Hear the Pipers play...

The most beautiful moments happen between destinations. Often unhurried and then again not even wanting to be found. So we sometimes stumble, may turn into a blind alley, or sometimes even roam around aimlessly and find something precious tucked away.  One rainy morning in Edinburgh, our first complete day there we visited the castle and with this slice of history in our pockets wandered into the sprawling palace gardens. A steady drizzle accompanied us everywhere, keeping pace as we walked on. From a distance we could hear the pure sound of pipes. It isn't uncommon to see the bagpiper on a street corner playing on his pipes uncaring of tourists walking past, unoffended by their lack of interest, unimpressed by their show of support.. He plays on..
But this sounded different from the ones perviously seen and heard.

We crossed over into Castle street and there in front of us was the source of this beautiful music- What looked like about 20 pipers playing in perfect symphony was an beautiful amalgamation of the sweetest of sounds, strangely hypnotic and soothing to the senses... We stood transfixed , and if they had walked we would have followed much like the famous pied piper, legend for leading a village of children to the sweet tune of his pipes.. We were easily in their sway..

The pipes play on..

The hoardings there said we were at the 'Ceilidh Culture - Easter Fair' . The smell of coffee wafted gently through the chilly morning air. It was a beautiful day with all the drama of impending rains.
I hold my coffee in one hand and take pictures with the other. Before long I decide to test the camcoder on my new phone, the only feature of interest to me. It works beautifully.

The Drums..

They played on and on. Some lingered, some walked on. It began to rain again.  With umbrellas dotting the street, all we could hear was the music, gorgeous and strong, gentle in parts, clear in others.. When the pipes were lowered the drums played on.

The Edinburgh Castle in the background..

In the background stood the majestic Edinburgh castle. It seemed like even the castle seemed to be watching , proud of its vintage position.

Sharing a lighter moment..

It all built up into a crescendo of sounds. And then it stopped.

That look of Concentration..

Only to start once again in a few minutes. They kept beats with their feet and we could hear them count at the beginning before loosing ourselves in the music...

Clearly not to everyone's taste :)

We stayed for a while, watched  a few performances and then left...
What remains is the video in my mobile and I still play it sometimes for the sweet nostalgia of hearing the pipers play.

Meena Venkataraman

To know more about the Ceilidh culture visit  their site

Scotland Joyride..

Close to six weeks back, we hopped across to Scotland. Two long weekends and a couple of days in between meant we had a good eleven days. Landing in Edinburgh one rainy day, we fell in love with the city. The clouds cleared for us and we hired a car and drove down, visiting loads of places along the way.
Inverness,  Lochness, Aberdeen, before flying down to Lerwick the capital of Shetlands.
A very long time back I watched this programme called the Shetland diaries on BBC.  Ever since that program was aired , I've wanted to go , and finally we were here. Shetlands is gorgeous in every possible way. Its where we truly were in the the midst of nature and the wildlife and birds is something out of the extraordinary :)..
So here you go.. Scotland Joyride! 

The Witches Market..

Guest post on India Bazars here... :)
Can also be found on Lonely Planet

Meena

The joys of summer..

For a while now I've been spying on garden activity. Officially summer is here and it has become a whole lot warmer. So warm that I can venture out without a coat and nothing can really beat that feeling. When I spy on my garden visitors its normally with a cup of tea in my hand , my mobile lying carelessly on the kitchen counter at which I gaze every now and then to make sure am doing okay on time. Of late my morning ritual has been super entertaining.
So the bird feeder is frequented by the likes of pigeons, magpies, sometimes even seagulls..
But I was pleasently surprsed when one day I found one of my furry friends stealthily make his way through the garden.

As I watched wondering what he was upto, he jumped across and got onto the bird feeder. :). You shouldn't be doing that Mr Squirril I though :).



My cheeky little friend then used his tail  as a grasp and swung himself upside down getting hold of all the seeds he could :). It was wonderful to watch.

When he was done, I left with a little chuckle. Ahh... The joys of summer!

-Meena Venkataraman

The great big Coorgi wedding..

A guest post for Pocket Cultures... Here! :)

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The Indian wedding is a splash of colour, a blur of reds, yellows, greens and dazzling gold. It is the finest advertisement of Indian hospitality with guests numbering in the hundreds, sometimes entire villages. This detail I am careful not to miss in any conversations about marriage here in London, for the sheer amusement of seeing jaws drop once the comprehension of the scale of the wedding hits the listener. The pageantry of the processions stays in the mind long after the wedding is over – the Mehendi, The Food, The Drink, the Dancing and then the innumerable rituals steeped in traditions and kept alive through the ages, handed down from one generation to the next.

