The Shadow of Bhopal...

Tower Bridge

The Olympics are closing in. The opportunity to live in a city hosting it is a once in a life time experience. I have mixed feelings about the Olympics.
On one hand I love London, the city that welcomed me with open arms and made me feel at home.
I am amazed by the diverse , multicultural experience that London has to offer.
And then there is Bhopal and Dow Chemicals association with the Olympics, which deeply saddens me.

And so I thought I would blog about the whole experience of being here in London and watching the Olympics unfurl., both about what's good and whats bad and all that's in between.
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Over the weekend we walked around London Bridge and standing on the bridge itself,  under overcast skies and the rain threatening to pour  down, a trickle of sunshine momentarily brightened up the scene. It was as if they were spot lights on tower bridge itself and the huge Olympic rings that had been placed there to make one month to the Olympic games. In the background HMS Belfast stood out in gorgeous steely greys against the beautiful Thames.

The massive rings measuring - 82 feet (25 m) wide and 38 feet (11.5 m) tall look spectacular against the London skyline. The gold rimmed tips of Tower Bridge seem to be reaching up to touch the sky.
Around me people walk, some with cameras in hand , some others with children, everyone taking in the beautiful sight of the Thames and the hustle and bustle of London around it.

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And then my thoughts return to Bhopal. I feel a little guilty for enjoying it all .
What does puzzle me sometimes is that I hardly find mention about the worst industrial disaster in human memory mentioned in the press or as part of conversation itself. If we pride ourselves on human rights shouldn't a stronger protest be marked somehow?
A colleague very casually told me that , Dow didn't own the company at that point in time and so shouldn't be held accountable. I find this apathy shocking. I have family/ friends who are activists and while they hold strong views with regard to certain things, the death of 15000 people in a beautiful city does not feature highly in their areas of concern.Most people know about Chernobyl but have never heard about Bhopal!

Have we become so blind, that we can condone an action that cost the lives of 15000 living, breathing souls. Were they worth anything at all?



Why do I write this then? Because I am torn.
On one hand I love this city and I have always held London as a model of tolerance, and so I feel let down  by Dows association with the games.

 But I  do believe people can do what governments around the world can't and I really do hope that this city tolerant as it is , somewhere finds the voice to stand up for what happened to the thousands who died at Bhopal.


Meena

Olympic Glory..

The Olympics are close at hand and London has more reminders than one.
Some of them you read in the papers and plan to see, some are completely unexpected
We had planned to visit the British museum earlier this week. For those who have never visited London , the British museum is a carefully preserved record of human history.  Every culture and their journey through the ages has been beautifully laid out for us to see. And the best part is all of this is FREE! No admission charges, which is something incredible.

When we walked in I did not expect to see the Olympic medals of London 2012 on display.
The last time the games were held in London was in the year 1948, not long after the war and probably a cause for celebration among the people who has seen so much   in the preceding years.
The medals used in the games of 1948 were on display as well. And between then and now they provide a valuable insights into how the games have changed. For one the medals certainly are bigger.

Outside the British Museum..

Below the medals were descriptions of how they were made and what their designs sought to represent. I was blown away by the artistic vision. I've not seen an Olympic medal up close before and I don't know a great deal about other designs elsewhere.
But the artists who finally had their work imprinted on metal to crown the champions of the London 2012 Olympics came through a careful process of selection by the LOGOPG (The London Organizing Committee of the Olympic and Para Olympic games)

The designs were put to vote before a jury of experts. The winning jewelers were David Walkins and Liu Cheng.

The medals on display..

The Rio Tinto mines are the suppliers of metal used in the games.

The medals for London 2012 Olympic games - the front

The maker of the design had this to say about the symbolism in his work

"It's key symbols juxtapose, front and back, the goddess Nike for the spirit and tradition of the games, the River Thames for the city of London"

The medals for London 2012 Olympic medal - The Front

The medals for London 2012 Olympic Games - The back

I found the textures on the para Olympic games beautiful. If I was to fault the exhibition of one thing it was that it lacked an explanation of the symbolism in the design of the medal .
In the absence of it though I game my mind free reign to create its own. Right on top is writing in what I think is Braille.
 I wanted to reach out and touch the medal to get a feel of the beautiful texturing inlaid in metail.
It flowed from end to end all across the circle and reminded me in some strange way of molten lava.

