right hand tucked behind, was a single stalk of a yellow Chrysanthemum.</span></strong><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-22838922133174399412017-12-19T10:59:00.000+05:302017-12-19T11:34:18.259+05:30Rewind. Pause. Play<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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“Let’s see if you can imitate well.” His eyes would twinkle as he’d challenge me to a game he liked to play with me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yesss, let's!” I loved to play with <i>thatha</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He would then hum or whistle a series of complex notes and urge me to reproduce it. He’d listen to me, as I sang with near precision, with pride-filled eyes. As a child, I always refused a direct request to sing for an audience, even if it was family. This was his way of making a diffident young kid break out of her shell and find wings. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Ironically, I won my first ever award at a music competition the year he passed away. The void he created can never be filled but <i>thatha’s</i> presence lingers. Each time Amma makes <i>Jeera rasam</i>, I'm reminded of his musical parody about this comfort food and my face breaks into a smile. Every time I sing or listen to “Jagat Janani”, the <i>kriti</i> in his voice plays in my head; I’m aware it’s the only recorded song, a precious souvenir we have, in his melodious voice. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But, the years have piled on heavily and created a foggy path between me and memories of <i>thatha</i>. It’s as though a videotape of yesteryears has grained out except for bits of clear scenes: His serene face during the daily and elaborate morning <i>poojai</i>; his slender frame supported taut against the wall as he rested his almost bald head on the soft mattress, his supple body belying his age; his easy laugh revealing the slightly crooked line of teeth as he’d narrate funny stories or played silly games with me as I sat on his lap. I’d count his worry lines as they stacked up tall when he raised his eyebrows. I’d look on with a silly grin as he stuck his tongue out blowing air and making it vibrate. He could bend his palm easily enough for the fingers to touch the back of the hand. And, this would fascinate me to no end. He never denied a “once more” request to the inane games I loved and which, I now realize, can exasperate an adult.<br />
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When he left without a warning, I felt cheated, robbed of a doting grandparent who could’ve easily lived for many more years. That night of intense grief and unending tears is etched forever. I had slept from the sheer exhaustion of unrestrained sobbing and the shock of seeing the lifeless body of a person I so dearly loved. In my semi-wakeful state, I dreamt that he was still alive and the whole thing was a mistake. It was a dream that recurred in the many months to follow. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Years later, my mother confessed to experiencing a similar dream as mine. Many a time, I’d catch <i>Amma’s</i> eyes go all misty when an old photograph, a song or a recipe scraped at the scab of a wound that never healed completely. She had lost a parent and her pain was deeper. Her stories of him shine a light on the person who quietly did his duty never expecting anything in return. I can completely imagine him being that person. When extended family and friends speak of <i>thatha</i>, it is easy to believe that he had touched them all, in many ways, by his genuine goodness. I’m bitter about not having an exclusive story to tell.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The pain has been numbed with passing years. But, the fragmented memories spring upon me when I least expect, bringing on a dull ache. I imagine how it would have been to watch my son play in his arms as I once did, to trust his sapience during my troubled adult phases in life, have him cheer me on, or watch his face erupt in joy at my small achievements.</div>
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I cup the sepia-tinted impressions together, worried they might crumble to powder. I’m desperate to piece them all together for eternity.</div>
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Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-60717455436339567102017-12-06T18:42:00.001+05:302017-12-06T19:24:48.141+05:30Spellbound<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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He clamped a sweaty palm over his sister's quivering lips. The yellow light flickered perilously as the coin dragged her finger over letters, one after another. The candle collapsed into a blob of melted wax as a voice sniggered, "Welcome."<br />
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Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-31510377773112566552017-12-05T07:35:00.000+05:302017-12-05T16:46:46.737+05:30Choosing perfect pots and pans<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-GB">To some, moving houses come as naturally as shedding skin to snakes. I admire the former's ability to wrap themselves with the new and blend into established territories like they have always belonged. I think of myself as someone who craves for newness but equally loath to part with the familiarity. The uncertainty of the foreign fills me with apprehension as well as anticipation. Fitting in has never been my favourite activity and I wonder if disparate elements can be fused together to create an agreeable flavour.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">As I prepare myself to detach myself from the veneer of my home, I spend my time mentally stripping it of the memories it holds. I gather my belongings, the collectibles, the memorabilia that speak of the many travels, a shared life with my family, and a keen love for all things colourful and antique. In my head, I imagine various empty houses, not mine, where they will be placed to recreate an environment I call home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I care less for the polished white interiors that gleam of a perfection I’m afraid to touch. I crave for warm hues to intertwine their fingers with the cracks in the wall winning me over with their conspiratorial smile. For, they are witness to our secrets, our laughter, our worries, and our decisions. I like to meander in long corridors, tracing out the dust collected on the frames of our candid photographs hung in random order. I allow the vacant spaces to be filled before they are infused with the aroma of love, laughter, coffee, and marinated with a mixture of friends-new and old, of mindless banter and serious debates. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Sometimes you have to give up the labour of love because it’s time for new birth pains. And yet, at other times, the creations do not turn out as intended; much like my trysts with cooking in the initial years of my wedded life. Armed with all the right ingredients, I’d try to add the flavours one by one as I remembered my mother doing it for years. Yet, the result would be vastly off. I had once lamented to her about how my cooking does not taste like hers although I use her spices and follow her recipes. She smiled, her eyes twinkling with a secret she was about to reveal. “Sometimes, the pans and pots are not right!” I looked on incredulously. “Yes,” She continued in a tone that meant she wasn’t joking. “It takes some experience to know that a shallow pan is usually the culprit behind curry mishaps and that a pot of sterner mettle is the best accomplice to dish out that perfect <i>biryani</i>. Sometimes, our love and energy need to find the right home to create the ambience we are seeking.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">As my thoughts meander, my mother’s words seem to ring with newfound meaning. I’m fuelled by a new surge of enthusiasm as I look forward to making newer connections and friendships. I’ve been wary of the latter as I find myself cocooning into a space that very few people are able to enter. I make acquaintances but I’m careful in choosing my friends. Growing up, I'd always worried about the kind of impressions I made on people. I hesitated before asking for help for I worried about imposing myself. Social gatherings had me looking on from the fringes, waiting for a smile, a nod or acknowledgment before I extended my own hand. Not surprisingly, I was never a part of any cliques. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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I later went on to experiment with my true nature and feelings many a time until they found a solid home in the hearts of a handful of friends that are almost my shadow now. They have my back as I have theirs at all times, good and bad. Yet, setting aside these, I’ve failed to recreate the delicacy of friendship. I have fewer friends today than in my younger years and cliques are as elusive as ever. Despite my best intentions, I’ve ended up burning my fingers or licking the vestiges of friendships gone sour and bitter. However, today, I’m content with knowing that my methods weren’t incorrect.<br />
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Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-88718815836752974242017-11-29T14:08:00.000+05:302017-11-29T16:04:32.403+05:30Of self-respect and other things<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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R was called a loser by his best friend today. I was standing right there. I instinctively told the friend (nicely) that it wasn't a nice thing to say. The friend looked embarrassed and mumbled something. I let it go. It kept playing at the back of my mind, though. My son showed no signs of having felt bad but when I later spoke to him about the incident, he confessed that he did not like it. Why did he not, then, take offense? I asked. He simply shrugged.<br />
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How do I even begin teaching an eight-year-old about self-respect? I wondered. In many ways, I realized, he is like me when I was his age. Or perhaps, many kids this age are like this-holding friends in high esteem, eager to please and anxious to enter their good books. Even at the cost of getting hurt, literally and otherwise. He might eventually learn, without my intervention, that this is not the best thing to do and that his self-respect should always come first.<br />
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"Stand up for yourself," I sermonized to the boy who was now looking keenly at me. In my mind, several voices spoke out. "Am I over-reacting? They are after all just a bunch of 8 and 9-year-olds," said one voice. "Whether you're eight or eighty, you cannot have anybody trampling your dignity and self-respect," spoke another, aghast at the first. Call it a mother's heart, I felt a need to sensitize R towards his feelings. I realized the key to it came from within you. For, even before you learned to take a dignified stand or fight back as the situation demanded, you needed to identify the red flag situations. <br />
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I softened my words to convey that no matter how important the friend may be in his life, he/she had no right to say mean things or make him feel small and inadequate. When that happens, it's a clear indication to put his foot down even if that meant letting go of a friendship. I resisted the urge to add that not just in friendships, you should always find the courage to walk away from people and situations who do not value you. But, some lessons would have to wait. Others could be taught only by life.<br />
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R did not look too convinced. Perhaps, the last bit of having to forgo a cherished friendship bothered him or maybe the whole conversation didn't make too much sense, as yet. I had to contend with letting it go at this stage. I'd have to, in all likelihood, revisit this lesson many times in future. Some kids are equipped with sensors to effectively deal with threatening situations. Others, like mine, need extra fittings because they are too eager to please.<br />
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I've been, of late, a witness to many a disturbing trend amongst kids. Conversations are always about being one up on the other. Sample this:<br />
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"Know what? I'm reading 'A' book." says one with obvious pride in his voice.<br />
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"Oh, what's the big deal? I already finished that one last grade! The boy in the end...." replies the friend squeezing all the emotions out of the first and also spoiling the book without remorse.<br />
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"So, do you know what happens to this character in this movie?" asks another gloating over the fact that he had watched a movie that wasn't exactly meant for kids.<br />
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"Ya, of course, it's...." says the second not wanting to be left behind.<br />
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"Dude, you know nothing. It's nothing like that. I don't think you even watched it!" the boy smirks and laughs aloud.<br />