Weddings vary in form and structure depending on the state the bride and groom are from. And so the ‘Indian wedding experience’ is as diverse as they come.

Most Indians grow up romanticizing marriage. The event is planned monetarily years in advance; family heirlooms put away, jewelry painstakingly made and collected. All of this culminates in a wedding extravaganza and then it’s over and the bride leaves over eyes full of tears and a wave of sad goodbyes as she moves to her new home. Traditionally the wedding would be arranged by the families of the bride and groom; the decision solemnized more by consensus among the heads of families rather than the choice of the bride and groom themselves. Once betrothed the wedding takes on a life of its own. But times have changed and weddings propelled solely on an element of choice seem to be on an increase.

I had the lovely opportunity to witness a traditional Coorgi wedding in the Southern Indian state of Karnataka. Once this beautiful land was called Kodagu and still is by the locals. But the name wasn’t easy to pronounce for the colonizing English and so was anglicized to Coorg. Of Rich soil and a very proud people, Coorg stands draped in the mountain mist much like a demure bride.

The natives of Coorg, the Kodavas, are a warrior class. Though the origins of the Kodavas are largely unknown, the earliest references have been found to date back to early Tamil Sangam Literature. Traditionally, the men are attired in a black coat called ‘em>Kupya. This is worn over a white dhoti. There is a theory that the ‘Kupya’ is a variant of the Greek ‘Toga’ and was assimilated into the local culture during the conquests of Alexander the great. A maroon and gold sash serves as a belt and completes the outfit. The men are known to carry a silver dagger called Peechekathand a knife called an Odikathi.

Left alone, the Traditional Indian garment of the saree is just a piece of cloth, and a very long piece of cloth at that. But yet again the Saree lends itself to versatility and the Coorgi’s have made it their own by draping it differently. The Saree is pleated behind and brought over the right shoulder; The Pallu is then secured in front. A scarf completes this elegant garment.

The morning of the wedding, we watched as a sleepy groom was hurriedly woken. The ritual of dressing him up unraveled before our eyes. His Kupya is white instead of the traditional black. A read sash is then tied around his waist.

The groom and his entourage of family and friends make their way to the mandap(wedding hall). We are welcomed by beautifully dressed flower girls.

We stop to watch the ritual of ‘Cutting of Banana Shoots’; A symbolic gesture as a mark of respect to the maternal sides of both families. It is usually done by the groom, a show of valor to prove himself worthy of one so pretty as the bride in question. There will be 3 sets of such cuttings – The first in honor of the bride’s maternal family; The second in respect of the maternal families of previous brides of yesteryears and the third in respect of the groom’s maternal family. This Coorgi tradition of honoring women folk is unique in a conventionally patriarchal Indian society.

The groom’s sister leads the way, a pot of water drawn from the auspicious waters of the river Cauvery and enclosed in a beautifully crafted basket balanced over her head. She would admit much later that it was a heavy weight to carry.

Later on she’s joined by the bride’s sisters each carrying a velaku (lamp), markers of auspicious beginnings. Together they lead the groom into the wedding hall where he joins the bride dressed in resplendent red. The air is thick with the smell of fresh jasmine garlands. Her saree we are told is a prized family heirloom handed down through the generations. She also wears a crescent moon shaped necklace called thekokkethathi.

The Coorgi wedding is unique in many ways. Unlike most there is no priest presiding over the ceremony. The couple is pronounced married by the parents, the gathering at the wedding bear witness to the happy union. The elders there then proceed to bless the bride and groom with the Hindu tradition of sprinkling of rice over their heads. The bride and the groom are then given spoons of milk.

Lunch which followed was a lavish affair. The most famous corgi dish is Pandhi curry (Pork).

Evening comes. Happy visions of the bride and groom walking away into the sunset surface. Hold your horses for there’s more to come. The bride is put to the test. She first has to break a coconut. Then she draws water from a well, and with the pot placed over her head tries to make her way into her new home. The groom’s family guarantees there no easy passage and amidst much singing and dancing block her from making her way to the door. The bride inches her way, slowly. She is accompanied by the groom’s sisters, probably symbolizing the forging of new relationships. The hypnotic rhythmic beats of drums and pipes, called Volaga(traditional Kodava music) fill the air, dancing forms merry against the blackness of the night. Everyone seems to be having their fill of the food and drink except for the poor bride who must focus on the task at hand.

And close to 5 hours since the ritual first started she finally arrives at the door step and steps in amidst much cheering. She is finally home.

Art imitates life they say and nothing speaks more eloquently of this fact that the Indian wedding. Over the past few days we were witness to remarkable customs and practices, preserved in time and symbolic of the Kodava ways of life, as part of their wedding. Here’s hoping that they survive the onslaught of change and are kept intact for future generations to see.

