Khudi ko kar buland itna!

By Allam Iqbal

Khudi ko kar buland itna,
Ke har takdeer se pehla,
Khuda bande se khud pooche,
Bata, teri raza kya hai?

Sitaron se aage jahan,
Aur bhi hai!
Abhi ishq ke imtehan,
Aur bhi hai!

Tu shahen hai,
Parvaz hai,
Khwab tera kaam mera,
Tere samne aasma aur bhi hai..
Basera kar, Pahadon ki chattanon par
Bata, teri raza kya hai?

Zindagi main maine aaj tak aise hi kaam kiye hai ki koi mujhe mudh kar kuch bol na sake... IE.. I have always lived my life and done things in a way that no one can point a finger at me.
I only have the mighty being to look up to and answer to and for him my slate is clean.

THE ART OF ARTICHOKING

Artichokes have always intrigued me. The first time I saw them were in the summer of 2008 at the Venice Farmer's Market in Los Angeles.. And boy! They looked wholesome! The first ones took me by complete surprise.. I always thought of these as tender buds and subtly flavored, with soft silken curled petals, reminiscent of a flower, with a heart in the middle, but they turned out to be these giant thistle buds something like a green fleshy pine cone with thorns –I wondered what heart would be contained inside these thorny pine cones, and at the end of the quest what surprise lay.. My curiosity grew and I wanted to introduce this Californian favorite to my taste buds..


As my luck would have, my friend, Nanette invited us over for a dinner last night, and I jumped at the invitation. I was excited about the rendezvous with artichokes. And while on the dinner table, we played the game, follow the leader, for none of us knew the art of artichoking.. Nanette announced, " Eating artichokes is marvelous, it is zen like—leaf by leaf, peel away the layers, dipping the base of the leaf in melted lemon butter, bringing to your lips, and lightly scraping the flesh away with your teeth, as each leaf nearer the center grows more tender. Best of all, when you reach the middle and scoop out the prickly choke you're left with one big piece of tender "heart," which is your prize after the long patient wait, and the best part to eat." As we followed our host's words, and her gracious movements, and reached the tender soft heart of the artichoke, dipped it in the melted butter and tasted, we knew why this was every Californian's favorite.
During the rest of the meal, Nanette and Bruce told us more about Artichokes. In fact, Castroville, in California (located just off Highway 1 along the coast of Monterey Bay) is known as the Artichoke Capital of the World. And they also told us about how to tell healthy artichokes.
"Fresh artichokes always squeak when gently squeezed. They should be dark green, round, and firm with tightly closed leaves. Summer and fall selections will be more conical, and their leaves will be somewhat flared. To ensure a meaty artichoke, choose one that feels particularly heavy for its size. The bottom of the stem should be free of holes, which are a sign of worms. Artichokes that look woody are the not so healthy one, and have lived their life. A healthy artichoke's stem should be as thick as the bud itself."
An intriguing effect of eating artichoke, I heard later, is that they leave a sweet taste in your mouth that make the subsequent flavors on the platter somewhat different.. No wonder that mom's chole tasted somewhat like the pasta !! Artichokes also have an aphrodisiac reputation, and their alter ego at the bar comes in the form of Cynar..

Thanks Nanette , Bruce for the lovely experience….

Ah ! Burano

Napoleon called it “The Best Drawing Room in Europe”. Little doubt does it leave why Venice attracts hordes of holiday makers at any time of the year. In fact, Venetians like to walk the streets and squares in the evenings just to watch the tourists. While for a tourist, Venice is all about Gondolas, sunsets, changing lights, Harry’s bar, maze of canals, small bridges, blow glass of Murano, glass beads, the Venetian masks, the vaporetto and the pigeons…Truly a folding picture postcard of itself. It’s all for the eyes. Built on water, it is an endless succession of reflections and echoes, a mirror image. For an Art connoisseur the same Venice is about Titian, Tentoretto, Canaletto, Guardi, Jacopo Bellini and even the invention of easel painting.

