Enchanting Yercaud

The Christmas holidays had arrived, and we planned a trip to the picturesque hill station Yercaud, about 35kms from Salem. We- uncles, aunts and cousins, embarked on our sojourn from my uncle’s place in Coimbatore by car in the evening and reached Salem by nightfall, around 3 hours later. After a sumptuous supper, amidst excited chatter and GPS in smart phones switched on for ready reference, we continued the journey to our destination. Leaving behind the noisy roads of Salem, the first hairpin bend and a noticeable fall in temperature heralded the commencement of the winding road to the quaint hill town. As we continued our ascent, the hustle and bustle in the city of Salem, illuminated by lights of various hues and colours, presented a pleasing canvas for the eyes. The narrow road curved up constantly and 20 hairpin bends later, Yercaud town came into view. As it was 10pm, the roads were deserted and the shops closed; the resort where accommodation was arranged was situated 2kms away from the town.

The subsequent morning, we awoke at dawn and broke our fast at a restaurant in the town. A 2-day temple festival and an ongoing flower show saw the town bedecked with flowers, arches and statues and music of diverse genre blared from speakers. Tribal dancers in colourful attires were displaying their traditional dance forms on the street, to the accompaniment of drum beats, surrounded by a large throng of tourists and locals. We strolled leisurely around the Yercaud lake to the boat club. The boating in the pristine lake was a memorable experience. The vivid blue sky, the clear lake water and the lush greenery around the banks made a captivating scene.

Our next destination was the Killiyur waterfalls, about 3 kms from the lake. Munching fruits, we began descending the 300 steps leading to the waterfalls. The majestic hills capped with misty clouds and dense flora made it an enjoyable trek. We paused frequently, to drink in the scenery and to capture it in cameras. At the bottom, the clear water gushing down the steep rocks was a beautiful sight to behold. We clambered over the rocks carefully and ventured close to the water; the chill in the water was refreshing and pleasant. The beautiful scenery all around made the arduous ascent from the waterfalls less taxing.

After an elaborate buffet lunch, we relaxed for an hour, enjoying the view from a skywalk, watching the mists drift slowly across the hillocks. We then proceeded to visit the Shevarayon temple, situated 8kms from the town. It is a cave temple, built from the rocks and the deity is dedicated to the erstwhile ruler of the region. We had to bend almost double to reach the idol. The priest pointed out a tunnel, hewn into the rocks and extending nearly a kilometer into the darkness, behind the idol. The view from the Shevaroy hills surrounding the temple was panoramic, the cool breeze and the descending darkness signalling a long night. After gazing at the scenery from the highest point in Yercaud to our hearts’ content, we returned to the town and had a delicious dinner.

Early next morning, we began our return journey, bidding adieu to the tiny hill town. The swirling, thick fog obstructed clear vision and made driving precarious, for a while. As we left the ghat road and set out for Coimbatore, memories of the glorious trip lifted our spirits and we vowed to return to the charming town again.

FREEDOM

“Freedom is not always about breaking free from chains”

Prologue

I woke up to the persistent ringing of the telephone. Rubbing my eyes groggily, I gazed around in semi stupor, trying to get a grip over my slow senses. By the time I was fully awake, the person at the other end of the phone had given up. Something odd about this set me thinking- and then it hit me like a flash- I was alone in the apartment!  

It has been four years since I have rented this apartment. Along with the apartment, came Kamala- the maid. Over the course of these four years, every day has been the same- starting with a hot cup of masala tea brought to the bedside by Kamala. She had complete freedom over the running of my homestead- she moved around the furniture, decided when and what the meals were and even the clothes that I wear. Being a writer, and a temperamental one, it was imperative that I am not disturbed by these trifling matters- Kamala gave me the luxury of never having to attend to trivial household matters and, in return, I never pried into her domain.

My friends were jealous of my find- a jewel in the competitive world of house maids, and did their best to lure her away from me- but she stayed on. Imagine my chagrin when all of a sudden, she vanishes from my life. I felt like a toddler taking his first steps without anyone to hold on to. Thus began a new part of my life.

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I had started with an attempt to make my morning cup of tea, but I had to search for everything, from sugar to spoons. I lost the entire morning trying to make breakfast.

I realised that I was over dependent on Kamala and that my daily routine was built with her as the core. I, who boasted of being a free bird, was actually a tame pet of an inconsequential house maid! I decided that it was high time I broke free from the invisible shackles of domesticity that bound me and became a master of myself, and made up my mind to terminate the services of Kamala if she returns.