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Tender feelings are unceremoniously hurt by one, the victim then generously passes on the baton to another. For, that's how they all learn it. Meanness is more contagious than goodness. Kids being mean and forming cliques is age-old. But, this is something else. Even a silly tete-a-tete about the activities at school results in mindless debates about who has it better.<br />
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I can't even begin to wrap my head around the general obnoxious bragging about brands and gadgets. Who's teaching them the difference between a Mac and a Windows 10? How do they know about owning an iPhone is considered high amongst other status symbols? We do not discuss gadgets at home or own anything fancy other than a mid-end smartphone. I suspect (although I reckon that the peer education system is far more effective and up-to-date) R has no clue about a Mac or the latest high-end smartphone in the market.<br />
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I sometimes feel like the world has leaped two generations ahead when I was not looking.<br />
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Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-15302747524725507532017-11-17T09:58:00.000+05:302017-11-17T11:57:36.304+05:30The cosmos and I<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It's a usual day in the household. I wake up after hitting the snooze button a couple of times. The inky blue sky outside is about to burst into a bright shade of daylight. I know it's only a matter of a few minutes. Is the darkness aware, I wonder, of the simmering ball of fire underneath the surface that's about to erase its identity? The rays either sneak its way, without a fuss like a blushing bride, casting a warm glow all over or scream for attention like a melodramatic model, throwing generous doses of orange and pink kisses to the night that gracefully recedes into oblivion. Does the night ever resent the day for its ability to make heads turn its way each morning?<br />
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On some days, my mind is free from the mundane clutter and I receive the bounty of nature with a smile, my hands cupped in gratitude. Most other days, I ignore the drama in the sky. A teasing interplay of the cosmos, filled with life lessons for those who care to seek. It would never matter to the day or the night whether I partake in their intimate discussions. I could choose to be a part of their clique, but if I did not, I certainly wouldn't be missed.<br />
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As I set the milk to boil on one stove and watch the veggies sizzle on the other, I take a deep breath, a reminder to myself. I could afford, today, to sip my coffee in the quiet darkness, letting the caffeine work its way slowly into wiping off the traces of sleep-induced lethargy. I savour these brief moments of languidness before I get consumed by the regular drill of routine life.<br />
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I play the roles of a mother, wife, homemaker. These are impressed finitely upon my person like the thick primary lines on my palm. The other fine lines criss-cross and intercept the primary ones but taper off abruptly; an eerie reflection of my life. For, every so often I seek out the person who might be someone other than these titles. Not out of any feeling of inadequacy but perhaps a curiosity to find out if there was a person ever waiting to be discovered. I fancy calling myself a person of importance - a freelancer, a blogger, a writer- at various points but they remain transient. They tempt me with a sense of purpose but I find myself retreating to the familiar and comforting territories of my primary roles each time these turn into shackles.<br />
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It is then, I realize, the feeling of importance that appeals to me. The ego bloats up in the know that my contribution makes a difference to someone out there and I add value. The fallacy of it all dawns sooner or later and I realize that I'm just a speck in the sea of humanity. I could be flicked away and just like my place in the cosmos, the world will only carry on in my absence, cleaner and lighter.<br />
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Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-16362240072472845862017-07-11T23:00:00.001+05:302017-07-12T16:09:14.213+05:30Caffeinated attraction<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Words jostled inside Anusha's head as she snaked her way between the tables to her favourite spot in the cozy cafe. She slid her laptop out, rested the bag beside her on the silver grey cushioned sofa and called for her favourite cappuccino. They made it just the way she preferred: the right amount of milk and coffee, the closest alternative to the filter <i>kaapi</i> her mom made.<br />
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Gazing out of the glass window, she sipped her beverage, letting the bitter-sweet taste linger, weighing her thoughts before her fingers could fly on the keyboard to give shape to them. The white fluffs of clouds against the clear blue skies floated gently with the summer breeze and they seemed, to the writer in her, like mischevious sheep that had strayed off the flock.<br />
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<i>Oh, well, it's my mind that's straying now. Need to get my act right for my next submission. </i>Anusha willed herself back to the present.<br />
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The cafe was Anusha's muse, the mecca she haunted during the weekends for the past three months since she found her part-time job with an advertising agency. The work kept her finances going and, more importantly, gave fuel to her serious hobby. The process of lining up one word after another on an empty canvas, shuffling and re-shuffling them around until she found perfection filled her soul with inexplicable happiness and satisfaction.<br />
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Yet, today, the document looked back at her, stubbornly blank. There was too much chaos in her head to reign into subservience. As it always happened on the days she called home. Conversations invariably veered towards her marriage. The urgency and despair in her mom's tone always filled her with sadness and guilt. Sadness because her parents did not understand why she turned down most matches sent to her from the matrimonial site. It was another story that she got rejected many other times. She felt guilty of finding herself in a situation where she could neither summon the courage to rebel nor talk openly to her parents.<br />
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The MBA was more of an excuse to move away from home. To run away from the suffocation, the constant trials masquerading as the bride seeing visits, the prying neighbourhood; to find own feet, and perhaps romance some day.<br />
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Romance? Was she really cut out for the Mills & Boons kind of romance she secretly desired? A hot-headed feminist trying to break stereotypes, a logical person who never understood impulsiveness, a coward when it came to decision making, will she allow herself to fall in love?<br />
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A pair of teenaged girls noisily occupied the seat behind Anusha. Instinctively, Anusha leaned farther behind into the backrest. Not many moons ago, she was their age. Giggles filled up spaces between their hushed tones. They had bunked their college lecture and were discussing their latest crush. Anusha sighed. A predictably carefree life of college-goers who had no inkling of how their lives would shape up after the blissful years removed from truth and reality.<br />
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"Don't look now but check out that hunk there." said one voice, low with urgency.<br />
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"He's a bomb" gushed the other voice, stressing on 'bomb'.<br />
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A bomb? Anusha cringed and shooked her head at the language used. 'Stud' was the lingo when she was in college she recalled, immediately feeling like a fraud for judging the youngsters.<br />
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On an impulse, she looked in the direction of the ripple creator. She felt her heart skip a beat. Even her own matured eyes and mind trained to remain off flirtatious grounds agreed that he looked every bit the Greek God. Surely, a bomb that was intended to detonate any warm-blooded woman's mind, however nonchalant she appeared on the outside, to a thousand fluttering, tender feelings that sang to violins that played, without a permission, in the heart.<br />
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The words on the laptop made no sense to her and she erased them all. The submission would be delayed. The cafe was getting dangerous.<br />
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Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-13789298324174882672017-07-05T23:14:00.000+05:302017-07-06T10:24:42.062+05:30Rotting humanity<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>Doc, there's an emergency!</i><br />
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The breaking news flashes the brutal carnage. Images and voices float in my mind as I drive in manic speed to the hospital.<br />
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Of sirens blazing. Of toys and limbs lying scattered on a carpet of red and brown.<br />
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<i>Oxygen</i>! I scream. <i>Pump, harder</i>.<br />
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<i>Doc, there's no pulse.</i><br />
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Shoulders slump.<br />
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I witness grief fuse into flames that rise up collectively at the mass funeral. The ashes fall lightly on me.<br />
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Will the stench of hate ever recede?<br />
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Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-9117854108525334282017-07-02T22:01:00.001+05:302017-07-02T22:02:25.763+05:30The call of the wind<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Mira stepped out into the wide balcony on the 12th floor of the high-rise she and Mayank had recently moved into. Their new home had been a joint decision.<br />
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Leaning on the railing, Mira circled the outline of the cup she held and thought wistfully. Just a few months ago they had been so happy to start a new phase together. So much had changed since then.<br />
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Mira was up for a promotion at work and she had been looking forward to the long overdue recognition after several months' of hard work. The only catch was it came with a stint abroad. Mayank had been supportive of her decision to accept the opportunity while he stayed back.<br />
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Yet, Mira couldn't fully rejoice.<br />
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Mayank had not been aware of a third party angle to the whole arrangement and Mira felt anxious and guilty as she pondered over the recent developments. It was not going to be easy but Mayank had to know. Mira had imagined the scene in her head with all the possible permutations and it made her dizzy.<br />
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The wind hit her face in rapid succession. The cool air felt like a balm. The view from the top overlooked the vast city skyline and the green and brown dots below made a picturesque sight much in contrast to the harsh realities. She closed her eyes to savour the moments.<br />
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Yes, the larger picture always puts things in perspective. The two pink lines were not about to cage her. The wind was calling out to her to spread her wings.<br />
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She'd show the world that Motherhood and career could go hand-in-hand.<br />
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****</div>
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Written in response to the prompt, <a href="https://blogarhythmblog.wordpress.com/2017/06/30/barathon-2017-day-7-the-call-of-the-wind/" target="_blank">"The call of the wind" at the BarAThon</a>.<br />
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Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-15248634683492149952017-06-30T10:57:00.001+05:302017-06-30T10:57:53.498+05:30The wedding<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Holding hands under the inky blue bejeweled canopy, they swore allegiance to each other. Bedecked in a brown shimmery, the translucent veil flowing away from her coy face, she looked up nervously at him. He replied with an imperceptible nod that spoke volumes of quiet reassurance.<br />