The medals for London Para Olympic games 2012 - The front

The medals for the London  Para Olympic games 2012

Besides this there was a lot about the history of the games and how the modern Olympics came to be.
As early as 1850,  a  surgeon William Penny-Brookes, introduced physical education into British schools and started the tradition of the Olympian games in the town of  Shropshire.
Inspired by the idea the Frenchman  Pierre de Coubertin started the effort to hold the event on a global scale and that was the beginning of the Olympics as we know it, the first of which was held in 1896.

The para Olympics took off from a similar British event too, one that was held in 1948 at Stoke Mandeville Hospital, Buckinghamshire, for people injured in the Second World War.


The words of Shakespeare on display on the walls remind of the glory that awaits the winners of the games

‘And, if we thrive,
promise them such rewards
As victors wear at the
Olympian games’

William Shakespeare
Henry VI, Part 3 – Act II Scene iii

The history of the games..

The medals used in the games of 1948

The medals of the 1948 games were smaller in size but they matched the ones of 2012 in the grandeur of their designs. The symbolism seems to be heavily greek possible because of their long standing tradition in having the games even before the rest of the world decided to have it in this scale.

This exhibition was packed with people, no surprises by the amount of interest surrounding the coveted objects every champion at the games will want to take home with them


More details on the exhibition can be found at the website of the British museum

In Search of the Truth and the Great Banyan..

It is a hot day. Sitting in the little rickety yellow auto, my hair takes on a life of its own. I try to hold it back with both hands as I catch glimpses of the beautiful city flying past.

It is the best part of the day. The sun is warming up, still warm and yellow and not yet the giant blaze it gets to be in the afternoon.I am on my favourite road in the whole of Madras.I remember stubbornly calling it that even after it was officially renamed Chennai.The road leads on, and then turns to meet the Ocean.Today it is not the beach we are going to. It is a place where I have always wanted to go, but until recently did not know how. For the Theosophical society is now open to the public and after living in Chennai for more than a decade it is now that opportunity comes knocking, although at only certain times of the day. 

Before I knew it as the Theosophical Society I knew it by a  different name, 'The Adyar Alaamaram'.
Older than the city itself, the 'Aalamaram',  is the 450 year old Banyan, rooted and stretching out in the center of this 200 acre woodland, which was acquired by Annie Besant in 1908, after she took  over as president of the Theosophical Society. Flanked by the Adyar estuary on one side and the sea on the other, this area of green is a veritable oasis in the midst of a busy city in a hurry to get ahead of itself.
It is a beautiful day. There are not many people around. We wait for the fellowship to assemble and then walk in.
Annie Besant is a woman I deeply admire. A reformer and an activist, she established the Theosophical Society in India, a movement in search of the truth, The ultimate truth being god as we know the idea.
A stromg advocate of democracy and recognizing the right to self determination, once in India she joined the Indian National Congress and launched the home rule movement.

The estate is full of trees and flowers form all over the world. Different shades of green come together in perfect harmony, and I feel a  sense of calm as we drift through the path on our way to see the Banyan.

The creeping money plant..

When Annie Besant first got the estate, all meetings of the society were held under this Banyan. The Aalamaram is thus a local legend, with a place in history for its role as host of many great speeches,  with the likes of Gandhi addressing people from under its giant canopy. The Dalai Lama also took stage here in 1959. For Tibet and Buddhists, it was under a banyan that the Buddha attained enlightenment in Bodh Gaya and it was a banyan which again welcomed the Dalai Lama into the gathering and played gracious host!

The nucleus of the Big Banyan..or is it?

The banyan seemed like a forest, a copse of many trees all linked back to its heart. Everywhere we looked we could see roots gently reaching to ground, 'propping' up green leaves strongly growing in all directions. From cracks in the green we could see the blue sky.