I started out with moving the furniture around. I reorganised everything in the kitchen, from the cupboards to the racks. Once I was done with cleaning the entire house, I felt I had accomplished something. Several days passed in this manner, with no sight of Kamala and I grew more and more accomplished day by day. I was enjoying my freedom to choose my life- revelling in my successes, determined in my failures and the warrior in me rose to the challenge of redesigning my life in my own terms.  After a week or so, Kamala had vanished entirely from my life and my thoughts. One day, when I went out to empty the dustbin, my neighbour- a natural in the field of gossip mongering- signalled to me indicating that she had vital information to pass on.

She knew that Kamala had been absent- in fact she knew even why! Kamala had gone insane! I gulped down the retort that it was she who had gone insane, merely nodded, and went back.

I may not be much of a conversationalist but I prided myself on being a good judge of character and in my opinion, Kamala was perfectly sane – she had absolutely no tendency of falling over to the other side. Since I was rather free that day, I decided to enquire into the matter. I got her address from my landlord and set my steps to her home.

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Kamala lived in a tumbledown shack with her husband and four children. When I reached her place, it was crowded – people usually flock to a place of tragedy like insects attracted to the light. From the bits and pieces of conversation around me, I gathered that my inquisitive neighbour was right- Kamala’s mind had indeed gone astray.

After some conversations I could gather the full story, rather the same old story. Kamala had married young and even though her husband was loving, he was a drunkard. He barely spent any time at home, spending all his income on drinks, leaving her to fend for the family. Even while she went about her duties in my house with a stolid demeanour, her mind might have been heavy with worries over her home- piling debts, increasing expenditure and growing kids- each held their share of space in her thoughts. When the weight was too much to bear, and her mind couldn’t keep pace with her thoughts, her mind had got deranged.

One fine morning, she sat on bed, intensely staring in front of her, as if concentrating on something – putting all her mind to it. Even the kids crying for food did not awaken her from her meditation. It was when her husband came home- drunk and late as usual- and found the tired and hungry kids sitting pooled around their mother, that he realised something was wrong. Several local doctors were called in, but none succeeded in waking Kamala from her meditation. It seemed like her entire world had shrunk into the tiny square of floor tile in front of her.

She was initially labelled as a patient of chronic depression, but after a week the verdict was delivered that she was officially insane – the diagnosis coinciding with the one that the localites had derived since day one. I went inside to support them in their tragedy- or rather to see the sight of the day.  She was sitting in the same pose, oblivious to the stares and chatter of the people around her. One of her kids got up and attempted to walk towards her father- but she stumbled and fell. I was still looking at Kamala, and I caught the sudden look that she darted in the direction of the kid. That look – the concerned look of a mother- belied her sanity and at that instant I knew- she was as sane as you or me. However, nobody else seemed to have noticed her momentary lapse. I walked out slowly, wondering about why she would forsake her life, earning and family and act insane.

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I spent a whole day and night thinking about Kamala, and then my thoughts were replaced by more pressing matters. I no longer required the services of a housemaid- Kamala had in fact taught me dependence and independence. My life went along the new lines for a month or so, when one of my ramblings brought me face to face with Kamala’s husband. He seemed to have undergone a transition. I enquired after Kamala’s health.

“She is much the same. Since we are not able to support her in this condition, she has been shifted to a home for the mentally challenged. A week after she was admitted, she grew rather violent and vindictive and consequently was shifted to the isolation ward. We rarely go to see her now, as we do not know when her mood might change and cannot bear to see her in one of her tempers. I have heard rumours that they use chains to keep her checked during her violent days.”

He seems to have gotten over his old ways and looks after the family now. They had got some financial help from the government and were able to live a better life. Except for the fact that Kamala is not with them, they seemed to be doing rather well. Like me, they too have grown accustomed to a life without her.

Epilogue

I thought about that one look of intelligence that came from her and wondered if she was acting insane for this very end. Call it a writer’s imagination, but I believe her to be perfectly sane. She might have forsaken her life, family and freedom so that her family can lead a better life.

People have changing views of freedom- it is the absence of responsibility to some, the choice to mould their own life for some others. For me, freedom was a life devoid of meagre tasks- a free mind, infinite time and engaging work. Kamala made me realise that freedom is also about choosing the way one lives, making small yet significant decisions every day. Freedom is not about independence- it is more about the luxury of being able to choose your dependences.

I believe, in her isolation, bound in shackles and branded insane, she had found her freedom- worlds apart from her worrisome life- with weighing thoughts of her family and the mechanical and frustrating job of a house maid. I realised that one could find freedom even in chains- Freedom is not always breaking free of chains; sometimes freedom might be better when fettered than free.

