dreams of grandeur

This is about Xian, China.

The hall is huge. Very wide, and twice as long. The ceiling, so high that even though there are over two hundred people inside here at the moment it just swallows up their words, dimming them to a dull murmur, like a distant waterfall.
Everybody is looking at the men in the pits. Terracotta men. Warriors whose weapons — spears, swords, bows and arrows — are no longer in their hands. Some of them are whole but most wear signs of their battle with time, missing bits of nose, ear, chest, leg; leftover smudges of once-bright colour.
They’re tall men, of noble bearing. You know it just by the expressions on their faces — chins up, looking squarely at whatever the future might bring. They stand in neat rows, protecting the tomb of Emperor Qin Shi Huang, who became the ruler of China in 246 BC.
Emperor Qin is credited with building a unified law-abiding nation — he defeated six kingdoms and built the first version of the Great Wall of China. He survived three attempts on his life and perhaps, as a result of them, became obsessed with the idea of death.
Some say that he died looking for Peng Lai, a mythical land of immortality, inhabited by the undying. He started the construction of his mausoleum and the Terracotta Army that was to accompany him in his battles in the afterlife, several years before his death.
The army was discovered fairly recently, in 1947, when a farmer digging a well in his field found pieces of terracotta arms and legs.

Imagining the possibilities
Inside Pit 1, listening to the guide’s story, it’s easy to let the imagination wing its way on a flight of fancy.
After the first few thousand warriors were excavated, the uncovering of the remainder was halted until a way could be found to continue the process without submitting them to the ravages that occur when they come in contact with air.
Looking at the row of warriors peter into a bank of soil, covered with tarpaulin, it’s easy to picture hundreds, nay, thousands of sombre-faced warriors standing in the dark, dank underground all the way to the tomb, about a kilometre away.
The imagined picture lends greater grandeur to what I actually see before me.

Old world charm
The Terracotta warriors maybe the reason why Xian figures on almost every tourist itinerary to China, but it’s not all there is to this city. Xian was once the starting point of the Silk Road, known as Chang’an in those days. Traders from along the route, Persia, Afghanistan, the Middle Eastern countries, came to live here, giving rise to the city’s Muslim Quarter, a tight knit group that exists even today, lending Xian its distinctive character.
Head here in the last of the evening light, so you can see the lights come on. Everyday is a festival here, with music and lights and dancing. Stalls that sell all kinds of foods, and nuts and souvenirs. Each step of the way you find something that catches your eye. Clay flutes that look like little pots. Crickets in tiny cane cages, like keychains — in Xian, the sound of the cricket is considered musical and brings luck. Don’t miss the ‘jing gao’, the rice cakes, and ‘shi zi bing’, the city’s famous parsemon cakes. Xian is also home to its distinctive dumplings — little doughy bundles of full of delicious meat and veggies, each bite soaked with flavour.
A tiny lane off Muslim Street leads to the local mosque. Here, the stalls come closer together and the bargaining is fiercer. Chinese kaftans and cheap cotton t-shirts compete for attention with antique silver and stone jewellery that is a unique mix of Chinese and Muslim designs. Narrow streets crisscross and run into one another, turning in on themselves in to a maze of bylanes.


A time for celebration
Walking out of Muslim Street, it feels like you’ve left behind a older century and entered a new one. Xian has the wide streets and well-behaved traffic that is typical of most Chinese cities. Broad sidewalks and boulevards encourage aimless strolls past the Drum tower and Bell tower at the city’s centre. Each inch of the monuments is lit with tiny yellow lights, looming in the night as the backdrop to so many Chinese kites snaking skywards through the evening breeze.
In the square between the two Xian landmarks, a boisterous celebration is on, celebrating the launch of a new energy drink. There’s music and contests and ice sculptures, and streams of melt water at our feet. I like the lemon flavour more than the orange, and as I nod my approval, I get offered a second; ‘Welcome to China’ says the beaming face attached to the hand extending it to me.
Suddenly the music changes to a more steady, urgent beat, and tall beautiful models walk on to the improvised ramp, their heels clicking in time with the music.

