I have been writing for myself and on various blogs and sites through the years and as everything I wrote was scattered in various places I decided the best things was to put them in one place and so I created this page. To truly understand the various happening mentioned in the writings you have to understand the path of my life. My family are from Mumbai but while my parents and siblings lived in Mumbai, I lived with my father’s cousin sister, who he grew up with and my much older step brothers since I was, some say 6 months old and some a year. We lived in the country, in a huge 25 bedroom rundown house, which must have been quite grand once. I went to school in this town and when I was 14 and had finished school we moved to Mumbai. After marriage 11 years later I moved to Kuwait and this is where I am still living except the time when we moved to Pune from 2006 – 2010 for my children’s higher education. The blog posts are from different times in my life and I have evolved throughout my life, been different things and tried to play each role well. When I was living in Pune I had the opportunity to write for a local weekly paper there, which also published my photographs. It was a great experience.
We are starting with a childhood memory.
I remember a time long ago, when I was a small girl, we lived in a house somewhere in the hills. It was a small town, everyone walked everywhere, well just about everywhere. I walked to school every morning. The morning began around dawn and as the sun was rising from behind the far away purple mountains, I was usually at my old fashioned dresser, brushing my hair, enjoying how the sun caught the lighter tints in hair and eyes. Beyond my window was the roof of the veranda and parrots sat squawking on the red tiles while usually a honeycomb hung from the eaves.
On week days there was little time to enjoy all this as school was a long walk away and I would be in a hurry to leave. There were many paths that went to school, mostly through neighbouring houses which had two gates, so I entered through the front one and went out the back, saving a long walk. Neighbours turned a blind eye if one trespassed through their gardens. My favourite was the house closest to us, the main house was quite decrepit but there were tenants in the other houses on the side. There was a parijat tree here, the parijat is a tiny white flower with an orange centre and an intoxicating fragrance. The tree would shed its flowers in the night and early in the morning there would be a fragrant carpet of fresh dewy flowers, for me to walk on. That is an unforgettable memory as never again have I smelled such sweet smelling boquet from a parijat again. The servants lived in an small house close to the back gate and went about their chores, turning a blind eye to a trespassing young school girl, sometimes they would even smile at me.
There was one particular shortcut that went through an open veranda of a neighbouring house, The ladies of the house and their neighbours used to sit out talking and gossiping in the veranda that linked the houses if I took it then good manners required greetings and an exchange of a few words.
Even as a kid I disliked routine, the same old path each day was an unattractive proposition. Though many times I did take the plain old road, for along the road lived other friends and as each one joined me the group grew more loquacious and lively and before we knew it we had reached school. There was a time when my aunt was afraid for my safety and she would send the gardener to accompany me but this man trailing behind us would embarrass my friends and so one day they decided to run. We were in the lane which led to the school. I called it ‘Dark Lane’, because it had two rows of banyan trees and their thick adventitious roots blocked out the sunlight. On one side were army officer’s bungalows and on the other side was the army hospital, which ran the length of the road and only a fence separated it from the road and this is where my friends decided enough was enough and said £let’s run”. I was naively surprised when the gardener turned back and went home. I questioned him at home and he said “If I had run behind girls the people on the streets would have beaten me up” He never came with me again and it was a relief to me and my friends and it also left me in peace to explore. Oh, and there also was a time when my aunt had bought a tonga and insisted I should go to school it it. During that short period I would get off the tonga and it went to school with my school bag and waited till I reached. I really appreciate my friends for not giving up on me.
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A Bit of Optimism
How often it happens that we look forward to something with rose coloured glasses only expecting the good and never anticipating the bad. Perhaps it is that in human nature that continues to drive us towards change and what we might view as an improvement in our life or situation. Those among us always expecting the worst are labelled as pessimists and to be honest are rarely the ones to try to experiment or try a life out of their comfort zone. Even within their comfort zones they are miserable each moment wondering when the sky is about to make a rapid descent on their heads.