The End

Vishu, Kanikonna and some Calendar thoughts

Have you ever wondered why many festivals across India like Vishu in Kerala, Bihu in Assam, Puthandu in Tamil Nadu and Baishaaki in north India are celebrated almost on the same day (April 14th or 15th) ? What makes this date so particular that we find a unity in fixing festivals on this day? Well to understand this, one should know the calendar system that developed in ancient India, whose modified versions are being used even now in different parts of India ( eg: Saka Varsh in the North and Kolla Varsh system in Kerala). Before going into a little history and details of the above mentioned calendar, let me proudly mention here that the calendar system that our ancestors had devised was much better than any other in the world (even better than the widely accepted Gregorian Calender).
A quick peep into the history of our civilisation would bring into our attention the story of our calendar system. The necessity of a calendar, which could precisely give a foresight about the seasons to come, was felt as soon as the nomadic human beings started to settle down into tiny groups and started to cultivate food items (rather than collecting them from the woods). A good harvest depended greatly on the time of the sowing & harvesting, at the right conditions of rain or sun as predicted by a calendar. The best physical phenomena to which our ancestors could correlate the seasons were the travelling of sun and the moon with respect to the background star field. It should be noted that they possessed exceptional observation skills which enabled them to note the slightest changes in position of sun and the moon in the celestial sphere.
The collective observational wisdom of some generations was capable enough to prove to the ancient astronomers that the sun travelled eastward by some angle every day, completing one cycle in around 365 days, while the moon does the same in about 27 days. Also the path followed by the sun and the moon are fixed and does not shift. These observations formed the basis of the first calendar whose modified version is being used by us. The circle in the sky through which the sun seems to move was divided into 12 parts (namely Raashis), each identified by the name given to the imaginary animal or object formed by joining the stars in that portion of the sky. Thus we have 12 months, each named after the constellation which comes in the background of the sun in that particular month i.e during Makar month (makaram in malayalam) the sun will have Makar Raashi (or Capricorn constellation) in its background and so on. Thus your sun sign actually represents the position of the sun in the sky at the time of your birth.
The days on the other hand are named after the star or constellation that appears nearest to the moon on that particular day. Thus we have 27 star signs (from Aswathi to Revathi in malayalam). The star sign in your horoscope actually points to the position of the moon on the day of your birth. (Kindly note that the science part of your horoscope ends here and that the star sign has nothing to do with your future). The calendar system in the northern parts of India was slightly different. In north India the days where named as per the waxing and waning of the moon (Krishna paksham and sukla paksham) rather than the stars adjacent to it. The calculation of day was thus less precise in northern parts of India.
Now it was time to decide as to when to start the year. Again the astronomers came to rescue and announced that there exists two peculiar days in a year when the sun would rise perfectly from east. These days called as the vernal equinoxes (Vishuvam in malayalam) are characterised by perfect time distribution between day and night (i.e 12hours each). The tilt in the earth’s axis would, on all other days, cause the sun to rise from North-East or South-East directions. It was decided to use Poorva Vishuvam or the equinox that coincides with the entry of sun to Medam Raashi (Aries constellation) as the start of the year. Thus it is in fact the new year that is being celebrated around India as Vishu, Bihu etc.
This calendar system is very precise because it takes into account both the rotation and revolution of earth. This seldom requires corrections, unlike the Gregorian calendar which requires one day to be added every leap year as correction. However the precession of earth axis is a third motion that affects the system of calendars and hence seasons. This went unnoticed because of the large time it takes to complete one cycle (29,000 years). There are evidences to prove that even this was corrected in a periodic manner in ancient times by advancing the new year day by one day or two in a couple of decades. The now fixed date of Meda Sankranthi (i.e movement to sun to Aries constellation) was fixed at the time when the last correction was done.
The above discussion indicates that the Vishu day or the equinox day should have shifted by some days and will not be  exactly on April 14th as of now. The present Vishu day is in fact on 21st of March. Readers may please note that seasons would also shift by this amount. This in fact leads to a phenomenon which is much discussed and misinterpreted as an indication of global warming and stuff. The phenomenon I am referring to is the early blossoming of Kanikonna, the state flower of Kerala. Kanikonna is known to be a tree which flowers during Vishu, which as per the calendar followed now is on April 14th. It can be noted that in these days kanikonna would flower around the third week of March rather than in April. Isn’t it great to notice that the kanikonna knows the shift in our calendars but we are still ignorant to make relevant corrections in our calendar system and instead blame the nature for making kanikonna bloom “earlier”……….…!

The Day I met a god….

