A Sensory File

People keep telling “we are visual beings” being a visual artist, how could I deny? But well I do and my point is we are more than visual beings we are sensory creatures. All the senses play a role in our recognition of someone or something, memory and how we relate to people, places and circumstances. I first observed this about myself, quite long ago. I remember vividly one bit of my travel, my first time in Kolkata. 

We had taken a cycle rickshaw in the night, I remember not from where exactly to where. But I do remember the ride, first is the squeamish feeling of sitting in a rickshaw pulled by a human, it took a while before I could relax even a bit, but I did. I relaxed after finding out that the man was feeding his entire family with the money he would get from passengers like us, if it wasn’t us he would be taking someone else. I am digressing, well the point being, this small stretch I remember vividly, it was about 8 years ago, along with many other snippets I remember from Kalimpong, Darjeeling and Gangtok, this is the part I remember so well.

Here goes - We started riding across this very dingy dark lane, safety was not even at the back of our minds, there was a line of barber shops to our right, small shops lined next to each other, dimly lit in the night, I was wondering who would want a shave at this hour, then realised that most of them could not afford to get a shave in the mornings as they would be required at some form of labor or the other. On another instance I recall learning that most of these workers don’t get any holiday, Sunday or otherwise. Anyways as we rode along this lane the smell from the Barber shop wafted through, it was quite pungent too, I don’t remember particularly liking that smell ever before, I don’t think I liked it even there but it did not repulse me and was weirdly pleasant. 

Unfortunately I did not click on that particular ride, but this one is from the same trip and in Kolkata

Then as each shop passed I heard very familiar tunes, but could not sing along in my head or aloud like I usually do, because they were all in Bengali. These were all the old classic Hindi numbers, all in Bengali though. Then I got to wondering which was made first, not that I know the answer to that till date. The ride itself was memorable because of the slow pace, not as slow and tiring as walking ten kilometers, not as fast and cooped up as a car drive, not even as fast as a bike but the perfect speed to register everything around. Even though I felt bad for the old man who took us, sweating and peddling away, I couldn’t help but thank him for this wholesome experience. 

I remember everything about this ride, the exact shade of the shops, the kind of light bulbs inside, the harsh radio sound-frequency in which these songs were blaring through, each shop playing a different channel so,many of the songs were getting all mixed up in the air, me trying to separate these attempting to guess the song. The pungent odour, the rattling of the rickshaw, the back of the man who took us, the roofs of these shops, the night air, not cool, not hot, sort of condensed but pleasant.

From then on I have consciously made it a point, to make sure I hear to the local tunes, eat local food and thus imprint each experience, so that one day I can sit and reminisce them at leisure.

Parinitha Konanur

Chai Kada Story

Was just reading Ruskin bond's ‘ A wayside tea shop ‘  tucked into his many, many stories of on the road, which got me thinking,  err reminiscing my own chai stall encounter. Well if you have lived for any period of time, in the Indian subcontinent you already know that chai stalls are neither rare nor a novelty. They are there almost anywhere you go in India. In the south we call it chai kada. And hence I have had, may be a million chais, so why did I think of this particular story ? Well because it’s the right opposite to Bond's not in essence but in weather conditions. Ruskin Bond’s story tells us about him discovering a tea stall in a very dry area in the Gharwal region, where the stall sits under the only tree in 5 miles.

I started reminiscing my chai encounter wondering at the disparity. This is a while back, 4 years to be precise I had quit my job in an online art gallery,   and let us just say I wanted to celebrate this… well freedom. It was the month of June, I had a terrible memory of Delhi heat in the previous June, fresh in my memory and all I wanted was a rainy green trip. Unlike the blistering heat of North India in June, the skies in the South shower down in gallons. June is a particularly wonderful month,  the sky becomes a particularly spectacular blue,  there are no heavy grey clouds,  but light happy white swirls like in a Miyazaki movie. So the plan was to do Kerala,  mainly Munnar and Alappuzha. 

Both these places, I feared were not only over hyped,  but crowded and probably not what I would appreciate. Well this was far from the truth, as far as such a thing could be. On this quite a splendid trip, me and my friend took an auto rickshaw on hire for the whole day. Our auto guy's name was kumar, he was a Tamilian and originally from Ooty. He liked his job very much, and smiled a lot, he  was neither private about his life,  nor did he see any point in such things. He showed us where he lived and told a long story of how he came to live there. As we reached top station 

As we reached top station, a large expanse of rich green tea estates, he dutifully turned into a guide, explaining something here and something there. Of many things I learnt from him,  I learnt that a particular flower I used to keep in a mug in my previous office,  a flower that grows all over HSR layout in Bangalore,  a flower that I loved, that looked quite the pretty wild thing, was actually a poisonous flower,  or that is what he believed. Well I don't want to question his knowledge.

This was while we were heading there

 Let's just say I never dipped that flower into a mug again. As soon as our little tour of the tea estate drew to a close and as soon as the sun set with a sudden urgency behind a growth of very thick grey clouds. At that very moment we saw the chai stall, a small strip of asbestos covering the top of the stall which was built with wooden planks. We went there, if the exertion did not demand it, the weather definitely did. The chill air, bellowing wind and a thin pitter patter of drizzle. Perfect for drinking tea, and a smoker always lights one up. The tea was made from the same leaves that grew in top station, they were flavored with cinnamon, ginger and such. We took our picks and as we held that old soda glass - glasses brimming with very hot,  not so strong,  but strongly flavored creamish brown tea,  the heavens thundered and such a down pour I had never seen till then,  and I haven't seen one since. It can't be just called rain.

It was an all devouring, it’s not the same as a hurricane, nothing as dramatic, but just excessive, like hundreds of buckets being tipped over from above at the same time. We took shelter under the thundering asbestos of the chai stall. The sight in front of us,  the dim light of the post sunset light, the rain,  the sound of the rain,  the smell of the chai,  all my senses awakened and at awe. A sight that I am not about to forget anytime soon.

It did not end there, we were terrified of the rain, and well we obviously wanted to head back to the warm and dry room. We did not know when the rain would let up, but Kumar seemed to think it a joke he asked us to hop aboard, we were wondering, even if he had a lion’s heart he obviously did not possess magic sight, there was zero visibility, I mean zero. The only thing we could see was the light of a far off vehicle twisting and turning up the winding hill roads. But Kumar drove as if it were a bright sunny day and got us down safe and sound, also as a treat stopped at a wonderful homemade chocolate store. Which bade well for our nerves and our stomachs.

Parinitha Konanur