Optimism, what a wonderful way of thinking! Lets us go through each day happily, though maybe unrealistically sometimes, yet we do not anticipate trouble beforehand and therefore are able to dream and live on cloud nine even if it exists only in our imaginations. Often, it is better not to anticipate trouble, before trouble comes calling, for you can never really know what form it is going to come in. Cling to the happiness life brings, relish it, enjoy it, and when you face a problem do not let it overwhelm you to an extent where it looms so big that you are unable to see the sunlight through it. Problems can be solved when taken apart and handled in small manageable bits. Most of all, life itself and all its wonderful offerings, small moments of joy, of happiness, love, companionship, pleasure in nature, etc should not be forsaken just because the mind is confronted with some difficulties. These are what living is all about, not the small or big wrinkles that may occur on the sheet of life.
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Being a Part of History
We are Indians and we lived in Kuwait for almost two decades. My husband lived there much longer. We had settled into a life of comfortable complacency till it was upset, first by the Iraqi invasion on 2nd Aug 1990 and later by the American attack of Iraq on 21st March 2003.
After Iraq occupied Kuwait in 1990, we had moved back to India for a year, but it was difficult starting something here, as the system was so different. My husband was so used to working in Kuwait, that he could not wait for the war to end, so we could go back.. and go back we did. Go back despite the burning oil wells, the mined beaches, the thick black smoke everywhere and the large scale destruction. In those early days of course it was the very destruction that meant money and companies came in from everywhere to cash in on this. Cleaning and rebuilding was the mantra in those days. Frenetic activity made sure that things were back to normal as soon as possible.
My husband worked as an engineer in an American company and was involved in many important projects, so life began once again and once again complacency set in, except when once in a while we would be jolted out of it, by Saddam’s continuing threats. He hung over us and our new found peace and prosperity, like the legendary sword of Damocles. Every few months, a new threat of being bombed by weapons of mass destruction loomed. Imagining dying with one’s family in a chemical attack, is a very nasty thing, especially when one has seen pictures of the Halabja poison gas attack between 15 March–19 March 1988. The fear of death is a death in itself, and living with it day in and day out is like dying every single day, and so it would happen for a few days and then everything would be calm and normal and we would breathe easy again, till the next time. In such an environment it is but natural that the economy kept rocking and only the best survived.
It was a hard time, yet few people really wanted Iraq to be attacked when America finally took that decision. That year was a crucial year for my daughter. She was giving her 10th standard exam through the CBSE board New Delhi, and that is a very crucial exam for Indian school kids. It was natural to think that if America attacked Iraq, using its bases in Kuwait, then Iraq would retaliate by using Kuwait for target practice and it was not an unfounded fear. So months before the actual attack, a climate of fear set in. Helicopters would hover over the entire country and practise sirens went off throughout the day. I had a maid servant in those days from the Andhra Pradesh district of Cuddapah, and she poor, ignorant woman, was so frightened for her life, not knowing what was happening, that she would sit down and wail each time a chopper passed over head or a siren sounded.
So it was that in such a climate we went through life, a day at a time, trying to be as normal as possible. Soon plane loads of people, of all nationalities began leaving Kuwait, in fear. I do not know about the other airlines but the Indian planes arrived empty and passengers had to pay over double the fare for a one way ticket. The Indian airlines were good at evacuating, as they had had ample practice in 1990, when Air India evacuated over 111,000 people from Amman to Mumbai – a distance of 4,117 km, by operating 488 flights in association with Indian Airlines, during August 13 – October 11, 1990, lasting a total of 59 days. This feat is entered in the Guinness Book of World Records as the largest evacuation by a civil airliner. Though at the time we were expected to pay for it, later this was waived by the government.
As the planes landed in Mumbai this time around, my parents watched on TV in horror, as wave upon wave of traumatised passengers, disembarked. The CBSE board made arrangements for the students of the 10th and 12 to give their exams in India. Teachers from British and American schools left en masse. But many Indians did not leave and we were among them. The decision to stay had been a conscious decision on my part. First of all I did not see why we should get the chance to run for our lives, when my husband for economic reasons, would have to continue staying back. The second, equally important reason was that I did not want my girls to grow up as people who ran at the smallest sign of trouble. We had left once before but then I had a two year old, whereas now they were grown up and I wanted us to stay as a family and face what was coming with faith in God and courage.