Prologue
“Why the hell are you still asleep? It’s almost 7: 45! Aren’t you going to office today?”
shouted my roommate. I replied in a rude manner, for I was agitated at being woken up, “Today, I am going to SHAR and not to office; close the front door when you go out, I won’t be up until 10:00”. I had lost my sleep, thanks to my roommate, but had nothing to do on a blue Tuesday morning. For the last one month, I was going through a hell of a time and I started thinking about the conversation that I had, with an equally dejected friend of mine, the previous day. He pointed out, “You lost some flavor of your life. You must get it back and travel is a good option. A great many things happen when you travel. Read some good books that can guide you on what you want to do with your life”. I don’t like to travel and used to feel all the more irritated when I was on for the place called SHAR. But this day, I didn’t feel that bad, for I was going after a long time and I had a hidden agenda of refurbishing (read ‘my experimentation with books on self realization’) myself. I fell asleep again.
Finally, when I woke up it was almost 12’ o clock and I remembered my friend’s warnings about some unprecedented road blockades due to “kavadi” and some party meetings. I surged to have a bath, packed my bag (the art of piling up your clothes into a back pouch) and rushed out. Oops…! I had forgotten my books. I hurried back and got two books from the row of a dozen(hehe, all on enlightenment and I knew the authors or the titles of none) and rushed back to confront a road which was barren (a very rare sight at the place where I live) except for some rare two wheelers and autos. I called out, “Auto…!” and an auto rickshaw stopped. The driver gave me a wicked smile (as if he knew what was in wait for me). I shouted“Thampanoor…!”

Feb 07th 2011 Time 2:15
Place: Outside the AC reservation coach of a superfast train bound to Chennai.
I was searching through the railway reservation charts and finally found my name against A1-18. I didn’t stop with that; I started gleaning the details of my co-passengers. Alas! My co-passenger was a girl (Female 26), from Changanassery. The imp in me woke up and started envisioning stories on my chat up with the girl (of course to be portrayed to my friends as an impeccable beauty), by narrating which I could enthrall my roommates when they telephone me at night. But of recent times, they do not show much interest in my superfluous narration and I felt that I should try some neologism to put in my gibberish. I ridiculed one of my integration friends, who was in the same coach, for being put amidst some old folks. Huh! So I am supposed get enlightened before Changanassery, after which I may continue, considering my ability to concentrate (previous experience shows that my focus on any subject holds a linear relationship with the extraneous disturbances from the surroundings)! However, the goddess of sleep didn’t like the idea of my getting enlightened and soon took me under her control.