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Family and friends had gathered for the ceremony that would bind the two lovers for life. The atmosphere was electrifying and the air abuzz with each of them signaling to the other in a frenzy of activity. A huddle in here, a huddle there, some grouping for a light tete-a-tete, some to discuss an important ritual.<br />
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The younger lot broke away from the crowd, not entirely connecting with the significance of the gathering, their individual frames dotting the arena like lost stars.<br />
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At the precise moment that would signify the sacred union, the chief called for everyone's unwavering attention. The scattered swarm, even the ones that had strayed, converged obediently towards the altar. Each member of the audience held hands together, sending collective prayer heavenwards to bless the couple wedded into matrimony.<br />
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It was pure magic as the fireflies lit up, glowing like a hundred glorious suns, showering their wishes of hope and faith.<br />
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<i>*****</i></div>
<i>Tried to portray a wedding scene in the life of fireflies, who are known to synchronize their signals.</i><br />
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A 200-word fiction written for the prompt <a href="https://blogarhythmblog.wordpress.com/2017/06/28/barathon-2017-day-6-suns-and-lovers/" target="_blank">"Suns and Lovers"</a> at the BarAThon.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-En21ZAiyVbM/WVXd8plvGyI/AAAAAAABGgg/C5yv5gFQGpkfKfO0adT0kls6CGe6ruSFwCLcBGAs/s1600/barathon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="326" data-original-width="397" height="262" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-En21ZAiyVbM/WVXd8plvGyI/AAAAAAABGgg/C5yv5gFQGpkfKfO0adT0kls6CGe6ruSFwCLcBGAs/s320/barathon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-85717428152711863862017-06-26T07:35:00.000+05:302017-06-26T12:24:04.323+05:30All in a day's work<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jpb0iOPmapI/WU83dbmENJI/AAAAAAABGZw/53IUlkzuhmkq0awgKnuXMi7uMmr68BC3wCLcBGAs/s1600/coffee-break-1177540_960_720.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="960" height="222" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jpb0iOPmapI/WU83dbmENJI/AAAAAAABGZw/53IUlkzuhmkq0awgKnuXMi7uMmr68BC3wCLcBGAs/s320/coffee-break-1177540_960_720.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Adjusting her beige monochrome overalls, Kaya preened into the mirror. A slim body that was accentuated by a blue belt, she quite enjoyed the smirks of envy from her peers. There were talks that some important tenders came in solely because of her looks. But, she didn't care. She knew she had the stuff to make the cut.<br />
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"Oh, come on, will you? We're getting late" pressed Lakshmi who was more down-to-earth, hardworking and a stickler for punctuality. She had butterflies in her stomach. The duo was chosen to give a presentation to the head of the department. And, Lakshmi instinctively knew that only she held the cards to crack the deal.<br />
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They charted their way hurriedly through the cubicles that were arranged in neat rows. Heads bobbed in and out of them, urgent calls being placed at some desks, complaints being answered patiently at some, while a few wore an uncharacteristic look of calm as though to mock the ones who were running at a frenetic pace of the office hours.<br />
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"Hello, gorgeous girls, what's the rush?" a deep voice called out from behind.<br />
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Kaya almost bumped into Lakshmi who was walking a few steps ahead in a straight line. They spun around to face Kimi who was perched comfortably on the white desk. With a body that took almost the entire breadth of the surface she sat on, Kimi looked like a reigning queen that looked down upon the working class who did menial jobs for survival.<br />
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Casually swinging her stubby legs beneath the desk Kimi beckoned to Kaya and Lakshmi who were irked for being stopped thus. Now, they would be put to interrogation by the all-important person of the office who simply had to know everything that went about in the workplace.<br />
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Even as they regrouped themselves for a quick tete-a-tete, a burly moustached person barged in. Dubeyji was ordered by Ms. Raghav, the HOD, to bring the files for finance, design and the thickest of them all, the one marked as confidential, to her cabin.<br />
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He thanked his luck to have found all three at the co-ordinator's desk. He quickly grabbed Lakshmi, Kaya, and Kimi together in one swift sweep and marched away. After all, the Lord of the files couldn't be kept waiting.<br />
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****</div>
Written for the prompt "<a href="https://blogarhythmblog.wordpress.com/2017/06/26/barathon-2017-day-5-lord-of-the-files/" target="_blank">Lord of the files</a>" at the BarAThon.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tHBs956NauI/WVBngq4i36I/AAAAAAABGbE/kO4zMCfnZ6sTaGvPtcrQnD_CP9hwCJPFQCLcBGAs/s1600/barathon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="326" data-original-width="397" height="262" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tHBs956NauI/WVBngq4i36I/AAAAAAABGbE/kO4zMCfnZ6sTaGvPtcrQnD_CP9hwCJPFQCLcBGAs/s320/barathon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Would you like to read the other posts in this series?<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.umawrites.in/2017/06/outnumbered.html" target="_blank">Outnumbered</a><br />
<a href="http://www.umawrites.in/2017/06/a-new-haven.html" target="_blank">A new haven</a><br />
<a href="http://www.umawrites.in/2017/06/an-irrational-dream.html" target="_blank">An irrational dream</a><br />
<a href="http://www.umawrites.in/2017/06/the-fault-in-our-stares-100-wordfiction.html" target="_blank">The fault lies in our stares</a><br />
<br /></div>
Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-65855471480911170802017-06-23T23:27:00.000+05:302017-06-26T07:22:24.125+05:30Outnumbered <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-09seqT6lu78/WU1Y0QfBKeI/AAAAAAABGXc/B4COIbWlLUYCdByDghYoqxSuedw3Z-v-wCLcBGAs/s1600/black-and-white-1283234_960_720.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-09seqT6lu78/WU1Y0QfBKeI/AAAAAAABGXc/B4COIbWlLUYCdByDghYoqxSuedw3Z-v-wCLcBGAs/s320/black-and-white-1283234_960_720.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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She lay crouched in the dark musty nook. A lone streak of light shone in through the small hole in the makeshift wooden door to the tiny storeroom where she hid. The light diffused air particles in the line of her view as she strained to see outside.<br />
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The living room windows opened out on the first level just above the storeroom and she could hear their low voices.<br />
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She stifled a rising cough in the throat afraid to attract attention. The voices now transformed to chilling war cries.<br />
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Boom! Boom! Bang!<br />
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Shrapnel flew and came pelting on the tin roof of the storehouse followed by rapid footsteps. She shuddered. Fearing the worst, she flung open the door and dashed out.<br />
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A bile rose to her throat as she saw the damage caused and shook with vengeful rage.<br />
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Her favourite white bone china vase with indigo prints that once stood proudly near the window lay shattered in pieces all over the store roof and the ground below.<br />
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The two culprits jumped out from behind her displaying toothy grins and cried out in unison.<br />
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"Tag, you're it, Mom!"<br />
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"Of course, I'm good at playing the bad cop!" she replied with a twinkle.<br />
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*****</div>
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Written for the prompt <a href="https://blogarhythmblog.wordpress.com/2017/06/23/barathon-2017-day-4-war-and-pieces/" target="_blank">"War and pieces" at the BarAThon. </a><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tHBs956NauI/WVBngq4i36I/AAAAAAABGbE/kO4zMCfnZ6sTaGvPtcrQnD_CP9hwCJPFQCLcBGAs/s1600/barathon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="326" data-original-width="397" height="262" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tHBs956NauI/WVBngq4i36I/AAAAAAABGbE/kO4zMCfnZ6sTaGvPtcrQnD_CP9hwCJPFQCLcBGAs/s320/barathon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Would you like to read the other posts in this series?<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.umawrites.in/2017/06/a-new-haven.html" target="_blank">A new haven</a><br />
<a href="http://www.umawrites.in/2017/06/an-irrational-dream.html" target="_blank">An irrational dream</a><br />
<a href="http://www.umawrites.in/2017/06/the-fault-in-our-stares-100-wordfiction.html" target="_blank">The fault lies in our stares</a><br />
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Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-90986519253042258862017-06-23T07:47:00.000+05:302017-06-24T09:02:40.074+05:30A new haven<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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"Papa!" squealed the little one, jumping up and down, jabbing his little hand towards the aqua blue clear water.<br />
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The father, a few meters behind, smiled wearily. His steps were slow and heavy from plodding through the ankle length snow. He caught up breathlessly alongside his son who was now beside himself with all the excitement of discovering something extraordinarily beautiful.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gQReHDpccM8/WUx71anI1hI/AAAAAAABGVs/pCCtoIZd_ukpg0J5i6iUT1xLgvt-aT6XACLcBGAs/s1600/glacier-1583746_960_720.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="642" data-original-width="960" height="214" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gQReHDpccM8/WUx71anI1hI/AAAAAAABGVs/pCCtoIZd_ukpg0J5i6iUT1xLgvt-aT6XACLcBGAs/s320/glacier-1583746_960_720.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Despite the fatigue of setting out on a week-long expedition with the 5-year-old, the magnificent sight of the snow-clad slopes all around encasing a glistening water body right in between made the adult smile.<br />
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The chill at dawn break was prominent and in spite of being covered in thick black overcoats, they two expeditors shivered slightly.<br />
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Releasing the child from a bear hug, the father looked deep into those twinkling pair that shone with pride, happiness, and fascination.<br />
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"Papa, this place looks great. Can we move in here?" the voice was thick with hope and expectation.<br />
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"I'm afraid not, Son!"<br />
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"Why not?"<br />
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"You see, there's danger beneath the beauty in here." the father's voice dropped to a whisper<br />
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"The water here means the ice is melting," he continued, his snowy white shaggy brows twitching solemnly.<br />
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"Why did the ice melt, Papa?" the little voice was now choked with fear.<br />
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"Men," the old flightless bird clenched his fist in anger. "And their selfish ways."<br />
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*****</div>
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Written for the prompt <a href="https://blogarhythmblog.wordpress.com/2017/06/21/barathon-2017-day-3-of-ice-and-men/" target="_blank">"Ice and Men" for BarAThon</a>.<br />
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Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-34029445285982521022017-06-21T18:04:00.001+05:302017-06-26T07:23:15.125+05:30An irrational dream<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CJKwkR4A-Rc/WUncRQyrxeI/AAAAAAABGTA/vM-FOkabd0czXZX7mZPO6doTt0hjPMEawCLcBGAs/s1600/cycle-1794772_960_720.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CJKwkR4A-Rc/WUncRQyrxeI/AAAAAAABGTA/vM-FOkabd0czXZX7mZPO6doTt0hjPMEawCLcBGAs/s400/cycle-1794772_960_720.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://pixabay.com/en/cycle-city-rusty-chain-old-1794772/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: small;">Image source</span></a></td></tr>