A slice of life
Xian’s two main streets cut the city into four quarters, like an orange, The Bell and Drum tower like the pits in the centre. Heading east down Main Street, I walk past the more modern shops, the McDonalds and the KFCs, the international brands that are booming in a China where suddenly everybody has more money to spend on clothes and eating out. And then all of a sudden are the souk-like bylanes. Offshoots from the streets full of designer labels that meander into no where — displaying women’s knick knacks like hair clips and cosmetics on one side, and fresh meat and seafood and nuts on the other — and beckon to you in with the friendly babble that your can hear from far away.
It’s these little surprises that make Xian the sort of place where you want to finish off the main sightseeing spots on your agenda quickly, so you can spend the rest of your time walking around, exploring. It tempts you to stop and watch the kites soaring in the sky, to listen to the haggling at the shops, watch the musician’s fingers fly over the holes in his clay pot flute, to sip a beer sitting at the park benches and take a late night walk on the lit ramparts of the city walls.
It also makes you wish you were in the city on a Wednesday, so you could find out for yourself if the rumours you heard of boisterous noisy cricket fights held during the weekly market in the Muslim Quarter that could put the cock fights of old to shame are true.

A version of this was published in the Hindustan Times on December 6

see what I saw

After eight hours of crouching by the side of the Taj, scouring its left profile, picking out every wart (there were few), examining every window, every corner, seeing the front was overwhelming.
I’ve looked at this facade so many times before. Quick glances while walking in; slow examinations while standing at the seafront promenade engrossed in conversation; complete awe when I saw it in the distance, from the harbour ferry coming back to Gateway. Its bright façade looming in the smoggy, orange night; a solid block of light in Mumbai’s twinkling coastline.
I looked at that facade again that night. Darkened. Slowly, as the fact that the naval commandoes had managed to push the terrorists to the rear left corner of the building sank in, a light or two went on in some rooms. Some occupants (they’re hostages now, my brain interjected) were waving at their windows, seeking the attention of the firemen already setting up their ladders to evacuate as many as they can.
It was an incongruous sight. Frightened, harrowed faces framed at windows that looked into comfortable rooms. Tasteful fabric and classy furnishings witnessing their fear, smelling their sweat.
Towards the left of the front façade, no lights went on. But the windows were lit in a golden glow there as well, this one dancing in the still night. (It was a very still night. I remember being surprised by that again and again during that night. Maybe the import of what was happening, weighed in on everything). A fire set by grenades that was put out by the seven, eight, nine fire engines that showed up; only to flame up again with every loud explosion that shook the silent night.
The road in front of the Taj has scorched patches at periodic distances, where grenades were dropped. The windows of a car are shattered. (Only one; why didn't more break?) .
A man in a white shirt walks over the scorched patch I’m staring at. He’s talking on the phone, coordinating the rescue efforts or something. Maybe he’s a hotel official, maybe a cop. As he walks, he looks up at a lit window where a woman and a girl are waving a white handkerchief. They want to be rescued and are trying to catch someone’s eye. They’ve been noticed, but no one has the time to stop and reassure them that their turn will come and their nightmare will get over. The man spots them and waves back, without a break in his stride.


In the morning, I was thirsty and my ankles hurt. So much.
Not my knees, from crouching behind a pile of concrete paving blocks all night. From crouching, as I moved slowly in the dark.
Not my butt, from sitting constantly on the pavement. Getting up every now and then to stretch my legs, to try to see more. But mostly concentrating on staying out of the way of the operation and being a mute witness.
Not my eyes, from staring nonstop. Trying to adjust to the night and see more. From blinking less. From seeing wave after wave of cops, armymen, commandos go in and, some minutes and gunshots later, the return trickle of injured men.
Not my ears, which had just learnt to distinguish the sounds of an AK-47 shot from that of a pistol or a rifle. That rang with the sounds of the periodic grenade blasts, slowly learning to judge the distance and direction more accurately.
My ankles.
I remember cursing the flatmate’s cat. Two days before, he’d bit me in the left heel. I maintained that he was having a nightmare and it was an involuntary reaction, cause one second he was asleep, the next he bit me, and then he was asleep again. But during that vigil outside the Taj, I cussed him as I stood there, shifting weight from my tired right foot to the left, and then back again immediately, cause the left hurt too much.
I remember the sorrow and the distress of the crime reporters when they confirmed the news that Kamte, Salaskar and Karkare were dead. Heads collapsed into shaking hands and, for a moment, the silent night was even more silent. Then they were back at work: Discussing the ramifications of the deaths, the TV journos calling in their reports, in that screaming-to-be-heard-above-the-crowd-and-noise voice they use.


