Born Free!

I recall my days in the forest of north Bengal in India where I wandered merrily with my mother. My father died of snake bite long back when I was just two years old. Since then my mother killed game for me and fed me until I was trained to be the predator. The apex predator that is. 

It was such a joy to chase, hunt and feed on my prey each time. I was just four years old semi-adult predator in the wild and ruled my territory pompously alone with all other animals fearing my presence and humans, flocked in groups, dying to get a glimpse of my mighty appearance. They found it phenomenal. They clicked my pictures and talked about me even after I had disappeared into the thickets. I was enjoying every bit of my kingly existence.

One day a group of hunters came down to my neighbourhood slyly and shot my mother point blank. She groaned for nearly half-an-hour and eventually gave up in the hands of those cruel hunters called “humans”. They carried her away with them. I know now what they must have done with her shining layer of the skin. Her teeth that were as dead as her body. Her claws that could not any longer shred the skin right off the bone of her assassins. 

They do it for some paper like thing called “money”, I heard humans buy happiness with money. They make pelts and door rugs with our fur and some life saving medicines from our body parts to cure their diseases, so that they live longer and kill more tigers!

In the beginning, I was doomed and dejected. I felt sick for not eating for consecutive five days. I missed my mother being around whenever I would go back to my childhood habitat under a big old banyan tree. Bit by bit, I gathered myself to get used to living on my own. I changed my abode into a small cave hidden in the tick bushes. I promised myself not to fall prey to humans, to be watchful at all time and sternly attack in case I feel endangered in any way. 

It was the onset of summer and I was roving to reach the nearby water hole to quench my thirst after a heavy meal. I heard a call, the calls kept on being repeated at short intervals, it was rather a deep - throated roar of some tigress, “probably in need of some sort of help”, I thought, and went on looking for her into the undergrowth. Here, I must tell you that by now, I was a fully grown adult, an excellent swimmer and look extremely elegant and intimidating in my striped coat while patrolling my territory and if I roar, the creatures run for their lives, the monkeys and the sambars call at the top of their voice to alarm other creatures. Standing in awe and disbelief, I came across a fully grown attractive tigress who, after 10 minutes of growling, emerged from the underbrush. It was a delight to see her walking up to me; there is no denial of the fact that it was ‘a love at first sight’ situation for both us. This fascinating love affair bestowed us with our four little cubs and I still remember how my two daughters resembled their mother. She was as caring as my other, feeding her cubs and protecting them from every little vulnerability; we were happy and contented.

Then came the cursed day of my destiny when my wife got killed and I was shot in one of my legs by none other than a hostile human stalker. I managed to somehow escape his grapple but my wounds failed to heal. Days and months passed away while I, sitting behind a rock, would curse my poor destiny; I could no more hunt for myself. I was turning into a gruesome livestock-eater, a future man-eater, so to speak. Yes you heard me right. My legs failed me, I was starving for the past one week and could not help but attack as soon as the farmer’s cattle came browsing within my precinct. By the time I was in my senses and my hunger was in control, the few gory parts of the bodies were lying on the ground. It was unlikely of my predator character, but I was helpless.

I did not know where my cubs were, whether alive or dead. I was hoping for my wounds to heal and again start tracking, chasing and hunting my games down but fate had some other plans.

I slept too long one day or may be several days, so long and so deep that I did not realize that I got trapped and taken somewhere full of those tiny humans and less of trees and bushes. I felt pathetic, I was in a barred enclosure sort of a setting, it had a small pond and a few shrubs to hide the cemented ground, no other animals or tigers were found in my vicinity, I was chained to my wounded leg, I was alone and deprived of my freedom. I now know how they had drugged me to take me to this place called “zoo” that day fearing that I would resist and attack them. I wish I could, in reality, bite into their collar bones, tear the flesh apart, see them draining and dying out bit by bit. I wish I could avenge the death of my mother, wife and all those big cat kinfolks falling prey to the hands of these grimy gluttonous creatures on earth, God’s greatest creation humans.