Time 4:15
Place: 2623 Chennai mail, A1-18, Side Lower.
Eater’s coma had attacked me and I slept for almost 2 hours. I woke up when somebody shouted inside my head “Dude, you have every right to have a tea before savoring the bliss of self realization”. A tea at 3: 30 is one of my office routines and I have developed a sort of biological alarm inside my head for this time. However, the alarm had gone late by almost 45 minutes. When the train stopped, I started looking for the chaii waalas but nobody turned up.
Suddenly, a 6+ feet tall figure appeared dragging her red trolley bag. I couldn’t see her face because the angle of elevation of her face was intercepted by the upper berth. She went out to fetch her other luggage. The train started rolling and the ‘Changanassery’ plaque was slowly moving backwards, but she was still missing. She turned up after a few minutes and sat facing me.
Ho! A tall (definitely above 6 feet), stout, dark girl, who could toss her big carry bag like a balloon! I remembered the adage that ‘black is beautiful than seven colours’, and in her I saw its proof. However, being an acrophobic (meaning connoted) of 5’ 5”, I was turned off. I took my book on enlightenment and mentally called out, “Oh! the enlightened ones, I am coming to your abode in half an hour”. Before I could open my book, she tried to plug in her mobile charger, and Alas! it was not working.
Her friend in me woke up. I told her that it wouldn’t work and laughed at the maintenance that the electrical guys in railways did. In fact, I explained to her the total powering and grounding scheme of the 110V railway electrical sockets. She was impressed by my explanations on why her laptop touch mouse and keyboard failed when she plugged it on the socket the previous time. At last, the ice was broken. She asked me what I did. I told her that I am an engineer at VSSC and she told me that she had great respect for my fraternity. I asked her what she did. She told that she worked for Southern Railways. “Oh! So the train is free of charge for you, isn’t it?” She just smiled.
“B-tech?” I enquired.
“No, sports quota”. Faces of all my friends who got in to good colleges through sports quota came flooding into my mind. While I studied, they played, and when the list was out, they just walked through. I hid my indignation and asked her name. “Geethu Anna Jose”, she replied. I told her that the name sounded familiar but concluded that I had a friend with a similar name. She just smiled. “Which sport ?” “Basket Ball.”
Hmm! Basket ball is not my cup of tea but an inherent wish to impress the girl made me exaggerate.
I described to her how I used to do the finger roll throw pretty well during my college days, how I could rarely convert a slam dunk or a jump shot and so on. She kept on smiling and that made me bluff over and over again.
She told me about her job. She had to go, sign in and complete some administrative work once in every 6 months; that’s all the work she does for the railways. I exclaimed “Wow! What an enviable job!”
She told that she was from kottayam, and had completed her education from the same place. Before coming to basketball, she had an athletic background.
I asked her “Have you gone to any foreign countries?” (expecting at most Bangladesh or Srilanka as a reply). She told me that it was a long list. The ignoramus in me was not content.
“So what is the next milestone you are looking up to?” She told me that she couldn’t make it into WNBA last season, and was planning to go to US for the same again.
“Oh! Which university? The Ivy League?”
She was confused.
I made it more direct. Why do you want a double MBA? (I had heard WNBA as double MBA)
She couldn’t control her laughter anymore. She explained that WNBA is Women’s National Basket Ball Association, world’s most sought after basket ball league in the US, and that it was any player’s dream.
Finally, I asked her the most sensible question of the day. “What tournaments have u played? National level for the Southern Railways?”(I still don’t know how I missed to ask it
before)
She smiled and said, “International games, for The National team.”
I was left agape.
She then told that she was ‘The GAJ’, one among the two Keralites in the Indian team, and the captain of the National Women Basket Ball team. I lost my senses, for the word ‘captain’ had done its trick and a picture of MS Dhoni flashed through my mind. All I could say was, “autograph please”, by saying which I gave her the book I had in my hand.
She said, “Oh no! But why? I am not the right person, you don’t even know me!” She smiled. I was thrown silent. She continued, “Please don’t feel bad. It is not your fault, nobody in this compartment may recognize me but Basket Ball is a great sport, do follow it, if possible. Google it and you will get everything, including the double MBA”, she laughed. “And someday do google my name also”. For a moment I was bearing the burden of the millions of Indians who have hardly thought of considering anything other than cricket as a national game. I knew the names of the all the eleven players in the Indian cricket team and even more. If ‘sports’ is a religion, then India is a religiously intolerant nation with an affliction for extreme ‘cricket-ism’. I knew the name of the fast bowler from my district who occasionally makes it into the playing eleven, hailed by the local media, famous (or infamous)for his unfathomable arrogance than bowling skills. I knew his pet names, nick names, his parent’s name, the comments that his parents use to make in the local media and even the whole sort of blusters he created. I even knew about his predecessor who played just two international matches and became immortalized. And here, in front of me, was a girl of my age, from the district next to mine, the No1 in India for the last couple of years, a player in the media for the last 11 years, and yet, I knew nothing about her.
I was struck hard by my ignorance and my conscience bit the dust. I controlled my tears, which were trying to force out. However, my consternation finally put me in my place. I said “ I don’t know you. I don’t know how to appreciate your game, nor do I know how to appreciate your achievements; but I know one thing; among all the living gods I can ever imagine, you are the simplest and for that, I admire you. Hmm! Well, she looked impressed. A voice inside me called out, “You flirt! You will never change.”
She said “I don’t have a pen”. I borrowed a pen from another guy and my wish was granted. I was much delighted to exchange my seat with her friend who boarded from Ernakulam and I didn’t have to face her for the rest of my journey.
I took out my laptop and googled her. Google predicted her name once I typed the first three letters and gave out 226000 results (veracity of which I don’t claim) in 0.10 secs. Wikipedia and youtube hailed her glory (I leave it to the readers to find out) and I realized that she was the God herself. Google has always been my good friend, but he never says anything unless I ask for it. I looked at the book in which she had given me her autograph. The title of the book stared at me. It read “The Open Secret”. Yes, for me, GAJ was an open secret, a luminary who was all radiant but for my eyes closed, a god whom I failed to recognize because I belonged to a different religion, a legacy well written but a secret for many because they never bothered to check it (hardcore GAJ fans may disagree, but this is a very personal statement).
Next day morning, on the way out, she waved me good bye. I waved back at her and smiled. Somebody inside me whispered “good bye god”.
Epilogue:
A Foreign land
2052 Olympics:
An elderly couple consisting of a retired ‘project scientist’ and his wife were sitting in a match arena amidst a clamoring crowd. The man, being a man, checks out the hot girls in bikinis oblivious to his wife's squabbles. He knows that she loves him, and he loves her too, but the one with the long legs was too hot. The lady started bickering.
“Do you know what your age is?”
“Yes dear, isn’t it above 60?”
“Ok, then tell me why we are here?”
“Well, to see the Olympics and support the Indian janta.”
“But India is nowhere into beach volleyball?”
“You are correct. Don’t you think that it’s a game that needs some appraisal?”
“You shall not talk to me!” she brawled.
“Ok dear, I will tell you an anecdote of how I met a god, got enlightened and became secular.”
“Oh! Not that one. Not again.”