I remember the waiting. Most of that night was about waiting. Waiting to piece together what was happening in other parts of the city and understand the magnitude of the attack. Waiting for the next grenade to be thrown. Waiting for the next round of firing. Waiting for the next injured man to be rushing out of the Taj, waiting for the next batch of hostages to be freed, waiting for the naval commandos, waiting for the firemen, waiting for the NSG, waiting far the tear gas, waiting, waiting. Waiting for it to be over.
I remember having our hopes pinned on the NSG. Wait till they get here, then it’ll be over in a couple of hours. They’ll be here at daybreak, and then the terrorists won’t have any place to run.
I was looking at a pigeon sleeping on a window of the Taj all night. I realised it was daybreak when I discovered that many more pigeons were now sharing his perch. Just minutes before dawn the NSG commandos, in their crisp black, had slunk into the Taj. Half an hour went by; there were gunshots. Another hour, and some more intermittent firing. With each gunshot the pigeons took off from the Taj, circled the sky above it, and returned to the same spot. The naval commandos brought in more ammo, more tear gas. More time.
At around 8:30 am, I decided to end my vigil. I wanted to see it through but I was tired, physically and mentally, and no longer so sure that with the NSG here it was just a matter of hours. My phone had been off all night, I knew people were worried. I went back.


ps. There are more things I remember. As I find the words for them, I’ll add them on.

pps. For C, who worried all night. See what I saw.

ascending to the clouds

Chinese cities are a lot like Indian ones. Always bustling and full of people. When you’re in a good mood, they seem vibrant and full of infectious energy, but when you’re tired, they’re noisy and exhausting and all you want to do is get away. It was on one such formidably sunny day in Shanghai that we slipped away to Wuxi for an overnight trip.
Wuxi is the home of the Lingshan Grand Buddha — an 88-metre-high bronze statue of Sakyamuni Buddha — the largest Buddha statue anywhere in the world. It was built only in 1996, but is already very popular not just among Buddhists, but other tourists as well. So you’re likely to encounter crowds here as well. But don’t worry, the serene and large grounds some how just swallow them up.
I couldn’t have asked for better weather when I visited. The sun hid behind the clouds and a light drizzle made the surrounding hillside cool and green. Standing beside the Maji mountain, facing the Taihu lake, the statue made for a majestic sight. But the best part was that it wasn’t the only thing there that caught my eye. At every step right from the entry to the 216 steps that lead up to the statue, there was yet another glimpse from the life of Buddha.
Like the massive bronze pillar, topped with a lotus bud, that you see, as soon as you enter. Four times a day, this opens up to the accompaniment of specially-composed music and a fountain show, to tell the story of Buddha’s birth. Or the statue of the laughing Buddha — if you manage to toss a coin into his mouth, you can be sure of good luck for the rest of the year.
There are engraved scenes from Buddha’s years of meditation in the forest, a temple for the faithful, and a 12-metre-high hand, an exact replica of the one on the statue, that you can pat and walk around for blessings.
But while the sights were fascinating, the best part was the secular nature of the place. It was both a pilgrimage for Buddhists and a sightseeing spot for tourists. There were people posing for photos and buying souvenirs. And there were those who knelt, shut their eyes and prayed. And still others, who came to sightsee, but stayed a little longer to light a few candles.

The long flight of stairs (216 steps) leading to the giant statue is called the ‘Ascending to the Clouds Route’.

The Lingshan Giant Buddha is 88 metres or 250 feet tall, which makes it about a 100 feet taller than the Statue of Liberty; Rubbing the toes of the statue brings good luck.

Turning a cylinder once is the equivalent to reciting the scriptures once. You can walk around the Sutra-turning corridor and turn the 108 cylinders to earn blessings.

The fountain show called the ‘Bathing by Nine Dragons’ takes place four times a day. While the rest of the pillar is bronze, the baby Buddha statue placed inside the lotus is gold-plated.