Every day crowds of visitors come and stare at me. I hate to be stared at like that. Some of them even pester me by pushing sticks or rods into my cage. If only I were free, I would have taught them a good lesson. How I want to could go back to my jungle home and find my cubs, who I am sure now, if alive, have learnt how to hunt and be the king of my territory or rather their territory. I do not want to be a national animal for you, humans, I AM A TIGER, and I too have a life, diseases and my own miseries and yet have no medicines or money to treat them. I just want to be free and wild.  

Bhangarh - The Lost Kingdom

Watching horror movies and reading spooky ghost stories were still considered normal in my family until I decided to actually travel a 1300 kilometers to get to the den of the devils in Rajasthan. People claim to have heard the tinkling of payals, seen the ruined market come to life at this place I am talking about, one of the most haunted places in India, Bhangarh Fort. I must admit that being a horror story addict, these narratives were something that drew me there.

Between Jaipur and Alwar in Rajasthan, Bhangarh is a beautiful and tranquil landscape at the edge of the Sariska Tiger Reserve, now known for its ruins of the then seventeenth century kingdom.

It was on the day of Holi sometime in March, I headed for Bhangarh in the morning from Alwar, where I stayed. On our way to Bhangarh, was the long empty roads convoyed by the morning sun playing hide and seek, peering through the branches of the trees, and not to miss those small little hamlets beside the roads. I was already in a different world. I took a small muscle-relaxing stop-over at Ajabgarh village and luckily got hold of a firmer who gave me a half-an-hour shelter at his cottage, a typical traditional rajasthani mud cottage with a thatched roof with multi-hued hand painting on its exterior walls, so beautiful!

People in Bhangarh are predominantly poor and hardworking. The area does not have electricity and needless to mention its scarcity of water. Wild animals coming out of the forest frequently prey upon their livestock; still they don’t complain about anything and are enthusiastically happy about their co-existence with the wild animals and well, the legendary non-living beings of Bhangarh. I, for the first time ever, was up, close and personal with the local folks talking to me and more importantly, treating me like an empress and offering me their mouth-watering daal bati churma. I was elated. Asked about the spirits of Bhangarh, they sniggered, “Bhangarh mein har saal kuchh log marte hain. Unke bhoot toh yahin par rukenge na!” They believed that the princess Ratnavati has taken birth somewhere else and that the fort and the empire of Bhangarh is waiting for her return to put an end to the curse. Amazing analysis, I thought and resumed my rest of the journey that I was, now, waiting with bated breath, to conclude.

“Staying after Sunset Is Strictly Prohibited in the Area”- the signboard stated, at the main gate of the Bhangarh Fort. Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) was supposed to setup an office in the fort but the government did not dare to do that and the nearest office of ASI was around a kilometer away from the ruins of Bhangarh.

The pujari of the Hanuman temple at the entrance of the ruins, declared, “Jiske grah kharaab hote hain, usko bhoot dikhta hai.”

There have been deaths. ASI reasoned it out as “people try to enter the ruins from the hills at night, the boulders are loose and they fall!”

As I entered, the ruins of Dancers' Haveli and Jauhari Bazar were there to allure us with its magnificent charm. Further down was the Gopinath Temple, perhaps, first of its kind, as I had not seen such a time defying architectural brilliance. Then came the Royal Palace at the farthest end of the fort area followed by the Palace of Prostitutes and Shrine of the Muslim saint, Sayyed Ji. The arches, the walkways of the ruined city leading me to the Royal Palace charmed me so much that I almost forgot where I was, supposedly, amongst  supernaturals!

More than half a dozen temples were there inside the sprawling premises. I kept wondering how ghosts stay somewhere so full of temples! However, surprisingly, except for the hanuman temple, there were no deities in any of them and that was something bizzare.