The truth of the center and the center of the truth..

Sometime back a cyclone destroyed the center in 1989. With the nucleus of the tree , the giant trunk gone the other roots took over and have held the great banyan like a giant umbrella.




Around the banyan, there are loads of benches. We walk around and try and figure out where the tree starts and where it ends.

Brightly coloured Bougainvillea flowers..

Brightly coloured flowers light up the path. Pink Bougainvilleas merrily whisper secrets and the wind seems in the know of everything that happens around this place

Beobab Tree 

At a distance is the Beobab tree. It is a beautiful tree. It looks like a strong , stout man standing with his hands reaching up to the sky. A native of South Africa, the diameter of the tree can get to be almost 30m.  Considering the dry condition the tree usually grows in, its no wonder that it doubles up as a natural reservoir of water and can store upto 4000 liters maybe more in it's porous bark


Other trees stare out at us in all corners, some full of fruit, some merry with flowers.
We see every shape and every colour. Brightly coloured insects crawl through the undergrowth.

One of the millions of tiny inhabitants of this place..

The way stretches on.

Seeds..

The great banyan..

And we keep passing different parts of the great big banyan. In the 450 years it has watched over the city, it's roots have spread out like giant tentacles and it seems to have walked several miles from where it all started. I read somewhere that it was under the tree that loudspeakers were used for the very first time in India and 3000 men and women could stand under its able gaze, until in the interest of the tree, the venue of the meetings of the theosophical society were shifted.

Test the roots..

The winding coconut

Man has for so long asserted his identity through symbols. We build monuments, towering buildings and long after their time has come and gone these symbols still stay on as living testimonies to those who built him. But what of trees like the Aalamaram,  who come from an age before the city itself exists and have stayed on amidst the chaos of change and the rubble of development? It looks like the banyan took root and the city built itself around it, stretching outwards while always looking in.

In Matters of Faith..

In matters of faith I have fought intimate personal battles; Battles of raging tongues and explosive ideas.
But these have been different. Battles require that you choose a side, you win or loose. But what if you stand at the borderline, a confluence of thought and are torn between exploring either side....
A year or two ago we were told that marriages , special occasions and other markers of happy times should always be followed by a visit to honor local deities.

I am not a big fan of pilgrimages. I don't just find them boring, I find them annoying. To be bundled up in a car or bus only to arrive completely exhausted in a place,  with only one thing in mind which is a temple some of which are heaving with people,  and then go through the motions of praying is something I detest. I learn nothing, see nothing. Agnostic as I am, I am drawn to temples for other reasons.I often experience some sort of out of body experience. Not in the literal sense. But I feel like I am a story teller in my own life . I see myself  watching things go by, taking everything in, spinning yarns real and otherwise in my head.
.....And so we agreed to the request.

Hinduism ancient as it is, is from a time we did not know exists. It is this ancient vastness reaching into the depths of time that completely fascinates me. So we find ourselves one Feb evening , waiting to board the train to the ancient city of Tirunelveli.  We discuss history, family roots, legends and ghosts!
We finally retire for the night only to be woken up by attacking bed bugs. Sleep stays elusive.
When we get off am already craving a strong cup of coffee.

We have one whole day in the heart of the South. Showered and dressed, I get my coffee, strong and hot like the sun outside.  In those days, each family had a deity they worshiped - 'Kula Deivam' they called it. What's interesting is that the deity is not part of the regular pantheon of hindu Gods and Goddesses. Rather its an idea , an image of what our ancestors from long ago had worshiped, passed on from one generation to the next along the kulam or family

Soon we are flying past green paddy fields.  Women mostly are hard at work, tiling the soil to sustenance.  The roads are narrow, the traffic high. Our first stop is at the temple of Sastha  in my ancestral village of Tharuvai.
The street looks desolate, depeopled because of the blazing sun. At a distance woman carry brightly coloured pots of water from the village tap. The houses stare back at us like old people. Most of them wear fresh coats of paint.