End:
Cricket is a good game and our players might be good at it, but there are equally good players and equally good games which lie concealed and unnoticed, whose appraisal is required to make our country a sports flaring nation. If you consider national games to be a necklace chain; something that gives us an identity; that which makes us proud; that which makes us stand on our toes and jump on our seats; that which keeps us unified, cricket would be the most conspicuous link destined to hold the beautiful pendant. But Alas! A chain is no stronger than its weakest link.

MESMERISING MASINAGUDI

It was a pleasant morning in Ooty. The members of our family trip – comprising my parents, brother, uncles, aunts, cousins and grandmother tucked into a hearty breakfast. We then embarked on our sojourn to Masinagudi, a sleepy town nestled amidst lofty mountains, dense jungles and vast tea plantations. About two hours’ travel along the narrow, winding road saw our van rumbling into the Mahindra Zest Resort, where our accommodation had been arranged. A few metres from the destination, a long, silver- coloured snake slithering across the road into the thick bushes bordering the road welcomed us to Masinagudi. Subsequent to an elaborate lunch, we set out for a stroll inside the resort premises- clambering atop the tree house and enjoying the swings and hammocks fastened to large, sturdy trees. Soon, we were stepping gingerly into the clear, chilling waters of a gurgling stream flowing along the rear of the resort. As it was a spot frequented by wild animals coming toquench their thirst, we were cautioned against venturing into the opposite bank.

By evening, accompanied by a local guide, the younger members of our group, went on a trek to a nearby hill. The seasoned guide steered us along pathways with gentler slopes so that we could ascend without getting exhausted. As we approached the peak, the scenery became more and more glorious. The tall hills all around, shrouded in lush vegetation, with the silvery clouds floating beneath them, presented a magnificent sight. The steady breeze, coupled with the cool air, provided us with natural air conditioning. At the summit of the hill, there was a quaint temple, with Lord Muruka as the presiding deity. After we offered prayers, the priest, an elderly man with a matted beard, enchanted us with anecdotes of how the temple was often visited by leopards and how he sought asylum by bolting the sanctum sanctorum and crouching inside.

The wind was blowing with tremendous force, as if to sweep us off our feet. After the arduous climb, we relaxed, seating ourselves on boulders and taking snaps, drinking in the panoramic view. The calm prevailing in the pristine surroundings enervated us. After our descent from the hill, we halted for a cup of tea at a tea shop in Bokapura town.

The following day we awoke early and proceeded for a walk. There was a slight drizzle but that did not dampen our spirits. The imposing ghats were partially concealed by mist. Filled with apprehensions about being assaulted by wild beasts, but none quite voicing their fears openly, we strode ahead. Aside from dainty deer and monkeys hopping between trees, we caught sight of two giant squirrels with red, bushy tails scampering up a giant tree. Hiring two jeeps, we enjoyed a safari ride through the region, which constitutes parts of the Mudumalai Tiger Reserve. We spotted a few trained elephants (known as kumkis), deer and peacocks. Later in the day, the jungle safari facilitated by Tamil Nadu Forest department proved more fruitful. It was an exciting journey in a van through a rough path amidst the wild, undisturbed flora. We were fortunate to witness a majestic leopard prowling among the thick, tall grass. As the cameras clicked away, the young big cat gracefully vanished among the trees. We also sighted a herd of wild elephants filling their voluminous stomachs with large leaves, at a distance. Herds of spotted deer, lion- tailed macaques perched on trees and the charming peacocks put in an occasional appearance. Soon, a procession of wild bison crossed our path.

The elephant rehabilitation centre at Mudumalai was our next destination. Tourists from far and wide flock here in large numbers to behold the elephant feeding ceremony. One by one, the pachyderms were led out to their designated positions and fed with enormous balls of their diet- a mixture of ragi, salt, jaggery, rice etc. From 4-year-old baby elephants to 80-year-old seniors, the gentle giants of all ages gobbled up contentedly, the food proffered by their caretakers. During our return journey to the resort, we sighted elephants and wild bison among the woods lining the roads. A white rabbit hurried across the road, in front of our van. Since the inhabitants of the jungle roam freely after dusk, the roads in the region are closed to traffic from 8 pm to 6 am. Back in the resort, when I left the door of our room ajar for a short while, a monkey dropped in for a visit. As we hastily shooed it away, it swiftly grabbed sachets of milk powder from the table and sped away, much to our amusement.

We commenced our departure from mesmerizing Masinagudi the next morning. Our minds rich with memories of the beautiful mountains, the wildlife sanctuaries and their residents, we bid adieu to the captivating hill town.