One of the popular myths says that the Bhangarh was cursed by a tantrik who was in love with the beautiful princess Ratnawati of Bhangarh. The tantrik added a love potion to a bowl of oil that belonged to the princess, but his hopes were dashed (literally) when Ratnawati hurled the bowl on a wall that collapsed and buried him. While dying he cursed the kingdom of Bhangarh saying that the city would be dead overnight without any rebirth in the destinies, and that’s what happened next. I was excessively ruminating on the myths and needless to mention that I started feeling a little cold and uneasy standing in between the two broken parapets which was once Ratwati’s bedroom. The sky was getting overcast and the boundless landscape of the uninhibited town ahead of me devoid of any human being apart from myself felt unnerving, for a moment. I took the almost ruined stairway and rushed, at a lightning speed to the sprawling green pasture ahead of the fort and that’s when a secluded chhatri (umbrella) on the hill top caught my attention against the great Aravalli Range stretching for miles. I recalled the myth told to me a while back that the tantrik used to stay there and kept a watch on Ratnawati. Standing in the shade of a big banyan tree in the backyard I gradually felt unruffled and the splendor, the peace and the serenity of the place sunk into me. I heard myself whispering, “SPECTACULAR!”

It was already 5 o’clock in the evening and I was playing a wild wild photographer clicking pictures of every nook and corner of the place. My wrist-watch came for the rescue and alarmed me to get out before it was five. No I was not ready, not because I had not meet whom I came for – the spirit, but because I was filled with an overwhelming emotion and transported to Ratnawati’s era and yes I was not ready to come out so simply, but I had to when asked by the one and only janitor-come-security officer-come-care taker of the fort, “Madam, 5 baje ke baad rukna allowed nahi hain, andhere mein yeh jaga thik nahi hain.”

No, Bhangarh was not ghostly, rather incredibly peaceful, it was haunting rather than haunted, and startling only in the sense that it was hard to accept that, other than a few locals, I was the only traveler.

Bhangarh Fort was designed to impress. And even if you are not a architecture or history lover like me, I strongly recommend you to come, at least once, to this abandoned town; the ruins are sure to give you a strange feel of a lifetime, unlike any other forts in Rajasthan and I bet you will be impressed like never-before! For those who are scrunching their teeth already and wondering “all this supernatural stuff…so all puffed up”, did you know the spirits keep a watch at Bhangarh even during the daytime and they can only be felt if one believes in their existence? Don’t believe me? Get to Alwar, then take the broken road to Sariska, it’s around 90 kilometers from there. The closest train station is Dausa, 8 km away from Bhangarh. Not for the faint-hearted, remember. Good Luck!

Mumbai and the Opium Called Love

Last one month I could not travel much except for attending a family function at my native place. My hands were feeling itchy, so was my mind to write something different this time. I stay in Mumbai but lately realized that I have never written a line about this fascinating city where almost all my dreams came true. However, every time I would attempt to write something, my mind would be over-cast with Ananya’s recent developments in life. Not that I was too curious to know more about what she shared with me, but somehow this “Ananya” topic turned all my writing thoughts aside. By the way, Ananya (Name changed) is my colleague, in fact a friend luckily found at work. She is from some small town in Karnataka and held more gray matter in the head than me, a metro city brat. We gossip at the cafeteria, laugh aloud over silly jokes, work in close collaboration on a very interesting social media project. So, the bottom-line is we are like-minded and we share an awesome “working friendship” sort of a rapport with no expectation for benefits. She confides in me many a time whenever she is mad at our boss and so do I whenever I am upset at work but we never discussed life, personal life, so to speak until she broke into tears the other day while telling me that she had got divorced two years back over some dowry issues and that's when she decided to come to Mumbai for work and was currently going through another excruciating phase in life. Ananya’s ever smiling charming face was firmer those days. She hardly used to talk or pay attention to any silly talks in office. She was working harder than before. She changed a lot since the time I came back from my native place.