The statue of the plump Maitreya Buddha and the babies tickling him are a traditional expression of people’s wishes for a happy and prosperous future. Managing to toss a coin into his mouth brings luck.

An engraving that shows how Buddha meditated under a Bodhi tree for seven days and nights, suppressing the inner devils.

During the construction, when the hand was left sitting at the site for a while, people began burning incense to the hand and rubbing it to show their devotion. Seeing its popularity, the administrators left the palm there and a cast a new one for the statue.
A version of this was published in the Hindustan Times on September 28.

the boatman's song

As a 12-year-old, Venice had made a great impression on me. The stone foundations loomed straight out of the water, music pervaded the canals, and there were arched bridges everywhere. I liked nothing better than standing on a bridge, head hanging down, watching the boats go under and out of my vision, listening to the songs of the gondoliers.

Earlier this month, I revisited that memory. Standing atop a bridge, looking at the reflection complete the arch and make a circle in the water. And the line of boats floating through that circle, making the reflection ripple. But the music was different. A Chinese boatman’s song, its cadence like a heartbeat, falling and rising with a reassuring regularity.

That weeping willow-lined canal, and the old houses beside it, is part of the Venice of the East. The name belongs to the city of Suzhou and the small townships around, that are well known as the few remaining water townships in China. But development and progress have taken the water out of Suzhou, leaving behind only the ancient private gardens and tall, modern buildings.

It is only in smaller townships like Zhou Zhuang and Tong Li that fragments of an old way of living have been lovingly preserved. Though often you wonder if the preservation has come at a harsh cost — the houses along the canals have become shops, selling painted likenesses of the town, flutes, jewellery, tea sets, and the locally grown Grandma’s Tea. There are new houses being built along the canal, but they’re mostly vacation condos, part-time homes for the rich of Shanghai.

But, then again, if you look around carefully, you’ll find that under the veneer of commercialisation, life does continue in the old way. In the way the lady at the teashop scurries to her house in a back alley to fetch fresh snacks; in the older, nuder boats that you spot in side canals, so different from the ones ferrying tourists up and down. And long after you’ve left, the boatman’s melody will replay in your head, and you’ll know that it’s rising and falling cadence has always been that way.

A version of this will be published in the Hindustan Times tomorrow

My cat, the goldfish

My cat has schizophrenia.Here, right out the outset, let me clarify that he isn't really my cat. He belongs to my flatmate. But since she only wakes up at 11 am, and he likes to have his first meal at 7 am, he's adopted me as his primary food provider. I suspect that's my only role in his life. Though I'm also occasionally required to scratch him, and sometimes, be scratched. But all in good time.

To go back to where I started, he's one of the most multifaceted people I know. He's one part cat and one part dog. There's also some goldfish and ostrich thrown in for good measure. Just to avoid repetition, I suppose. I also think he's gay. He lives in a house with three women who fawn over him (though one only from a distance), yet he's happiest when there's a man in the house. He's also quite the slut, believes in sharing the love with all new men who come into the house. None of the catlike being snooty and being picky for him. But I guess that's also the dog part of him making him all affectionate. (Except of course with the people who provide him food and shelter; us he takes for granted with a healthy dose of the disdain that is otherwise missing in his relationships.)

He has an extremely short memory. Leave the house for a few days and he'll forget you ever existed. Every time I come back from a trip, I have to be prepared to have my advances jilted. He only begins to recollect faintly my role as the regular supplier morning time food when the next 7 am rings around. But it get's shorter, his memory, to a goldfish-like five seconds. So flatmate can use the same red string to distract him and draw him out of the room, again and again. No matter how many times the door slams shut on his face, the silly billi falls for the red string ploy every single time.

When he gets bored of that game, we play hide and seek. He burrows his head under my bedsheet and feels well hidden. Only until his very exposed and gigantic ass (it's about 5 times the size of his head) is thwacked. But does he learn? Oh no, the ostrich in his blood doesn't let him. So back he'll go, head burrowed under the roommate's bedsheet this time, feeling all secure and well hidden. Right until the point when he jumps up in surprise when his ass is thwacked again. And then he'll turn his big round eyes on you, looking betrayed, accusing, "You peeped. The sheets are transparent? You have x-ray vision!"