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Pazhaniraja Elangovan trudged his way up the small slope on his rusty bicycle, a hand-me-down from one of his rare kind-hearted clients. A package, a heavy brown carton lay tied to the backseat with several ropes. The chains creaked as he pedaled harder on the slope.<br />
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Sweat trickled down his shiny brown face. Tiny buds of fresh acne dotted his forehead and chin area that was also beginning to sprout hair.<br />
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"Pazhani, don't keep loitering out in the hot sun," his Amma often chided him gently.<br />
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Pazhaniraja would dismiss his Amma's plea with silence.<br />
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She had suffered enough bringing him up single-handedly but was still worldly naive. What did she know about managing a part-time job as a local delivery boy, a night school, and a full-time dream? thought Pazhani irritatedly but also controlled his tongue.<br />
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His dream. Yes, he dreamed of owning his own business someday and making lots of money. He had many ideas but needed time to work on them.<br />
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Today, he thought excitedly. Wednesdays was usually a little free on the work front. His friend had promised to introduce him to someone who was willing to listen to his idea.<br />
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Even as he got lost in his thoughts about this meeting, his phone rang. It was his boss who had also given him the phone to attend to the ad-hoc work related calls and messages.<br />
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What now!? Pazhani frowned.<br />
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"Pie!" barked the voice, "Have you delivered the carton? Now, get to 12th Main, Rajaji Street. Mr. Sarathy will give you a parcel to be delivered to a place in Maruthi Nagar, Hambalipur."<br />
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"And, hurry on, it's urgent." added the gruff voice, almost out of breath.<br />
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<i>Pie</i> was what his exacting manager called Pazhaniraja because he found the latter's name tongue-twisting and would end up murdering his birth name. In fact, it was Pazhaniraja who suggested the nickname. He was fascinated by pie diagrams. Of course, there was the homophone too. Though, he never understood it.<br />
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Pie mentally calculated the distance between the two places and the time taken to cover it on his cycle. It was going to take him all day and he'd have to miss the meeting and will perhaps be late to school too.<br />
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Breathing out rapidly, Pie swung his leg over the seat and stepped up on the pedal.<br />
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"I think I now understand <i>Pi</i>. Sometimes, even when there's no logic, one must go on!"<br />
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****<br />
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Late to link up to the second day of the <a href="https://blogarhythmblog.wordpress.com/2017/06/19/barathon-2017-day-2-life-of-pie/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">BarAThon</a>. Based the story on the prompt, "Life of Pie". </div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tHBs956NauI/WVBngq4i36I/AAAAAAABGbE/kO4zMCfnZ6sTaGvPtcrQnD_CP9hwCJPFQCLcBGAs/s1600/barathon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="326" data-original-width="397" height="262" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tHBs956NauI/WVBngq4i36I/AAAAAAABGbE/kO4zMCfnZ6sTaGvPtcrQnD_CP9hwCJPFQCLcBGAs/s320/barathon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Would you like to read the other posts in this series?<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.umawrites.in/2017/06/outnumbered.html" target="_blank">Outnumbered</a><br />
<a href="http://www.umawrites.in/2017/06/a-new-haven.html" target="_blank">A new haven</a><br />
<a href="http://www.umawrites.in/2017/06/the-fault-in-our-stares-100-wordfiction.html" target="_blank">The fault lies in our stares</a></div>
Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-70590559570411080912017-06-20T20:15:00.000+05:302017-06-20T20:15:06.297+05:30Bhutan: The last leg of our journey at Paro and a round up<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Did you read the last post about how we made it to <a href="http://www.umawrites.in/2017/06/bhutan-river-rafting-at-punakha-and.html" target="_blank">the top of the Takstang Monastery</a>? If not, please do go back and read it.</div>
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Before I continue, here's a check-list that will come in handy for travelers.</div>
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<b>Things to keep in mind while visiting the Taktsang or the Tiger's Nest Monastery </b></div>
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1. You are supposed to be fully clothed while visiting this one or any other monastery/temple or Dzong in Bhutan. Which means you cannot wear short skirts, shorts, capris or the likes. Even your hands must be covered, so choose a full or three-fourth sleeved suit, top or shirt. Alternatively, you can wear a jacket or shrug.</div>
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2. Use of photography/video is prohibited in the inner sanctum of all temples and monasteries. At the Tiger's Nest, you have to surrender your backpacks with mobiles outside with the security. There are no lockers but like <a href="http://www.umawrites.in/2017/06/bhutan-peek-into-bhutanese-life-cuisine.html" target="_blank">I said earlier</a>, it's absolutely safe even without the lockers.</div>
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3. Wear a good quality and comfortable pair of sports shoes if you're trekking to the Tiger's Nest Monastery. Trust me, the quality of the shoes makes a big difference. Seasoned trekkers and runners can vouch for this bit of nugget.</div>
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4. Carry water bottles and some dry snacks in your bag pack (and an umbrella if you are visiting during the rainy season). Make sure the pack isn't too heavy at the same time. Our guide was sweet enough to carry two extra bottles for us in his pack since we were carrying just one bag pack for the six of us.</div>
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5. The rise in the altitude can cause some people to become breathless, dizzy or feel uneasy. The symptoms could range from having a dull ache in the head to severe nausea. So, if you feel at unease at any point during the climb, please let everyone in your group know and stop till you feel better or if you're feeling worse, abandon the trek. Thankfully, none of us including the kids had any trouble.</div>
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****</div>
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It took a good one hour to visit each of the smaller shrines inside the Tiger's Monastery and by the time we came out we were famished. The thought of starting on the arduous route yet again made me want to just stay back! Well, that wasn't possible and also we had to make it back to the cafeteria at a decent hour for lunch. That was incentive enough for us to dismiss our inertia and start our descent. Our stock of biscuits and some fruit came in handy.</div>
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We huffed and puffed our way down, wondering if we really climbed all this way up. The path did seem to stretch on endlessly. The only way to minimize the strain, I realized, was to converse energy by talking or complaining less and just keep walking. As the cafeteria came into sight, we did not feel any less than conquerors. After filling our tummies with some yummy food, we completed the last leg of the trek to reach the base with renewed vigour.</div>
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Even as I felt a sense of pride and accomplishment, I worried about the body getting stiff and dealing with aching joints. However, I was pleasantly surprised to note that other than being exhausted from a rigorous day, there was no major ache. In fact, all of us were fresh and raring to go the next day with no signs of fatigue. </div>
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It was the final day of our trip. We proceeded to visit the highest motorable pass, the Chele La pass from where one can view the Haa valley on one side and the Jhomolhari peaks on the other. We caught a tiny glittering part of the snow clad peak for a few seconds. For the most part, it was as though we were engulfed by thick, moving clouds. It can get extremely windy here, so make sure you carry your mufflers, sweaters, jackets. Also, take note that there are no toilets here. A cold and windy place compounds the inconvenience? Of course! Ah, well, that's something one has to contend with here. </div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tkr64Jp0TRs/WUf4u17TvyI/AAAAAAABGRA/-ybMA3bY6eoAIVwzY7GrPZpcbS7juzxSACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_20170521_113436480.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="904" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tkr64Jp0TRs/WUf4u17TvyI/AAAAAAABGRA/-ybMA3bY6eoAIVwzY7GrPZpcbS7juzxSACLcBGAs/s640/IMG_20170521_113436480.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T1-9W-VT66E/WUkTJ8VM1JI/AAAAAAABGSE/7IQs2PL-jsoJbt3uhO2IF-nbfhIW4rbggCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_20170521_164012321.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="1600" height="209" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T1-9W-VT66E/WUkTJ8VM1JI/AAAAAAABGSE/7IQs2PL-jsoJbt3uhO2IF-nbfhIW4rbggCLcBGAs/s640/IMG_20170521_164012321.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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If the Punakha Dzong was magnificent and huge, the Paro Dzong was no less beautiful if only much smaller. </div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D0-_JtCBFoM/WUkTThTH4LI/AAAAAAABGSI/fZBcAEqIh40mJ8S7k7CUSbHF0spE5tc-gCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_20170521_152300327.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D0-_JtCBFoM/WUkTThTH4LI/AAAAAAABGSI/fZBcAEqIh40mJ8S7k7CUSbHF0spE5tc-gCLcBGAs/s640/IMG_20170521_152300327.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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That's a view from outside the National Museum of Bhutan. Doesn't it seem like the heavens are showering their blessings?<br />
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The original building that housed the museum got damaged by a fire and was under restoration. The exhibits were shifted to a temporary building which we visited.<br />
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Not a large museum, it was still interesting with sections that housed information about the climatic change and its impact on humans, the flora, and fauna. Exhibits of animal masks, each animal representing a human trait or nature. Sections that spoke about the history and culture of Bhutan.</div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gIUXTs3aJfo/WUkz0yrauxI/AAAAAAABGSc/1GE39-HSiCw7rnmT2uLKSf9MYbXH_FiWwCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_20170521_174938812.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="904" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gIUXTs3aJfo/WUkz0yrauxI/AAAAAAABGSc/1GE39-HSiCw7rnmT2uLKSf9MYbXH_FiWwCLcBGAs/s640/IMG_20170521_174938812.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Well, didn't I say we had <a href="http://www.umawrites.in/2017/05/bhutan-around-thimpu-serene-capital.html" style="text-align: justify;" target="_blank">hatched plans</a><span style="text-align: justify;"> to get pictures clicked in the national dress of Bhutan? There was a quaint little store in the midst of this idyllic view (well, isn't the entire country idyllic?) that gave out these outfits on rent.</span><br />
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We left for Phuentsholing the next morning. As it happens with a great vacation coming to an end, I was fraught with mixed feelings. I felt blessed to be able to create and take back some lovely memories.</div>
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Although small in size and economy, there's a lot the entire world can learn from the kings/leaders of Bhutan and the way the Bhutanese conduct life. May this country ever remain as pure and pristine in its beauty, thoughts and action!</div>
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I recently viewed a TED talk on how Bhutan stands in the wake of climatic change. It's something I've been mulling over too. Will try to share my views and the video in a post, soon!</div>
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Hope you all enjoyed Bhutan through my eyes.</div>
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Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-69301046587505660742017-06-17T18:08:00.000+05:302017-06-26T07:23:51.408+05:30The fault in our stares #100-wordfiction<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