Here in Mumbai, her story started and here is where it all ended:

Roads were packed and disorderly boulevards, with cars and autos, with humans rushing everywhere. No footpaths. The damp streets reflect lights - streetlights, headlights, neon lights, very interestingly mumbainized but failed to catch Ananya’s fancy while sitting in the cool cab. Flashy five-star hotels and residential towers amongst slum clusters. Few minutes in the overbearing humidity of Mumbai and she was soaked in sweat and discontent. The parking space of her new rented apartment in Mumbai had too many cars, not to miss a spanking new white colored Audi beside a shabby old Alto. She was already cursing herself for the whole idea of shifting to this chaotic city from beautiful Bangalore, she could not help but hurriedly took the lift to the sixteenth floor.  Her dream of settling down for the rest of the life here kept on diminishing with every passing hot and humid second. She was more eager to take a cold shower and ease her nerves.

Next she recalled feeling lightheaded. Her heart pounded wild, she worried if others could hear. She was on her first team outing at a resort in Thane and there she opened up, all her inhibitions locked in for some time, she instantaneously fell into place with the new set of people, got to know their perspectives of life, mumbaiwalla life, rather. Later that evening more than a few butterflies felt in her stomach. Ananya was actually getting along well with her fresh hindi-speaking Mumbaikar group, especially, with one member of the team “Saket” (name changed) who is a Delhite brought up partially in Mumbai and had mostly worked in Noida office before getting transferred to Mumbai 6 months back and yes, he is an amazing acoustic guitar player; he made Ananya feel more comfortable than she anticipated. Happiness was the mood of the night.

Office, home, cooking and her old love interest in writing continued as a routine for the next few months. And then one day, she received a text on a social networking site from Saket, “hey, what’s up, thought to go out this weekend, friends are all tied up, joining in for dinner on Sunday?” “Wow, he is asking me out”, she exclaimed in joy. A Hindi expression she learned (it translates as: “love opened its arms”) best described what happened next. Ananya felt as if she needed him for air, air of freedom, air of existence, pollution notwithstanding. Instead of focusing on the silver lining that separated their lives (along geographical, racial and marital lines), she chose to focus on his overwhelming accent, mad energy and broad shoulders.

Whatever the inner calling was, her levelheadedness was firmer than she thought. The feeling became docile yet unwavering and his accent could not charm her any longer; her heart was square and yelling “I am not going to fall in love, okay!” One of the last times she saw him, they were sitting on the boulders by the sea, facing each other. The breathtaking sunset at the horizon and that far-fetched idiosyncratic desire called “love” laid its hand out in front of her. And there was this man Ananya could have loved.

Little did Ananya know that a bit of her was devastated until she was dreadfully into tears, inviting hundreds of eyes, fixed at her senseless act of ugly crying at the Mumbai Central Station. She felt drained. Though, inexplicably, she did not die of grief or a collapsed heart. She holidayed. She blogged about her travel experiences. She took some amazing pictures of the sunrise at the beach to boast about. When Ananya came back, she worked harder. She made amazing friends. Ate vada pav million times and loved it. Ever since that day, Mumbai was her home. The minutes. The hours. The seaface. The impossibility and possibility. The sleeplessness. The extremities. The “bring-it-on” frenzy. Everything was hers. Mumbai had grown into her. 2 years consumed. Mumbai could not leave her, neither could she.

What Ananya knows now is that she stays and works in Bristol – with Project on-site team. She dreams of Colaba-Causeway and Bandra-Linking road with loads of stuffed shops squeezed into one tiny lane and cafes, the seaface of the Arabian Sea and the Juhu chatwalla. Seldom, she dreams of love. No pretensions. No protocol. She is living her life, Mumbai way in Bristol, on her own terms.

We spoke hardly for a few minutes after she moved yet I could realize how contended she was with her work and everything. Happiness is now the mood of her life. Cheers to Ananya, my friend!