BOOZE CLUES

“120ml of Alchohol for 2900 days = Liver Sclerosis “, read the billboard sponsored by NIMS heart foundation. This sign board is the part of a newly launched awareness campaign by NIMS. “2900 days. Someone starting today as a regular drinker has 8 years before he gets the disease”, I thought.

You name it; alcohol has a bad effect on that organ. The harmful effects of the usage of alcohol have remained largely of a qualitative nature among the public; like alcohol damage kidneys, it creates addiction and hallucination, results in loss of control and coordination etc. A quantitative statement like the one displayed on the hoarding might be the result of a new finding in the psychology of advertising.Alcohol-pleasure quotient dependence might not have been of much academic interest, however users contend that there is a strong dependence and it has even palliative, antiseptic and even medicinal effects. Well, we have an elixir in that case! The medicinal values of alcohol are not widely known but as the old joke says - “Worms when put in a glass of alcohol were killed (drowned - if you don’t mind) in no time!” - alcohol has a remote possibility of killing worms.

Days later after seeing the hoarding, I happened to overhear a conversation between two people who shared my table in a hotel. The duo, it seemed, after trying out Dosa first, settled on Poori as they couldn’t resist the taste of the Poori served by the hotel. Orders were being made when I reached the table. After having his first round of poori, the man in his late 40s noted “The poori is soft and delicious. I am going to order two more. You want more anna (elder brother)”. The wise old man cautioned “Cholestrol !! It’s bad for you.” “What cholesterol ? Two pegs of rum would melt all this mess”, said the younger one. Turning to the waiter he told “Two more”. “Whoa! Alchohol melts cholesterol. Medicinal value for alchohol?”, I thought with my head down in my dish. Before the novel idea sank in, I heard the old man ordering two more for him. I wondered whether it was the love for food or drink that made him order more.

With so many “thattu kadas” (roadside makeshift shops selling food) mushrooming in the urban areas, the repeated use of oil is becoming a serious health hazard. Cooking oil like the rest of oils has a smoke point beyond which it loses its nutritional properties and flavour. Oils break down beyond the smoke point. The formation of by-products and food residues further reduces the smoke point of cooking oils. On degradation, oils release polymers and polar compounds which are harmful to health. Olive oil has the maximum resistance to breakdown by repeated use, as reported in a study report published on http://preventdisease.com/news/articles/reusing_cooking_oil_ups_bp.shtml

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Considering, the health aspects, I was trying to make it a habit to avoid fried foods from hotels. The duo made me curious rather craving to try out the special Poori. I stuck around with the Dosa till the table was all to myself. “One Poori”, I told the waiter. I savoured the Poori in the same perspective as Humorist Tom Wilson saw failure “About the only time losing is more fun than winning is when you’re fighting temptation”.

Regarding the medicinal effects of alcohol, the man was partly right, if we go according to the information available in a site. Although, it does not ‘melt’ the bad cholesterol or LDL, it increases the good cholesterol or HDL. HDL helps in removing the extra cholesterol from the body. So in one way alcohol reduces the bad cholesterol. Foe’s foe is a friend? Before we draw a conclusion: the other side of the coin as per the site is

“For moderate drinkers, this is a nice benefit to that glass of wine after work, or that beer while watching the game. However, this is not a case of “more is better”. Excessive alcohol intake (which is anything over the moderate level) negates the health benefits of moderate intake by causing other, more ominous effects: high blood pressure, cardiac arrhythmia, stroke, enlargement of the heart, and even sudden cardiac death.

Although there are definite benefits of moderate drinking, the American Heart Association recommends that non-drinkers do not start drinking just to reap the health benefits

of alcohol. There are many other ways to naturally increase HDL cholesterol levels, including moderate exercise, weight loss, and a low-fat, low-cholesterol diet.”

Summing up, . After all we set out to enquire if alcohol has any medicinal value.

Courtesy :-

1) Wiki

2)http://preventdisease.com/news/articles/reusing_cooking_oil_ups_bp.shtml

3)http://www.essortment.com/family/cholesterolalco_saro.htm

4) Duo at the hotel

CHRONICLE OF A TRAIN JOURNEY

The EMU from Sullurpetta just entered Chennai station, I couldn't wait for the train to come to a halt, I jumped off to the platform. A confirmed berth in some train to Kerala was all I had in my mind.

I rushed through the crowd of commuters with my baggage to reach for the current reservation counter. I took a reservation slip, scribbled my details & entered 2623 as the train number. The number 2623 has got much significance in the lives of space techies working in VSSC, who travel frequently to SHAR. It is the number of the last train leaving Chennai central to Trivandrum.