But hey, I'm not complaining. He's one helluva cat. A handsome cat, all puss-in-bootish, especially at night when his black pupils swell to fill his eyes. And he's got enough personality to fill a house with. A big house. With two bedrooms, a giant hall, and a roomy kitchen, which are all empty 'cept for me right now. I think I would consider bouncing off the walls if he didn't take care of that chore for me. Though he usually does that at 3 am, our sleep cycles being completely at odds.

(He sleeps till 3 am. Wakes up, starts bouncing into things and streaking across the house. Stays up till his morning meal. Then disappears, only to make a guest appearance whenever he needs water, food, or a human leg to rub against. He occasionally deigns to meow at old crows.)

Photo courtesy Charles

the Fellowship of the Wall

When we set out there were four. But one by one, my companions dropped behind, daunted by the seeming endlessness of our path, the steepness of the hurdles, the unflagging manner in which they just kept coming in our way.
One was lost in the very beginning. Daunted by the harsh sun beating down on the unprotected mountaintop. Another dropped out just past the halfway mark; spirit unflagging, but the body demanding rest. My third companion gave me company for long. But at last, she too fell by the way, gasping out her parting words, “So. Many. Big. Steps.”

So many big steps
That statement from Rainy, my friend in Beijing, who came with me to the Great Wall, had to be the understatement of the trip. “So many big steps” could not even begin to describe our attempt to walk the Great Wall (though why the act of going up and down the stairs that make up the Wall is called walking, I don’t know).
Surely, there would have been bits where the Wall dipped before climbing again, where the steps must have led down, instead of up. But I don’t remember these bits. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t climbing, my eyes set at the last tower that I’d promised myself I would reach. A time when I wasn’t surprised when the baby steps that I was climbing three at a time, suddenly changed into an enormous boulder (a big step in Rainy’s lexicon) that I had to clamber over.

In the beginning, it’s always easy
As is usual with these things, at first I had no idea just what exactly I’d let myself in for. And there were absolutely no hints.
There are four access points to the Great Wall around Beijing that are open to the public. The most popular is Badaling, two hours from the city, well conserved and in some ways the newest, since it’s constantly being made safer and more comfortable for tourists. But I wanted old stone, really old stone. So I went to Mutianyu, a less popular and hence less developed, and so for me more fascinating, section of the Wall. The drive itself, through beautiful countryside and mountain views, convinced me that I’d made the right choice.
We stopped on the way to buy the biggest, juiciest peaches I’ve ever seen, the colour of winter sunsets. And fresh nuts of all kinds — macadamia and hazelnut; chestnuts and walnuts of three kinds — roasted to crisp perfection. There were several little roadside restaurants, the Chinese equivalents of highway dhabas I imagine, with little fishponds where you could catch your own meal, and I pre-picked the one where we would stop for lunch on the way back.
At Mutianyu, a ropeway took us to the entry point into the Great Wall. Without breaking into the slightest sweat, or straining my little-used muscles at all, I was atop one of the greatest wonders of the world, the Great Wall. So excuse me for thinking that the rest would be just as easy.

Knowing when to stop
Just being on top of the Wall isn’t enough, one has to ‘walk’ it. Since the five people who came before us had started walking to the left, I obviously chose to go right. As we made our way to the first tower, it seemed as though the sun had decided to concentrate all its power into a single beam focused right on us. Taking cover in the tower, my companions pressed for a break, but I egged them on. It didn’t help that a cheery little lady selling chilled beer, juice and water, sat under an umbrella by the tower, looking calm and not-sweaty. I blame her completely for the first dropout from our fellowship; she swayed my mother with the promise of shade and cold juice.

Depleted, but not beat, the three who were left pressed on. Another tower came and went; and another. A boarded-up guard’s hut. And pretty Luna from France, leaning against the wooden wall, reading. The Moroccan man and his pregnant Belgian wife, slowly climbing the stairs, resting in the tower.
The towers were tiny oases of shade, community spots where you didn’t need to speak a common language to get along; just that feeling of “so many big steps” writ large in the wan smiles you exchanged was enough to build a sense of camaraderie, the sense of a shared experience.