Tucked away, however, from Venice is a cheerful, bright, small island called Burano. A ferry ride from Fondamento Nuove takes you to this colorful pretty characteristic fishing village. It is truly an artist’s paradise. It is a revelation, a muse...The first glimpse at the streets lined with brightly painted houses is like an explosion in a paint’s factory!! Unlike the grim Art history of Venice, Burano is just a fishing village. Where as Venice is an eternal present, Burano is a nineteenth century setting. You step off the vaporetto into an old fashioned opera of colors.

Each home in the street is painted a different color from pastels to bright so the fishermen can spot their house from far away in the sea.

As you walk along the streets on Burano, you can see black shawled old women sitting in the sun, making lace. Bead stringing is another specialty and a pass time with Old Burano wives, and one can catch a glimpse of women stringing beads in their open kitchens.

The first sight that meets is the whole town’s laundry blowing in the breeze – a Welcome Banner!!! Burano is cheerful because so much happens outdoors here, in the sunlight. There seem to be no secrets!!

A fortnight in Devicote

Today while we drove to devicote village, near jaisalmer, in an open jeep, through the sand ,I could barely focus on the harshness of the nature around..I was, instead pondering all the way, over the different ideas for the workshop. The brief that was given to me was “ there’s a bunch of unskilled women doing really poor embroidery currently. I need to design and teach them to make products that can be sold at INTACH Heritage shop.The first glance of the village was inspiring enough to forget about any ideas that may have been conspiring in my mind before reaching the place.

I asked all the women who had gathered in the mukhiya’s house to get from their homes, whatever things they had made with their hands – dolls, utensils, decorative things, embroidered panels or clothes, and also, the work of their mothers and grandmothers. There were sudden whispers, muffled noises, some giggles rupturing into smiles and finally some movements. Within seconds the room was empty, only for a few minutes. And then what I witnessed was an array of most beautiful expressions of their moments of happiness. Initially the women were a little shy and hesitant in sharing their creativity. But after a slight appreciation, they came forth, in bounds and leaps. Their confidence had suddenly leapt ten folds. They felt confident of themselves- they came oozing out of their suppressed selves. There was a silent applaud for each one of them, within themselves.

I chose a couple of their ideas and we were on our way to developing them into some lovely products that INTACH ould sell them in their shops.

Then I asked them to bring the indiyan (the cushion women keep on their heads to balance earthen and metal pots) that they use at home. Indiyan is a very essential part of women’s wardrobe in villages, as they are the water bearers in their homes. And water being scarce, they have to carry water in pots on their heads, from far away places. Most of the women decorate this according to their own tastes. And lo behold! We had some beautiful ones all around us.. These would make some lovely hot pads/ trivets for our dining tables – to balance the hot pots !!

Three cheers to the designers from Devicote !!

HOPE

He bounces over acres of love,
unprepared for its landing..

Lets Welcome the New Year with fresh eyes

Untarnished by skepticism, and doubt,

Like those that notice

fresh morning dewdrops dancing on wild grass

my tryst with a village

As I unwind myself, in an effort to write down about the journey to a quaint aadivaasi village, called Baliapal, in the interiors of North Orissa, I find myself on a bumpy road of mediumship, trying to ferry meanings from one language to another, from one reality to another - a process that denaturalizes and blends them.

It is a struggle to communicate this story – of the mixing up of the two cultures; bewildering because I am trying to be a person of the two worlds, trying to be at home in both of them – a difficult task at best.

Now-a-days it is fashionable to talk of preserving tribal people, their views, and their ways. But when we talk of preserving another culture, haven’t we already turned it into an endangered species? I would by no means profess this as an effort to preserve, but an effort to bring about some kind of balance between the two worlds – a sort of coexistence.

It all began during one of my countless visits to Dilli Haat, the Mecca of all crafts people, who flock here with lots of aspirations. While the whole market place bustled with eager shoppers exchanging notes with even more eager sellers, in a corner, in a dimly lit kiosk, two pairs of blank eyes looked around, as if gazing into nothing. I could hear their silence loud and clear in spite of the pandemonium in the rest of the haat. There was a deep question, a drowning fear and an uncomfortable silence in their gaze. The gaze that hypnotized me. Here I met Aarti and Subal Patra, who hail from Village Baliapal, in the interiors of North Orissa and were trying hard and desperately to help realize their dreams through their NGO, RAHAA. Patras weave bags out of sabaii grass, a traditional craft skill which has become a necessity in North Orissa, and some parts of West Bengal.