He offered to walk her to the station. She sensed his well-toned arm within the suede jacket brushing against her slender, bare one as they tried to match their uneven strides. He leaned in suddenly towards her ear to whisper something. Her tensed muscles relaxed even as her full-throated laughter echoed through the dimly-lit streets. As the wind teased, his hands enveloped her from behind draping the jacket over her.<br />
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Despite enjoying the pleasant company, she felt at unease. She instinctively knew they weren't alone that night.<br />
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The judgemental stares turned into full-blown gossip by the time she came home.<br />
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100-word fiction story written for a prompt "The fault in our stares" at the BarAThon second edition.</div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-I0xyxN52Xjw/WUS8am8VBqI/AAAAAAABGPU/IFk8WH3tSWUhWjdiTia127marFZ2s4GcACLcBGAs/s1600/barathon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="326" data-original-width="397" height="262" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-I0xyxN52Xjw/WUS8am8VBqI/AAAAAAABGPU/IFk8WH3tSWUhWjdiTia127marFZ2s4GcACLcBGAs/s320/barathon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Would you like to read the other posts in this series?<br />
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<a href="http://www.umawrites.in/2017/06/outnumbered.html" target="_blank">Outnumbered</a><br />
<a href="http://www.umawrites.in/2017/06/a-new-haven.html" target="_blank">A new haven</a><br />
<a href="http://www.umawrites.in/2017/06/an-irrational-dream.html" target="_blank">An irrational dream</a><br />
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Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-31821725242947666602017-06-13T22:54:00.000+05:302017-06-13T22:54:45.490+05:30Bhutan: River-rafting at Punakha and an unforgettable trek at Paro<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
From here on, we begin the last leg of our journey in this mythical, mystical and beautiful country of Bhutan. And, like the icing on the cake, the last few days of the trip built up to a befitting crescendo.<br />
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As we bade goodbye to Punakha, we rounded it up with an exhilarating white river rafting ride on the Mo Chhu river. This was not on our itinerary initially but one we could, fortunately, fit into our schedules and oh boy, did we enjoy it!<br />
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Our group could be best called as rookies in the field of adventure sports and were suitably excited and anxious about what to expect. We assembled at the starting point of the one-hour rafting ride on the Mo Chhu waters, slated to end at the <a href="http://www.umawrites.in/2017/06/bhutan-picturesque-landscape-of-punakha.html" target="_blank">Punakha Dzong</a> where the <i>Mo Chhu</i> and <i>Po Chhu</i> merged as one.<br />
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Our rafting guide, Karma, was a cheerful and lively fellow who kept us (and the kids) entertained through the entire ride with his perky commentary and instructions. At the outset, we were given our life jackets, head gear, and the oars with specific instructions on how to hold the oars and the precise rowing movement to follow upon the said command from him. We were to basically aid him, the lead navigator, to traverse along the rapids. This was going to be a basic level rafting with zero-risk and we made sure that our frisky kids were eligible for the ride.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lOqY-lbozbo/WT14YjKWNxI/AAAAAAABGHk/JOY_lvn3xYcYMMCw81FIBCW6SFQ76L26wCLcB/s1600/IMG_20170519_102821969.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="904" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lOqY-lbozbo/WT14YjKWNxI/AAAAAAABGHk/JOY_lvn3xYcYMMCw81FIBCW6SFQ76L26wCLcB/s640/IMG_20170519_102821969.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>All set for the ride: happy and excited!</b></span></td></tr>
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We had never imagined the kind of fun that ensued. Every rapid we encountered had us in raptures and soaked to the skin, the sudden uptilt of the raft as it glided over the waves brought out peals of nervous laughter. Our guide kept the atmosphere light and lively with his pep talk, encouragement and anecdotes.<br />
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Our driver, Tending met us at the point where our river rafting ride ended and we left Punakha for Paro, our minds and body still tingling with the thrilling experience. We once again stopped by at Dochula pass, but this time it was for lunch. Paro was about a 3-hour drive thence.<br />
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Can you guess this location from the image below?<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mANn4KDPr_Q/WT7IFWjSrwI/AAAAAAABGJ0/kQw5cPcVe3wh3whoQfjQt09WVjfXtDUFwCLcB/s1600/IMG_20170519_161317692.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="518" data-original-width="1600" height="207" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mANn4KDPr_Q/WT7IFWjSrwI/AAAAAAABGJ0/kQw5cPcVe3wh3whoQfjQt09WVjfXtDUFwCLcB/s640/IMG_20170519_161317692.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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It's the airport at Paro. Wedged between mountains and a river, isn't it such a beauty?<br />
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Now, imagine being able to catch this view from thousands of feet above on a flight and watch this spectacular sight zoom in slowly as you gently glide down and touch the runway.<br />
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While we weren't lucky enough to experience a flight journey thus, we were certainly lucky to catch an airplane take off and then again a couple of days later, on our return journey, another making its descent. Considering the rather low frequency of flights in and out of Bhutan, these were rare sights, indeed.<br />
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On a side note, how convenient it must be to simply walk into the terminal from one end and then hop onto the aircraft from the other end just like that!<br />
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As the sun began to sink behind the mighty Himalayan peaks, we reached the resort at our final destination, Paro. We were advised to rest well for a long and tedious trek next day to the Tiger's Nest Monastery or the Taktsang monastery.<br />
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This monastery is rather significant in the mythology of Bhutan as it is believed that Guru Rinpoche flew, seated on a Tigress, atop the cliff of this mountain to quell certain evil forces and it was then he discovered a tiger's cave or nest. The tigress on whose back he flew was none another than one of his consorts who transformed herself into one to aid the Guru in vanquishing the demonic forces.<br />
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We booked a guide from our hotel for this trip since the monument was a treasure trove of stories and mythological beliefs of the Buddhists and we were eager to hear them all.<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2hgimbPNtbo/WUAP1x3ELmI/AAAAAAABGMU/nN6_PtkqnksQ6N8KV4SAUqhkZ9zkVHglwCEw/s1600/IMG_20170520_094217241_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="904" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2hgimbPNtbo/WUAP1x3ELmI/AAAAAAABGMU/nN6_PtkqnksQ6N8KV4SAUqhkZ9zkVHglwCEw/s640/IMG_20170520_094217241_HDR.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
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Can you see how high up there we had to climb and how steep that is? That's a total of 10 km (the ascent and descent put together). And, none of us had even done a 10 km marathon on a level ground before! That we were skeptical and apprehensive was putting it down mildly. The only thing we knew was that we didn't want to give this a miss at any cost.<br />
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We learned that there are ponies available for the ascent up to a certain point (for a distance of 2km until the cafeteria) post which one had to eventually go by foot. We decided to use the option. And, it proved to be a very wise decision. The journey is certainly long and tedious, so if you are a rookie trekker, don't be embarrassed or shy to do the same (even if you see people older than you climb all the way). Remember, you have to also walk all the way down.<br />
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But, what did I know? It's not a cake walk to ride a pony on the steep slopes. One, you feel bad for the poor creatures. Two (and, here I only speak for myself), the horses are definitely sure-footed but as they totter on the rocky edges from where you can see the deep valley right below your feet, you can only hold on to dear life and wonder if it would have been a wiser decision to trudge on foot.<br />
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Yet, now that I came back alive I can say that pony backs will save you the precious energy you need to conserve for the rest of the trek.<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-s8ecEG-VWz8/WUAP2bMSwxI/AAAAAAABGMY/lHw4-VVG7Do4-UClKLVUTrTxUDFQrzqKgCEw/s1600/IMG_20170520_130759223.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="904" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-s8ecEG-VWz8/WUAP2bMSwxI/AAAAAAABGMY/lHw4-VVG7Do4-UClKLVUTrTxUDFQrzqKgCEw/s640/IMG_20170520_130759223.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
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So near, yet so far. After this point, there were treacherous stony steps that wound down and then upwards in a zig-zag manner right up to the end point.<br />
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Just a tiny glimpse of the path we traversed.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lKaJq2ew4AE/WUAP2WebtaI/AAAAAAABGMc/UGBUPCZRPRAqZQ2Nr7L2uzc6Fcu3Nk2qACLcB/s1600/IMG_20170520_125949674.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="904" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lKaJq2ew4AE/WUAP2WebtaI/AAAAAAABGMc/UGBUPCZRPRAqZQ2Nr7L2uzc6Fcu3Nk2qACLcB/s640/IMG_20170520_125949674.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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At a landing that provided a bird's eye view, perfect for taking proud selfies. It was surely a proud moment as we made it to the monastery.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v_xlnRjcbpU/WUAP2wVMxnI/AAAAAAABGMg/VZ5k1V8El5EvzV_kHaQLZ77i75y2ySzHgCLcB/s1600/IMG_20170520_132255955.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="904" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v_xlnRjcbpU/WUAP2wVMxnI/AAAAAAABGMg/VZ5k1V8El5EvzV_kHaQLZ77i75y2ySzHgCLcB/s640/IMG_20170520_132255955.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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There are about 5-6 temples clustered together within the main monastery. Each of these depicts the Guru in various emotions, each of them carrying a significance and a little story. The tiredness of the trek dissipates slowly even as peace and awe envelopes you in a spiritual embrace.<br />
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<i>Did we collapse in exhaustion after the trek? What you need to know before you embark on this trek? </i></div>
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All this in my next post. Do come back!</div>
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Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-58527834547036782252017-06-11T19:22:00.000+05:302017-06-11T19:26:48.728+05:30Bhutan: The picturesque landscape of Punakha valley<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Punakha would be the most scenic places we visited in Bhutan. We left <a href="http://www.umawrites.in/2017/05/bhutan-http://www.umawrites.in/2017/05/bhutan-around-thimpu-serene-capital.htmlaround-thimpu-serene-capital.html" target="_blank">Thimpu</a> after breakfast for this valley which was about a 3-hour drive. Our itinerary suggested we leave before dawn to catch the sunrise at a breakfast point on the way. However, since it had rained the previous evening, it seemed futile to clamber out of beds and the cozy hotel with kids in tow just to see the thick clouds descending over the far away mountains.<br />
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The roads all over are well-laid and except for the drive from Phuentsholing to Thimpu, the travel time for the rest of the tour did not span more than four hours. The drive around the winding, hilly lanes of Bhutan is sheer poetry. All along the way, you'd be accompanied by mountains in varying shades of green. The vegetation covering them is so dense that you can't see an inch of the <i class="">Browns</i>. These are punctuated by deep valleys every now and then. The crystal clear fresh rivers flowing through the passes are a refreshing sight and you never tire of taking in these chaste sights.<br />