Reaching the top
I kept climbing mechanically, my hand trailing along the wall, as though touching the surface could give me a sense of the years it had stood. The more I concentrated on the details, the lesser I noticed the fact that I was still climbing, or that I was now alone. I marvelled at how green the moss was, growing in the gaps between the large stones of the wall. The way the stone steps seemed to change colour depending on the angle at which the sunlight hit them.
When I finally did reach the top, with the sign stopping visitors from going any further, I’d somehow forgotten that I’d been climbing. But only until I turned around and saw the wall undulate on the mountainside behind me. Then there was nothing for it but to find a shaded spot and marvel at the distance I’d come, and how little it was compared to the length I could see stretch out before me in the distance.

Not everything that goes up, comes down
The return should have been all downhill. After all, what goes up, must come down, right? Not with the Great Wall. I can’t quite explain the physics of it, but I swear on the beautiful linen skirt I bought on discount in Shanghai (for about one fourth what it costs here), at the Great Wall, you climb up to go down.
Even so, going back didn’t take as much time, gathering my fallen comrades along the way, telling other sweaty climbers that yes, that climb was definitely worth it. But if you thought the adventure was over, think again. To go back down from the mountain, you have several options. The cable car or the ropeway. Or the one that we took, tobogganing down a long slide that snakes through the mountainside right to the bottom. Just plant your bottom on the tiny rubber cart, grab on to the lever that is both your brake and accelerator, and remember to lean into the turns!

A version of this was published in the Hindustan Times on August 14.

Decked up

From the moment I get into a taxi and pull out of the Beijing Airport, all the signs are there. From the red flags fluttering on poles along the expressway, welcoming participating teams, to the five rings painted on the main lane, restricting it for Olympic vehicles only. Beijing is clearly a city gearing up to host the 2008 Olympic Games.

Olympic flags line the streets

The main lane is retricted for Olympic cars only.
Most people follow the rule

All construction in this fast-growing city is at a standstill for the Games, the sites cordoned off with neat facades. Like a soldier dressed in a new uniform, the creases neatly in place, the city too is decked up – manicured lawns line the roads, hedges are pruned just so. Fully-grown trees have been transplanted from nurseries to the sides of roads, propped up by tripod-like supports. And it seems like all the flowers in Beijing have conspired to bloom just now, to wow the crowd of visitors here for the Games.

What size tree you want?

Tasteful flowers everywhere

There’s no sign of the dreaded traffic I’ve heard about. On even dates, only cars with even number plates ply on the roads, odd numbers on odd dates. The off days of working people across the city have been staggered across the week, so that on any given day, there are fewer people on the roads. And in offices across the city, employees have been encouraged to take their annual vacations during the Games. A couple I met at the airport, practising Buddhists, were on their way to India, on a pilgrimage to Varanasi and Bodh Gaya. They could stay a week or a month; their office was okay with both.

Posing with the Fuwa

The Fuwa, the five cheery mascots of the Games, are everywhere. In the foyers of malls and shopping centres, with little children posing next to life sized figures. And on keychains and bags and scarves and any kind of souvenir that you could possibly want at the many Olympic Flagship Stores in the city. There are even miniature working models of the Torch to be had, but they cost a pretty penny. Looking for a bargain, I wander off a branch of the bustling Wangfujing Walk Street and find myself a Fuwa t-shirt for just 20 RMB.

The sheer variety of Olympic souvenirs is overwhelming

At Tiananmen Square, last minute preparations are still on. I watch wonderstruck as a large crane gingerly lifts a single flowerpot at a time, placing it in its rightful place in the Olympic logo taking shape right before my eyes. Next to it is a replica of the Nest, the impressive Olympic Stadium.

I was impressed by the precision of the exercise

the nestplica!

As I look around, a policeman walks up to me, warning me to hold my bag closer in the crowded Square. He points out the police booth, where I can go if I need assistance. And he’s not the only one willing to help out. There are volunteers everywhere; only some speak English, but all are ready to engage in a game of dumb charades and lend a hand if they can.

When the sun sets, the faint smog hanging over the city glows lightly orange. The lights come on, and I spot the clock outside the National Museum, counting down the hours to the 2008 Olympic Games in bright yellow numbers.


A version of this was published in the Hindustan Times today.