The next thing I know, I am at Howrah railway station in Kolkata, with my sister, Payal Nath, waiting anxiously to board “Puri Express”. We kick off our five hour long journey, not realizing this would be the beginning of a life long journey. The train rolls up at Basta station’s so-called platform. The halt is actually the slow down of the train for 30 seconds, in which we muster up all our courage to jump off the train along with our belongings, making it in the nick of time. From Basta, Baliapal village is 18 kms, an hour long drive on the bumpy dusty road, in the good old ambassador car of yesteryears.Aswe try to balance, almost as if sitting on an elephant, with blaring oriya music blowing out of its trumpet, we pass through villages dotted with lotus filled ponds, called pukhris. The entire three dimensional landscape is as if painted in multiple shades and hues of only two colors – blue and green.

After an hour long back breaking drive, snaking between thatched huts, the car rolls up in front of a shack, a recently opened telephone booth owned by the proud owner, “Dhruba” – our only connection to the outside world. We get off the car and walk through the dusty path where even the dust smells of fish; and reach Patra’s house which when required converts into the office for RAHAA. It is a three roomed thatched structure with mud floors and mud walls, and on a normal day accommodates eight members of Patra’s family, plus three cats, a dog, two goats and a cow. I imagine myself shrinking in size when I visualize this shack becoming the work place for twenty women with their infants during the days of work ahead. The rest of the evening, Payal and I spend acclimatizing ourselves with the surroundings of the equally decrepit Dak Bungalow that would house us during our stay.

Our first day of work, and we are very ceremoniously driven to RAHAA’s office in a thela. Aarti, popularly known as “Bo” by the villagers, which means mother in Oriya, has gathered about thirty women and girls. We need to judge their levels of skills, so we ask Aarti who is the only woman who manages to converse in broken Hindi, and each member is handed sabaii grass to weave a bag. The sample of bag to be copied too is given to Aarti. Aarti very diligently measures the bag and announces in Oriya, “Gutte Haath” – it is an arm’s length!! And lo! Everyone gets down to weaving the bag. By the end of the second day, thirty bags are presented to us amidst gleaming and proud faces. Much to our surprise, all bags are different sizes, varying from 6 inches to 10 inches! The group comprises girls in the age of twelve to women as old as fifty years, and so, the arm lengths are different too. But as far as they are concerned, the bags are the same size – “Gutte Haath”!!

First lesson therefore is to introduce them to a standard unit of measurement, and give them tape measures and scales!!

The next day we visit two nearby villages, Ujjadda and Shirodia. To welcome us, Patra have organized two chairs in the village. The girls in the village thought us “insane” to be taking such a risk of sitting on the chair, as if sitting on a camel. They fail to understand the logic of not coming down to earth instead of so uncomfortably hanging in the air.

Fourth day, and it’s hot and sunny, with the sun pouring its full fervor upon our heads. Payal sips from a bottle of Coke that we have carried all the way from Kolkata. The girls are mighty surprised. Two of them reach out to the glass of coke, which Payal offers to them. They look at the glass, highly amused, not knowing what to do next and slowly bring their ears close to the glass, in unison. The sound of tiny bubbles exploding and throwing up a sparkling shower brings a vivacious and animated look of surprise on their innocent faces. Never thought that the sound of coke could be more fascinating than the taste of it. The others join them too, to listen to the music of the Coke…

The whole night while Payal and I lay on our creaking beds in the Dak Bungalow, talking without any words, hearing without any sounds, we know this is not just one of our many adventure trips. This is the beginning of a journey which would never end.

Thus began my tryst with Baliapal.

It has been two years since then, and Patra’s Organization which now boasts of about 270 women, including Muslim women too, and backed by their men folks, have successfully sent out export shipments, conforming to all the stringent standardized quality requirements in all aspects of the foreign buyers. Every time the truck loaded with cartons leaves Baliapal, the villagers bid a misty eyed farewell, as if sending their own child to a world unknown to them…

- 2005