The temple is beautiful, aging gracefully and still standing tall. The ancient courtyard is full of interesting things. One corner stands the idol to Naga the snake god, decorated with bright yellows and reds of turmeric and vermilion kumkum, The stark black of the idol in beautiful contrast to the colours it wears.



The gopuram is white against the white sky, simplistic when compared to those with grander designs.
The symmetry of a gopuram always amazes me- Its perfect geometical shapes , the beautiful carvings, The intricacy of the craftmanship.



The priest does the aarti, honouring the gods with camphor and incense. The bright yellow flame lights up the otherwise dark sanctum sanctorum. The brass relics are exquisite




Hanging from the celiling is a lamp also made of brass, grease stained and heavy. But it has an aura of the ancient and seems proud as the bearer of light.



We stay a while and talk to everyone. The priest tells us about how hard it is to educate his children, the financial burdens of life in a small place. I am too distracted by the scenary outside.
As we walk, we spy a dilapidated house of two. A bullock cart stands idle, looks lost without its master and servant both of whom seem to have disappeared somewhere into the field.





The place is strewn with temples. We find one a stones throw away from the one we have just been to. I stand behind Nandi the bull to see what he is seeing. Again everything about how things have been placed in respect to everything else fascinates me. As the gatekeeper of Lord Shiva and Parvati he stands guard , facing the main shrine. He sees all who enter..



Green fields race away to meet the horizon. The grass flaps wildly in the summer breeze. The sun turns up the heat. We hurry along. The red and white walls of a temple call out to us from a distance.
This gopuram is colourful. I have never seen a prettier sight than this.



A curious woman walks past, a water pot balanced on her hip like a troublesome child. She eyes my camera. I smile a little. She ignore me.

 Life is hard for these trivial niceties. I don't take offence.

Just outside the temple a river runs, hugging the sides of the bank. The beautiful banyan spreads its arm outward, a natural canopy of green over the dark waters of the green river. Women bathe silhouted in the shade of the strong banyan and its roots reach downwards as if to touch the water with its tips.




Inside the temple, we find no one . The courtyard is strewn with dolls of different shapes and sizes.They are offerings to the gods I learn.
The sun climbs higher. We tire easily and decide that it is time to head back to the confines of our car. We say goodbye and leave Tharuvai behind in pursuit of Thenkasi. 
Tall strong men walk dusty roads, dwarfed by even taller coconut trees. Their frond like leaves shine in the bright afternoon, their barks tall and slender against the dusky earth.



The family diety of my husband's ancestors is the boy god Murugar. As I gaze upwards at the beautiful gopuram I remember Sharanya Manivannan's very beautiful piece on the Kavasam a few years ago and it is her I quote..

"Is there a holy text as hardcore as the Kavasam? Maybe some old Hebrew stuff – but then, the god of the Old Testament is generally seen as curmudgeonly and cantankerous. Unlike the adorable little Muruga, sweet-smiling with bells around his ankles and flowers behind his ears… who will eviscerate your enemies"

This temple is bigger than the previous one. It is beautiful. Ancient relics are placed here and there and nobody seems to know what they really are. That seems to add to the mystery of it all.
Outside the temple 'Kulam' or pond is full of grey water.  People bathe , an act of purification perhaps.



This temple has a special ceremony attached to it, one we are about to witness.Legend has it that the Lord Murugar in search of sweet things , had some Payasam(  A sweet South Indian dessert) which was on the steps leading to the Kulam.  Ever since it has been ritual for people to do as he did. The recipe is ages old and has been preserved and passed along.

As I watch people eat the sugary sweet liquid off the steps leading to the waters , I do not know what to think of the whole episode. They gently wash what is left into the waters of the pond. My husband decides that he wants a piece of the action and has some himself.  I take a step backwards indicating that am not as adventerous. Finally when the ritual is done we head indoors. We have some of payasam, in plastic cups this time. It is delicious.




The gods visited , it is time for lunch, a simple wholesome affair served on Banana leaves. The banana plant is one of those of which every part is put to use. The flower, fruit and stem is eaten and the leaves are used as plates.