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We stopped by at <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dochula_Pass" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Dochula pass</a>, a peak at an elevation of about 3000 meters or roughly 10,000 ft above sea level. On a clear day, one can view the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayan range from this point. This was where we were supposed to halt to view the sunrise. And, we knew our decision was not in vain because even at 10 am, we couldn't view past a 50-meter radius because of the thick mist all around. The constant chilly breeze lead us to bury ourselves deeper into our jackets.<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xBJiYTyNZQM/WTzxAOTPnvI/AAAAAAABGFM/ITpQ18YESxoR7QiT9L0v8Ph8ezPjXnFsACLcB/s1600/IMG_20170518_103046949_HDR.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="904" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xBJiYTyNZQM/WTzxAOTPnvI/AAAAAAABGFM/ITpQ18YESxoR7QiT9L0v8Ph8ezPjXnFsACLcB/s640/IMG_20170518_103046949_HDR.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
Here's a snapshot of the heights of the peaks that can be viewed from here.<br />
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That's a lovely little cafeteria at the pass where you can stop for breakfast/lunch or snacks.<br />
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These are the <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Druk Wangyal Khang Zhang </span></span>108 stupas or war memorials also known as <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dochula_Pass" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Chortens of victory.</a><br />
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Now you see them, now you don't.<br />
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The pic below is of the <span style="background-color: white;">Druk Wangyal Lhakhang or monastery that was built to commemorate 100 years of monarchy in Bhutan. As we embarked to climb these steps, we were stopped by the guard up here who forbade us to venture any further. Taken aback, we turned to find another guard at the landing where we stood and asked why we were being stopped. He mentioned that the Queen (the wife of the fourth king) was visiting the monastery presently and we needed to wait until she left.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Wow, the Queen! We asked if we could wait and see her. To our surprise, he nodded his head in affirmation and asked us to step aside. His only request was that we shouldn't click any pictures of Her Highness. Of course, we were only too ready to comply. After about 15 minutes of waiting in childish anticipation, we saw her descending the steps with just a couple of guards and a Lama who accompanied her. We waved out to her and bowed with a namaste which she graciously responded to and also wished us a pleasant stay.</span><br />
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Buoyed by this unexpected pleasant turn of events, we continued our journey onwards.<br />
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<b>At Punakha</b><br />
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The <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Punakha_Dzong" rel="nofollow">Punakha Dzong</a> was a bewitching sight that held us in awestruck wonder. The Dzong is one of the oldest and the most beautiful ones in Bhutan, we were told. The latter part is easy to believe. Situated on the banks of a river, this gorgeous Dzong or fortress stands against the backdrop of the lush green peaks. A line of Jacaranda trees in full bloom dots the boundaries of the Dzong.<br />
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The Dzong is also considered important in the history of Bhutan. It used to be the seat of administration when Punakha was the capital of Bhutan. The recent king was coronated at this fortress.<br />
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<span style="text-align: left;">The </span><i style="text-align: left;">Mo Chhu</i><span style="text-align: left;"> and </span><i style="text-align: left;">Po Chhu</i><span style="text-align: left;"> rivers that up until this point flow as separate rivers from Tibet converge here and here on flow as one river down the Punakha-Wangdue valley. </span><i style="text-align: left;">Mo</i><span style="text-align: left;"> </span>means<span style="text-align: left;"> mother and </span><i style="text-align: left;">Po</i><span style="text-align: left;"> means father. </span><i style="text-align: left;">Chhu</i><span style="text-align: left;"> means river, hence the names. True to their names, the flow of the </span><i style="text-align: left;">Mo Chhu</i><span style="text-align: left;"> is far gentler and less dangerous than the </span><i style="text-align: left;">Po Chhu</i><span style="text-align: left;"> making it suitable for water adventure sports like white river rafting.</span></div>
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We found a guide inside the Dzong who gave a brief about the history and significance of the place. There's a Buddha temple (the picture below) within the Dzong (as is the architectural norm of Dzongs) where the entire life history of the Buddha is depicted through paintings.<br />
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Our next stop was at <i>Chimi Lhakhang. </i>Literally translated to <i>No-dog</i>, this monastery was built by a Lama, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Drukpa_Kunley" rel="nofollow">Drukpa Kuenly</a> who was known to practice Buddhist teachings in an unorthodox manner. He was also known as the Divine Madman. The temple is known to bless people who are battling infertility, hence it is popularly known as the fertility temple.<br />
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It was a refreshing one-hour walk (up-down) through green mustard and paddy fields to this temple.<br />
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It had been a fairly hectic day thus far. We had spent a great deal of climbing and walking around the Dzong and later at the Chimi Lhakhang. We were famished after we were back from the fertility temple and devoured the freshly-cooked food at a homely guesthouse we stopped by.<br />
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The weather just doesn't allow you to feel lethargic for too long. Our energy levels were restored with the short lunch break which was well past the usual lunch hour.<br />
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Just before we checked into our hotel that evening, we visited this huge suspension bridge and walked along the stretch. It was an amazing experience to walk on this iron swing bridge with the river gushing below us and the vast cloudy skies above. The gusty winds lent a thrill to the entire experience and we giggled like school kids as we strolled over to the other side.<br />
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We met a group of monks (below) at the other end.<br />
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We checked into our hotel that evening, our hearts filled with an explicable sense of satisfaction and happiness.<br />
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Next stop is Paro and the travelogue is soon coming to an end. I've been trying to jot down most of the events as they occurred. Hope you enjoyed reading this.</div>
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Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-88630093999253364852017-06-05T12:18:00.000+05:302017-06-05T21:57:59.870+05:30Bhutan: A peek into the Bhutanese life, cuisine and hospitality<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A travelogue is never complete without a reference to the food, customs and the lifestyle of the native dwellers. A country stands out from the rest because of its people, their habits, and food peculiar only to them.<br />
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The husband and I are not extremely adventurous in the food territory but we certainly like to have a taste of the local flavour wherever we go. The husband being a foodie helps the cause, of course. At the first opportunity, we placed an order for a '<i class="gr-progress">datshi</i>' which is a gravy based dish that the Bhutanese eat with rice<br />
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The national dish is called '<i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ema_datshi" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Ema Datshi</a></i>' and is basically green chillies in a cheese-based gravy. <i>Kewa Datshi</i> is similar where the chillies are replaced with potatoes. We tried <i>Ema Datshi</i> at our Hotel in Phuentsholing. Sadly, we could not relish it. I did not like the cheesy taste and the chillies were too hot to enjoy. We later tried the <i>Kewa Datshi</i> at Paro and did find it good.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/--ros5PDdPHs/WTWGJId5tqI/AAAAAAABF-Q/aw1g8Wl5abcAWHPOW0Lq7LcmcC0gpBlOQCLcB/s1600/Bhutanese_hemadatsi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/--ros5PDdPHs/WTWGJId5tqI/AAAAAAABF-Q/aw1g8Wl5abcAWHPOW0Lq7LcmcC0gpBlOQCLcB/s640/Bhutanese_hemadatsi.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Picture Courtesy: By Bhutanese_hemadatsi_and_rice.JPG: ShashiBellamkondaderivative work: Thejinan (talk) - Bhutanese_hemadatsi_and_rice.JPG, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=12628250</span></td></tr>
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In my observation, the Bhutanese use a lot of cheese and butter (perhaps due to the abundance of cow's and yak's milk?) in their cuisine which by the way isn't too varied (at least for the vegetarians). There's Suja, a tea variant that's mostly butter, tea leaves, salt and a little milk. They say that such a combination is suited for higher altitudes. Hmm. We weren't gutsy enough to try it out.<br />
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Bhutanese mostly eat red rice. This, we tried at the cafeteria on the way to Tiger's Nest Monastery at Paro. Contrary to our misgivings about red rice being heavy to digest, we loved it. It was served with our usual yellow dal and it made for a perfect combination.<br />
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Bhutanese are sweet people but seems like they aren't sweet loving people. Apart from not having a native specialty, the menu cards often had just a fruit cocktail or a single flavoured ice-cream (even that was never readily available) listed under the dessert section. It can be disappointing for sweet lovers like us because we craved for desserts after our meals and found that the hotels do not stock up even on ice-creams. Even the rare ones that were offered as a part of a buffet meal are Indian sweets like rasgulla and gulab jamun, only perhaps to conform to international standard practices.<br />
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We hear that the Bhutanese, instead, are habituated to consuming betel leaves after meals. Something we observed from their red-stained teeth. The small stores along the road also sold packets of <i>Paan </i>that are eaten with betel nuts, and pieces of dried coconut.<br />
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The service at Hotels, in general, is pretty slow. If you're habituated to the brisk manner you're served food at Indian restaurants or elsewhere, be prepared to pull all your reserves of patience and breathe in the fresh Bhutan air while you wait. Because you'll have to wait a lot. Especially, if you prefer the Ala-carte over the buffet.<br />
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It seemed to us that they are not used to catering to a full house and aren't staffed appropriately. Each order is taken as a separate request and is prepared from scratch after the order is placed. For the record, although the buffet spread does not have a lot of variety, the food here is quite tasty. Also, Indian food is easily available everywhere.<br />
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<b>Tip:</b> If there's a buffet spread, do not go for an Ala-carte, especially if you're hard pressed for time.<br />
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The Bhutanese are mostly simple, contented and soft-spoken people. Their faces radiate a sense of tranquility. As though reflecting off the benevolent Buddha who casts his abundant grace. In our limited interaction with the locals, we felt that they are a happy lot even as the younger crowd showed a keenness to visit and explore other countries.<br />
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<b>A fun fact</b>: The younger lot loves the Bollywood and the Hindi film music. In fact, our driver spoke good Hindi and he said he learned it all through Hindi movies. Interestingly, Bollywood films are not screened on the big screens and the youngsters rely on DVDs and the television to catch them all.<br />
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Bhutan is a clean country. Most tourist spots had toilet facilities and they were quite clean. Speaking of toilets, the hotels (barring the one at Thimpu) did not have the health faucet. If you're particular about such things, be mentally prepared.<br />
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Bhutan holds the reputation of being one of the safest countries in the world. In a place where the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gross_National_Happiness" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Gross National Happiness</a> is considered and embodied in the constitution as the index of progress, this had to be a natural outcome, with the citizens having a high respect for the governing authorities, the laws and a reverential attitude towards their kings.<br />