This is a guest post by Meena Venkataraman. Meena is from Bangalore, India where she lived before moving to London couple of years ago. An engineer by profession, she is also an artist and a freelance travel writer, both of which bring together creativity and her love for the outdoors. An avid travelled and a wild life enthusiast, Meena has travelled through much of India and the world. She blogs atTravel Tazzels.

A Game of Cricket in the English Countryside..

At some point, I reach for a cap. The sun can look innocuous, beguiling even, the temptation to feel the warm tingle on my skin overriding any caution of sitting out in the open for too long. We are here to watch a game of cricket. But for me cricket is only a backdrop (Shame on me , I can see the spouse frown :)). Don't blame me , look how beautiful it is around. When we entered Eynsford, we had to stop by the little river 'Darent', teeming with people, kids playing in the water, swans and duck merrily wading about, people picnicking on the Grass. Summer ravished, Eynsford had the prettiest pubs. We would enter one only to leave as it was too posh and not nearly as pub like as we would have liked it to be. Soon we were seated outside on the wooden benches so characteristic of this country. The
gentle breeze cool against the sun kissed afternoon. The boys didn't want to eat too heavy cause of the game at hand, but what was that to us:). To fore go a pub lunch would be a cardinal sin. I savor the Ravioli, but have to admit that I can't finish my portion inspite of a bet with S that I would. In my defence the portions were deceptively large!

We saunter back to the ground. I have a book, which remained unopened for most of the afternoon. The car is parked close enough. We sit in front of a tree , which seems to have come alive with spring, white petals rain down and I collect a few to accentuate my idleness :).



The game is about to begin and the ground where the action is about to unfold has been around since the 18 hundreds. The river hugs the ground , and beautiful weeping willows stand around and I remember Virginia Wolf - "On the further bank the willows wept in perpetual lamentation, their hair about their shoulders. The river reflected whatever it chose of sky and bridge and burning tree, and when the undergraduate had oared his boat through the reflections they closed again, completely, as if he had
never been"...

The Church spire stands tall , magnificently brown in a blur of green. As we watch a pair of mallards fly over the grounds. We discuss the mechanics of mallard flight. They could not have flown too far, probably just over the ground, we decide ; cause the mallards are relatively big birds and flying is an energy expensive operation...

Wickets fall and the game proceeds at a steady pace. The sun climbs further up. The boys join us having batted and we take a walk around the ground. This time we get a little more adventurous and jump into the river. The river is shallow , and we are fooled by the happy children fishing for tadpoles in its merry waters. We step in and the cold water is electric against my warm feet. I stay in just long enough to get pictures. Once outside I can feel the rush of blood, the invigorating cold waters sending tingles up my feet. We walk on the grass. Its soon time for tea and cakes and the boys take the field.



We decide to take a walk. The town itself is not very big. Big brown cows graze on the verdant green grass. They look happy. They turn into tiny specks as we walk up a small hill and then altogether disappear. More dramatic greens and yellows emerge into view. But first we must cross the railways tracks, where only moments ago A train seemed to have whizzed past. We approach cautiously. There really is nothing worth stopping for in sight. And we hop across quickly into the fields of gold. The horizon is a pale blue and theres not a cloud in sight. The Rape seed fields are gloriously yellow. I stop to smell them, and get some pollen on my nose and my friend laughs in amusement.
Rape Seeds are 'break crops' (rotational crops) and the name comes from the Latin word 'rapum' meaning turnip. We stroll over to the other side and then try to find our way round the hill, only to be thwarted in the attempt by a steep drop onto the motorway.



We walk right back along and take a differnt route down, as we discuss the absence of potential slythering threats in the English countryside. We have both travelled in the subcontinent, where snakes abound and the chances of provoking one of them into a bite in self defence by encroaching into their territory(like paddy fields) are plenty. This time around we are lucky and can find our way down.



We pass a Roman Bridge, a truely beautiful piece of architecture providing semi circular frames for the scenary beyond.



Between discussing the choice of being vegetarian (which can be sometimes hard to explain)
and other things of extraordinary importance we find our way to the grounds again. There still 20 odd overs for the game to get done and we begin to count it down.



Every now and then the ball would fall into the river and would have to be ferried out resulting in frequent interruptions of play. A bunch from the fielding team stand around the water, and then someone is brave enough to get into the icy cold river :). Some stand and watch from afar. It starts to get chilly as evening approaches and we get out coats..

When its finally done, we drive back home and enjoy a nice cup of english tea , a perfect end to a beautiful summer's day. :)

Meena Venkataraman

The reculsive traveller...

The reculsive traveller is doing the rounds...
Will spill all the beans soon :)

Meena