The guy at the counter turned a sorry face on seeing my slip. He told that there are no seats available in any train going to Kerala today. The next day it was Onam in Kerala.

I wandered through the station like a geo stationary satellite which was ejected in the GTO but failed to reach the required apogee. What next? Was the question in my mind, but I was sure that it didn't have any logical answer.

Then came an announcement about a train to Allepey which will be leaving in a short while from Chennai station.

I rushed to the ticket counter to take a general ticket in the sole hope of finding a Ticket Examiner whom I could lure to allot me a berth in the train. It didn't take much time to realise that all my hopes were in vain as I found it difficult to bribe the Ticket examiner into getting a berth. People say that anything is possible in India if you have the money and the will to bribe. I had both, but that couldn't get me a confirmed berth. I just realised that India has changed.

Grabbing my baggage, I ran to the general compartment which I knew was my only way out of Chennai.

The view of the general compartment reminded me of the great train tragedy that we have learnt in history classes during our school days. People have filled the compartment as if sand in a jar. Every piece of space - seats, luggage racks, floor etc - in the compartment was occupied by passengers.

With not many options left, I squeezed into one of the general compartments.

There was acute shortage of three things inside the compartment - foot space, baggage space and breathing air. The atmosphere was so humid and the obnoxious smell of sweat was so intolerable, but it was just a trailer of the events that followed.

With great difficulty, I found some space to stand near the toilet corridor. The pungent smell of urea was so intolerable that I was cursing God for giving human kind these urinary skills - why the hell didn't he find out some better way to throw excess water out of our body.

After two hours into the journey, the rush subsided as the train reached the next station. Some free spaces started appearing on the floor and I rushed towards it. The torture that my legs and nostrils was subjected to was too much that I decided to sit on the floor, with my baggage on my lap, as it was pretty far from the toilets.

As the journey progressed, an old guy sitting near to me started a conversation with me. From his looks, it seemed that he was just out of some labour camp.

He enquired about my whereabouts and I replied that I am a scientist from ISRO and explained that I am back from SHAR after the launch campaign activities.

I could see his eyes propping out from his eye sockets. He was staring at me as if I was some uncouth, insane maniac trying to deceive him. I could understand his feelings as even I would have thought like this as you never expect to find a scientist from some premier institute sitting in the floor of general compartment while traveling on official duty.

It took me some time and lot of fundas to convince him that I was really a scientist. His expression of fear soon gave way to sympathy and he started abusing the government for treating us like this.

I explained to him that though we are eligible for traveling in flight, ISRO has decided not to do so to save money from the public exchequer. I went on to explain him that the campaign activities always coincided with some festival season like Christmas, Onam or Ramzan, so we end up traveling in general compartments.

The gyan that ISRO runs this big show in a shoe string budget was kind of relief for him as he thought tat all sarkari babu's waste tax payers money without any regret. He didn't hide his admiration towards ISRO for being sensitive towards taxpayer’s money.

Just as I settled down in the small floor space, I received natures call. In the fear that I may loose my sitting place, I tried to control myself. But as time passed, the pressure was building up in my bladders and I realised that if I am not going to go to the urinal now, the bladders are going to blast as in the big bang and I am going to live my rest of my life without them. Keeping my baggage as mortgage for the small piece of floor space that I got for resting my bum, I went to the bathroom.

The bathroom was in a state which was in no way different from the condition inside the compartment. To add to the filth and odour, it didn't have window glasses. From the instinct so typical of the Indian male, who can turn any roadside wall into a urinal, I released my pressure without worrying about the privacy that it had to offer. As I came out, I saw a lady waiting to go inside. As she opened the door and realised that it didn't have any window, she turned back. Poor lady, the price one has to pay for being the fairer sex. At that moment, I thanked god for creating me as a male.

As the train passed each station, the number of passengers kept doubling reminding me of the famous words of Intel founder " The number of transistors that can be placed inexpensively on an integrated circuit doubles approximately every two years "

It was not just the passengers, but their baggage was also multiplying. Probably the baggage will be full of Onam gifts for their dear and near.

With great astonishment I noticed that people always found space inside the compartment no matter how.

Another ten hours of journey passed, without sleep, without getting a chance to stretch your legs, without having food. As the train approached Allepey station, I tried to getup and found that my whole body was aching due to the unconventional way in which it was folded and made to sit during the course of the journey. By the time I came out of the compartment, the odour of the compartment had transfused into my body. The dust from Chennai to Allepey had accumulated over my skin. I couldn't catch a glimpse of the new me as the compartment was devoid of the luxury of a mirror.

I walked to the taxi stand and tried to take a taxi back home, but the driver refused to take me in. The looks on his face made me realise that I have become an aam aadmi - the cattle class..yes a cattle class scientist...