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Bhutan is not yet enmeshed in the manic fad of development (a lot of which is a conscious decision on the part of the authorities) that recklessly throws away what is unique and relevant for a country and its people in pursuit of the contraptions of a more commercially developed economy. It could be seen as naive and short-sighted by some. However, in my opinion, it makes far more sense to design a roadmap that is sustainable and also relevant to the country's cultural and environmental values which may or may not be alike other economies.<br />
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<i>Are you still with me on this journey? The more exciting parts are yet to come. So, do join me.</i></div>
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Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-38079081944724358632017-05-30T22:16:00.002+05:302017-05-31T14:14:45.191+05:30Bhutan: Around Thimpu, the serene capital city of Bhutan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
After a tiring journey, we were glad to check into this <a href="https://www.tripadvisor.in/Hotel_Review-g293845-d1740151-Reviews-Namgay_Heritage_Hotel-Thimphu_Thimphu_District.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">beautiful heritage hotel</a>. The beautiful aesthetics, typical of the Bhutanese paintings and artwork reminded me of <a href="http://www.umawrites.in/2016/02/temples-volcano-and-some-coffee.html" target="_blank">the ones in Bali</a>. We fell in love with our rooms: a mini-living area with low seating sofas, cushions and curtains all carrying the country's trademark patterns and colours. The adjoining bedroom was warm, inviting and spacious too. We joked that a hotel room of this size could well be someone's house in Mumbai's suburbs.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PtOfd1v3diQ/WSw5J10kIFI/AAAAAAABF5I/Eimj2hVvrl4t9D7cxaTZdEeNfvq_JuuOgCLcB/s1600/IMG_20170516_185246678.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="904" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PtOfd1v3diQ/WSw5J10kIFI/AAAAAAABF5I/Eimj2hVvrl4t9D7cxaTZdEeNfvq_JuuOgCLcB/s640/IMG_20170516_185246678.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zPiKz2yGuwQ/WSw5J9-ngQI/AAAAAAABF5M/_DpZH-l-B1IcsGm0eAjfXnKrT6ajWapOACLcB/s1600/IMG_20170516_191509224.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="904" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zPiKz2yGuwQ/WSw5J9-ngQI/AAAAAAABF5M/_DpZH-l-B1IcsGm0eAjfXnKrT6ajWapOACLcB/s640/IMG_20170516_191509224.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1ICvVD6zU84/WSw5VuuI8nI/AAAAAAABF5Q/pw47SMrKRGcKYK2K7I1e_oGtu-MtMhJmQCLcB/s1600/IMG_20170516_191539029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="904" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1ICvVD6zU84/WSw5VuuI8nI/AAAAAAABF5Q/pw47SMrKRGcKYK2K7I1e_oGtu-MtMhJmQCLcB/s640/IMG_20170516_191539029.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">Early next morning we left to see the sights around the city but not before we stopped at yet another immigration office to get our permits done for Punakha. However, this was nothing compared to the elaborate one at Phuentsholing. Our driver got it done for us while we clicked pics of the adjoining beautiful lanes. </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">The warm sun reflected off the bright blue skies that peeked out in turns from behind the spongy curtain of clouds that hung over the green, densely vegetated mountains.</span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BrC2EaCdGW4/WS1AlcNwA2I/AAAAAAABF6k/qgEpSJ5o9D0ph1RoHbT6helziCzK55cvACEw/s1600/DSC_0299.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1062" data-original-width="1600" height="424" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BrC2EaCdGW4/WS1AlcNwA2I/AAAAAAABF6k/qgEpSJ5o9D0ph1RoHbT6helziCzK55cvACEw/s640/DSC_0299.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>The immigration office</b></span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Kh5iLqQpWbg/WS1AlqyIcHI/AAAAAAABF5s/jePn5cPARgg4MRjmn1DDHiQ77UG6rwo_ACLcB/s1600/DSC_0294.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1062" data-original-width="1600" height="424" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Kh5iLqQpWbg/WS1AlqyIcHI/AAAAAAABF5s/jePn5cPARgg4MRjmn1DDHiQ77UG6rwo_ACLcB/s640/DSC_0294.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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That's the traditional dress worn by the Bhutanese. All of them, old and young, men and women, little boys and girls, school going children and working adults wear only their traditional clothing. For the women, it's something like a wrap around skirt with a formal blouse, called <i>Kira</i>. For the men, it's like a long colorful bathrobe folded under the waist to resemble a dress, called <i>Gho</i>, that falls just a little below the knees. The rest of the legs is covered with long stockings and shoes. Personally, I thought the <i>Kira</i> looked far better and smarter to wear than the <i>Gho</i>. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Clicked outside our Hotel with a couple of high-school-goers</b></span></td></tr>
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The sister and I immediately made plans to get our snaps clicked in those outfits. The husbands, not surprisingly, weren't too excited at the prospect but they did not have much choice in this matter!</div>
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<b style="font-size: x-large; text-align: left;"><u>Things to see and do in Thimpu</u></b></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">Thimpu is not a large city geographically and for a capital city, one might expect it to bustle with energy and activities. However, there's just a general calm prevailing amongst the people and life's rather slow and predictable. In fact, we found Phuentsholing far more brisk and prompt in pace and attitude.</span></div>
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<u style="font-size: x-large; text-align: left;"><b>1.The Thimpu Chorten</b></u></div>
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Built in the memory of the third king, this place is a revered and sacred place for the Buddhists. You can see several people circumambulating the structure and <span style="text-align: center;">chanting outside the </span>Chorten<span style="text-align: center;"> with the prayer wheel. The chant goes, "Om Mani Padme Hoon". It's a standard and universal mantra here that's found written over many structures, over </span>colourful<span style="text-align: center;"> cloth buntings that flutter at strategic locations across the city and country.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cYwm3v7-a6g/WS1AmiKdIMI/AAAAAAABF50/A7U00e5LCYQo-nTCpTKLPTi6zNS8wuSCQCLcB/s1600/DSC_0319.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1062" data-original-width="1600" height="424" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cYwm3v7-a6g/WS1AmiKdIMI/AAAAAAABF50/A7U00e5LCYQo-nTCpTKLPTi6zNS8wuSCQCLcB/s640/DSC_0319.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Huge prayer wheels that you rotate with your hands as you go around</b></span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9lOOg9pD17k/WS1Anjx1nQI/AAAAAAABF6A/l_YP120xutEQMaFhTq5oNKOsv0CbvR0YACLcB/s1600/DSC_0335.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1062" data-original-width="1600" height="424" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9lOOg9pD17k/WS1Anjx1nQI/AAAAAAABF6A/l_YP120xutEQMaFhTq5oNKOsv0CbvR0YACLcB/s640/DSC_0335.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>An old lady with the prayer wheel made for a serene picture composition</b></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GBcGyBI5bBI/WS1AnubSnCI/AAAAAAABF6E/QG5AYtahkCY966RnLeHpAYyfpC9rXbCSQCLcB/s1600/DSC_0345.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1062" data-original-width="1600" height="424" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GBcGyBI5bBI/WS1AnubSnCI/AAAAAAABF6E/QG5AYtahkCY966RnLeHpAYyfpC9rXbCSQCLcB/s640/DSC_0345.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Designated areas to prostrate. They have a typical way of bowing down, quite similar to our Sashtang namaskars</b></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">Policemen smartly dressed outside the Chorten</span></b></td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: left;"><u><span style="font-size: large;"><b>2. The Buddha Dordenma Statue</b></span></u></span></h3>
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<span style="text-align: left;">This 51 meters tall giant Buddha statue made of bronze sits overlooking the city of Thimpu and lends a calming atmosphere as soon as one steps in here. The statue sits above a two-storeyed elevated structure, one of which is a prayer hall dedicated to the Buddha. </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">The prayer hall on the first floor has the Buddha seated in the middle with standing figurines encircling the Buddha. (Photography within temples and Dzongs is prohibited)</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">The legend has it that Guru Padmasambhava or Guru Rinpoche as he is popularly known prophesied in the 8th century that a large statue of Buddha would be built in the twentieth century that would bestow peace and happiness to people all over. Guru Rinpoche is considered as the second Buddha by Buddhists as he was instrumental in reaching the Buddha's teachings to the common people. </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">Temples all over Bhutan worship the trio of the Guru, the Buddha himself, and the Lama Zhabdrung who unified all the kingdoms under one peaceful nation. This also forms the core of the mythology and folklore of Bhutan's culture and traditions.</span></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-edMMZ24An6w/WS1ApCJbmqI/AAAAAAABF6U/7uReEAQQbnECtWm4c6rCVNGH-KdFBJi0QCLcB/s1600/IMG_20170517_120104112.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="904" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-edMMZ24An6w/WS1ApCJbmqI/AAAAAAABF6U/7uReEAQQbnECtWm4c6rCVNGH-KdFBJi0QCLcB/s640/IMG_20170517_120104112.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-edy0YDEo4Mw/WS1AonFkVYI/AAAAAAABF6M/BnPCoixpYiA3C3BbT5mKVDTCwcmcZQFXACLcB/s1600/DSC_0363.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1062" height="640" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-edy0YDEo4Mw/WS1AonFkVYI/AAAAAAABF6M/BnPCoixpYiA3C3BbT5mKVDTCwcmcZQFXACLcB/s640/DSC_0363.JPG" width="424" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">One of the golden Dakinis or celestial beings that surround the temple as though guarding it</span></b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-un-CQdzmyMM/WS1Aok_tExI/AAAAAAABF6Q/gRduNb73uwg_TOFFSwR7HBiIEjOSTAA0ACLcB/s1600/DSC_0371.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1062" data-original-width="1600" height="424" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-un-CQdzmyMM/WS1Aok_tExI/AAAAAAABF6Q/gRduNb73uwg_TOFFSwR7HBiIEjOSTAA0ACLcB/s640/DSC_0371.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: medium;">View of the building across the Buddha Dordenma</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Scrme07AJ00/WS1ApW7-7tI/AAAAAAABF6Y/JOqj7uRWHVA_3arybkbEYnklL3s_s-6nQCLcB/s1600/IMG_20170517_120213028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="513" data-original-width="1600" height="204" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Scrme07AJ00/WS1ApW7-7tI/AAAAAAABF6Y/JOqj7uRWHVA_3arybkbEYnklL3s_s-6nQCLcB/s640/IMG_20170517_120213028.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: medium;">A panoramic view of the surrounding structure and area from the Budda statue elevation.</b></td></tr>
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<u>3. Mothithang Takin Preserve</u></h3>
<span style="text-align: justify;">Takin is the national animal of Bhutan. It looks like a hybrid of a goat and a cow. We went to visit this unique creature at the reserve. The Preservatory is a small zoo where these rare species are housed. You need to walk around a bit to spot these animals in their natural habitat but unfortunately, a steady downpour caught us off guard. Although we went armed with umbrellas and jackets, they were all within the safety of our vehicle. So, we decided to make do with the first view of the creature from a rather long distance and hastened back.</span><br />
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<a href="https://www.tripadvisor.com/LocationPhotoDirectLink-g293845-d1722391-i218972984-Motithang_Takin_Preserve-Thimphu_Thimphu_District.html#218972984"><img alt="" src="https://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/0d/0d/43/38/takin-the-national-animal.jpg" /></a><br />
<b>This photo of Motithang Takin Preserve is courtesy of TripAdvisor</b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<u>4. National Folk and Heritage Museum</u></h3>