There is no power; for eight hours today we are told. In Chennai where we come from, load shedding is confined to two hours, and has the city constantly in complains over how difficult it is. Over here people face the absence of power stoically, a reality of life.



Outside the street is beautiful. I wonder how long it has been this way. The architecture definitely is from a long time ago. The houses here are long rather than broad and stretch from one street to the other a  little apart. Most have dishevelled gardens and tiny wells , now parched in the dry heat.



Outside I spy a fruit vendor selling exotic fruit. What sort I don't know. I am told a Tamil name but I cant seem to get an English variant. Maybe none exists. Why should it. Word makes the world and the world the word itself...



We drive down to Kutralam, the waterfall reduced to a trickle makes me sad. I decide not to put up any pictures. When we head back we are surrounded by local astrologers, asking to read our palms. One is more honest and tells my Dad she needs money to buy some food. He has his palm read



We then buy some local fruit, from some kind of palm. I have had this before but not quite in the same way. The fruit is scooped out and sugary cool liquid , sap from the same tree poured over it. We drink it all up from the criss cross leaves of the palm which has been adroitly weaved into a container.



We catch the train tonight. So we hurry back and stand waiting for it to arrive in the station. The sky turns red and purple as the sun leaves this part of the world on its journey to the next.
The moon is out beaming down through the rosy streaks of  blue red sky.
We say goodbye to Tirunelveli.

Exploring Borough Market..

A guest post on Indian Bazaars..here!

..and the link on Lonely Planet- here

Secrets of the Wind...

An article I wrote for Women's Web

http://www.womensweb.in/articles/spontaneous-travel-women-india/

Meena

Heaven in a cup..

A long time ago a friend described the 'Filter Coffee'  as we know it, as a South indian Latte.  I had to take offence.For something that has become the marker of all occasions great and small, and over the years the defining symbol of South Indian hospitality, I found this description reductionist It is so much more and defies comparison.

Visiting home after a hiatus of 2 years,  it's  one of those things I've sorely missed. Nescafe doesn't even come close. In true blue South Indian style I craved the perfect cup of strong filter coffee, with the right amount of bitter and that sweet hint of dissolved sugar; not too much but just enough for the two to complement each other in subtle flavor some ways. But am picky when it comes to my coffee.
I have a list of people who make the grade ;).  And so when we got home in the afternoon my dad had everything ready to make me the perfect cup.

For the best coffee, the 'Dicoction' (the brew itself)should be freshly brewed. Let to sit even a few hours and it gets rancid. Yes yes, I know most people fridge and reheat before adding it to warm milk. But I am very very discerning and call tell the difference. So don't think for an instance that you can break this cardinal rule and get away. The milk is heated separately and then the two are blended together, sugar added and then everything served in an 'Dabara and Tumbler'; The two made of stainless steel are essentials in serving coffee. Without them it would be incomplete
There are methods to adhere to. Throw away the spoon and instead transfer the coffee from the Tumbler to the Dabara and then back again. The sugar gets dissolved and you have yourself heaven in a cup.  By this point the intoxicating aroma begs you to take a sip.

As a child I used to visit the shop where my mom used to diligently buy her coffee mix. Peaberry she would say and would add No chicory,  explaining to me as we walk away that adding chicory is a cheat that makes the coffee look but not necessarily taste better.

Having your cuppa at home is one thing. But coffee is such an integral part of our culture, A ritual slipped into mundane everyday events. A quick stop at any one of the numerous restaurants in the South , never fails to rejenuvate. I've lost count of the number of times my brother and I have shared the spoils of the golden brew at the Adigas in Bangalore; 'By 2' as we say in true Bangalore style, by which we literally mean a half portion each.

Even with the mushrooming Baristas and coffee outlets around cities in the South, none can rival the filter coffee in taste or in value for money. It's the one thing everyone loves irrespective of their standing, rich or poor; It's a leveler of sorts.

As our plane took off, my husband and I were already talking about our next trip to Saravan Bhavan and to me that meant another delicious cup of golden filter coffee!