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This museum is an insight to how the ancestors lived in Bhutan. One can see the iron cast vessels to the various tools used for hunting and cooking, the horse saddles, the food used for traditional cooking. The museum itself is housed in an ancient house with 2-3 storeys. Narrow, wooden steps lead you to each floor and then to the attic. </div>
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A couple of cloth weavers sat outside the house spinning lovely designs on silk and cotton yarn to weave colorful stoles and jackets. (the cost of these can be anywhere between INR 1200- INR 6000 depending on the fabric and intricacy of the weave)</div>
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We do not have any snaps of these weavers from the museum but clicked a few at the in-house store of our Hotel.</div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Qvn1T7rPtZA/WS1v_PMviNI/AAAAAAABF7Y/pOnZVVMWss4EW5dnFI0nFgRRmZiZkb6XwCLcB/s1600/IMG-20170529-WA0007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="830" data-original-width="1100" height="482" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Qvn1T7rPtZA/WS1v_PMviNI/AAAAAAABF7Y/pOnZVVMWss4EW5dnFI0nFgRRmZiZkb6XwCLcB/s640/IMG-20170529-WA0007.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iCNOeKsLvVk/WS1v_YugdPI/AAAAAAABF7c/ejECLSzHGLIT8j_owmB5Ek7heNATLjziQCLcB/s1600/IMG-20170529-WA0008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1100" data-original-width="830" height="640" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iCNOeKsLvVk/WS1v_YugdPI/AAAAAAABF7c/ejECLSzHGLIT8j_owmB5Ek7heNATLjziQCLcB/s640/IMG-20170529-WA0008.jpg" width="482" /></a></div>
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<b>A few points to know:</b></div>
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1. The Indian currency is largely accepted across Bhutan except for the new 2000 rupee notes and in some places the new 500 rupee notes.</div>
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2. Cards are accepted at prominent Hotels but for the smaller stores, it's advisable to carry change in Bhutan currency (ngultrum which is equivalent in value to INR). We got some cash exchanged at our Hotel in Phuentsholing itself.</div>
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3. We observed a lot of working women around Bhutan at the Hotels we stayed or around the city in general (as you can also observe from the weaving pics above), and we found that Bhutan is a matriarchal society with about 60% of businesses run by women. </div>
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4. If you're interested in viewing the cultural dance, you can inform your travel agent or the Hotel you're staying at well in advance since that needs to be specially arranged for (during the non-festival period).</div>
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5. Most travel operators offer just a day's sight seeing in Thimpu and we thought it was sufficient. But, if you're looking for more sights, we hear that one can visit the National Library and a couple of Dzongs. </div>
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6. At the Dordenma, we realized the need for a local guide who can explain the history and background in detail. However, as we inquired with our driver, we understood that usually tourists come armed beforehand with guides arranged by their tour operator and a separate guide at selected sights is hard to find. Having said that, as we progressed on our trip, we found a guide at the Punakha Dzong and one again for Tiger's Nest, Paro. So, the right approach will be to ask your tour operator first and then at the Hotels you are put up at. It is also not required to have a guide at all locations. </div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">We stayed only for a day in Thimpu. We stopped by at the local handicraft market before retiring to the Hotel for the day. The handmade curios are no doubt attractive but unless you're really keen the price is a deterrent to casual shopping lovers. Even a small metal keychain starts at around INR 250, so it's not really a shopper's paradise.</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">Our next stop is Punakha. Stay tuned!</span></div>
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<i>Have you been to Thimpu? Do share your views and thoughts.</i></div>
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Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8847465637397768351.post-34529039102901802622017-05-26T21:54:00.000+05:302017-05-26T21:57:38.747+05:30Bhutan: Immigration and then en route to Thimpu<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Our first day of the trip included procuring the permits and then proceeding to Thimpu, the capital city. The drive to Thimpu was slated to take about 5-6 hrs. It was therefore vital that our permits got processed in decent time so that we could commence our journey at least post lunch. To the question, "how long can it take for the permits to be processed?" we were given a similar response from everyone to whom we posed the query.<br />
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It really depends on the number of people for the given day. It could take as less as 2 hours or sometimes even the entire day, we were told. Our travel operator from Mumbai had forewarned us that we adjust our trip schedule to let this crucial step fall somewhere mid-week. The office is closed on weekends and hence Fridays and Mondays see a maximum footfall, so it's best to plan for the remaining days of the week, we were told.<br />
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So, we chose the first suitable day, Tuesday and planned our itinerary around it. <a href="http://www.umawrites.in/2017/05/bhutan-stepping-into-neighbourhood.html" target="_blank">The immigration office </a>opens around nine in the morning but we were advised to queue up outside the office as early as 8 or 8:30 at the max. Now, the days begin very early in Bhutan. They are also officially half hour ahead of India time. It being summer, the dawn breaks as early as 4:30 am, while the sunrise happens around 5:45 am or so, even 6 am seems like 8 am in the morning. Breakfast at the hotels is served between 7-9 am. Yes, that early!<br />
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We had no trouble aligning our bodies to the new clock time. Also, perhaps to the clean surrounding and fresh air, throughout the trip and despite our active schedule, we were neither troubled by fatigue or lethargy nor had the urge to sleep in late. So, we were up and smiling at dawn, showered, dressed, at the breakfast counter by 7:30 and out of the hotel by 8 am.<br />
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<b>Documents required to process permits:</b><br />
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<li>Copies of valid passports or voter IDs </li>
<li>Students are allowed to submit their school ID as proofs in lieu of passport</li>
<li>One passport sized photograph for adults and two photographs for kids</li>
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These were duly passed on to the said agent who's supposed to fill the required forms and submit these at the office the previous evening supposedly for a faster process the next day. However, by the time we checked in on Monday evening, the office was closed, so it remained to be seen how we were to be impacted.<br />
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We were really hoping for a smooth and quick process and were a bit shocked to see a fair amount of crowd already present at 8 am. Big groups of Indian tourists travelling with package tours were milling about, their group head carrying the tour flag and the members all wearing identical caps. That was when we realized that Bhutan is no longer a rare choice. We were later informed that this year alone saw about 2 lakh Indian tourists on Bhutan soils. We could only shudder to imagine the crowd at the popular hill stations if this was the state of a supposedly low-profile country. It seems some entry tax for Indians was recently waived off and hence the huge influx. On a side note, I really don't think this is a good idea, given how pristine the country is and what a lot of tourists can do to a place like that.<br />
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All permits are processed through agents who queue up on behalf of their customers. The customers, mostly Indians like us, group themselves at various points in the backyard and front yard of the office curious about the whole process and butting in every now and then to enquire with the respective agent about the length and manner of the procedure involved. In short, the place outside this office resembled a chaotic meeting place. We killed time clicking bad pictures of each other, walking up to the agent, checking to see if the queue was really moving, stopping the kids (and failing) from being a nuisance, entertaining them in turns, going back to the agent who quipped back a bit annoyed that it might another 1-2 hours ( we were already waiting there for a good one hour).<br />
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Since our hotel (Hotel Druk) was literally a jump away from the office, the sister and I decided to cool off our heels there (and more importantly give the kids a downtime because they were really all over the place). As luck would have it, as soon as our asses touched the cool beds of the hotel room, we were summoned to come right away to the office as our turn was just a few minutes away. So much for the 1-2 hour estimate by the agent. Surely, he was taking his revenge! But, of course, the bigger picture was that the work was to get over quickly, so we rushed out like mature adults, kids in tow.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-60UR0MQ7Eyc/WShA-t_jE3I/AAAAAAABF2I/x3OvkFETxJUruZcTI2uJxKP6Jso_PtbnwCLcB/s1600/IMG-20170515-WA0020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1060" height="481" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-60UR0MQ7Eyc/WShA-t_jE3I/AAAAAAABF2I/x3OvkFETxJUruZcTI2uJxKP6Jso_PtbnwCLcB/s640/IMG-20170515-WA0020.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">This and the pic right below are of Hotel Druk</span></b></td></tr>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BaNyYYuIa1Q/WShA-55nMbI/AAAAAAABF2Q/NBujCkH5pPMQefiyJLR3QNFkee9wi4PowCLcB/s1600/IMG-20170515-WA0023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1060" height="481" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BaNyYYuIa1Q/WShA-55nMbI/AAAAAAABF2Q/NBujCkH5pPMQefiyJLR3QNFkee9wi4PowCLcB/s640/IMG-20170515-WA0023.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QgTnhky8PJA/WShA-5-qx1I/AAAAAAABF2M/OmfLYbbqWYkYdLiCknrwQ1frj7tLrR9DQCLcB/s1600/IMG-20170515-WA0008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1100" data-original-width="627" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QgTnhky8PJA/WShA-5-qx1I/AAAAAAABF2M/OmfLYbbqWYkYdLiCknrwQ1frj7tLrR9DQCLcB/s640/IMG-20170515-WA0008.jpg" width="363" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>A temple we visited the previous evening</b></span></td></tr>
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We were to get our biometrics done inside the office. It seems once your fingerprints are logged in, you can enter Bhutan anytime in future without any further official procedures. The process was over fairly quickly and smoothly. Although we were told to carry our original proofs, these were not demanded by the officers.<br />
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We were told that the permit papers will take yet another 2 hours to be processed and would be handed over to the agent/ tour driver who will in return deliver them to us at our hotel. We felt a bit out of control here as there were two people with whom we interacted, one of them waited in the queue and the other furnishing general information. And, this driver with whom we were to travel for the rest of the trip was still unknown to us at that point. It seemed too laissez-faire to just wait at the hotel not knowing who will get us the documents and whom to contact if something went wrong. We felt we were given only need-based information. A few worried calls to our operator in Mumbai later, we were reassured that one of the agents we met at the office will positively reach out to us with the necessary permits and that our tour driver would meet us later.<br />
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Bhutan, we were to later learn and experience first-hand, is a very trust-based society and citizens abide by the law and do not cheat.<br />
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It was nearly noon and by the time we finished with our lunch (Indian food and quite tasty, I must add), our permits were at the door, soon followed by our very sweet driver for the rest of our trip. The extremely beautiful sights (and a dip in temperature as we ascended higher altitudes) all along our journey up and down the hilly, winding lanes made up for the rather longish (and thankfully the only one amongst all) drive time.<br />
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<i>Hope you're enjoying reading the travelogue as much as I'm enjoying writing it. If you want specific queries to be answered, feel free to reach out. Next on the blog is Thimpu. Stay tuned!</i></div>
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Umahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04717377240212152065noreply@blogger.com4