So while people taped up their windows and prepared rooms in the basements, cleaning out supermarket shelves in a mad rush to hoard food, we went on as usual. I remember getting some silver duct tape which is still lying around somewhere in our home in Kuwait, unused. My daughters continued going to school and preparing for their different exams. The teachers of the various Indian schools (there are at least twelve in Kuwait) too stayed back to give moral support to their students.
Then it happened suddenly, without warning, on 21st March 2003, America attacked Iraq. The expected retaliatory attack came almost immediately. The first time, most people thought it was just another routine excercise, to soon learn that it was not and we had been attacked. But the attacks were mild and I must say the sirens were more frightening then the attacks.
Through all this, my elder daughter and all her class mates and other Indian girls of her school year, attended school, went for extra tutorials and studied day and night for their CBSE exams. There were attacks even during the exams though the missiles never came close. But the continuous sirens were enough to unnerve the best. At this trying time the teachers stood behind their students all the way and not enough can be said about their courage and that of their families. It was not for remuneration that they did this, for their pay was very meagre compared to teachers of western schools.
As the tanks rolled into Iraq, sandstorms like we had never seen before arose and engulfed Kuwait in thick, choking, red coloured sand. On the news one could see that the soldiers in the desert were suffering the same fate. If it was so bad in the city that it entered through the closed windows, one could only imagine how much worse it must have been in the open desert. We watched TV day and night trying to make sense of the death and destruction going on just a short distance away. It was extremely traumatic and made me feel like bursting into tears for the slightest reason. It was at this time I wrote a poem on the death of an American soldier called ‘I Remember, I Remember’ and a short story on the senseless death due to bombing, of a small Iraqi boy, not yet three, called Ahmed. People were people and they were dying senselessly, unnecessarily. Dying so close to me and in the pain, there was neither friend nor foe, just the great sense of loss. These young people, these promises of the future, lay trampled in that merciless sand and it was heartbreaking and still is.
The planes looked for the missile launchers in the desert but could not destroy all. One evening we had been to the sea-side after the sandstorms had abated. March/April are pleasant in Kuwait normally, as it is spring time and this was the first time we had seen such sandstorms in this season of balmy breezes and wildflower carpets. That evening there were many people on the beaches and life looked almost normal. That night though, a missile hit one of the sea-side malls, ‘Souq Sharq’ and the first real destruction of any kind took place. Though it was not much, it still made people afraid and after that we rarely saw anyone else on the beaches.
One day there was no bread in the house, so we went to the supermarket and the bakery. There was a long queue at the bakery; people were buying enough bread to feed entire neighbourhoods. Later all that bread was finally wasted, unconsumed. At the bakery at that time, there was a television crew recording the madness, a fight also broke out between some of the people. We headed home after picking up some groceries as well. When we came close to the traffic lights near our building suddenly the sirens began and a policeman frantically asked us to stop and pointed upwards. We were so scared at his gestures that we ran out of the car looking upwards, thinking that he saw a missile coming in.
It was only later that we understood that he just wanted us to gather on an incline away from the road. Much later, when we realised that the direction he was pointing to was the south, and Iraq and its missiles lay towards the north, we really felt rather foolish and laughed at ourselves. But even now when we pass that particular traffic signal a slight shudder passes through me, though we sometimes mention it and laugh.
It was during these days that my father called to ask when we were coming. The entire family used to watch the returnees on TV, as well as the news that Kuwait was being hit and worry about us. I told him we would be there as soon as all the missile launchers that were attacking us were destroyed. It was not then but a couple of months later that we finally visited the family during the summer holidays.
And So We Moved to Pune
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We are a statistic, one of thousands, who in the past few years, have decided to move to Pune for various reasons. Pune has in recent times become one of the sought-after new destinations in India, with its growing IT hub offering innumerable employment opportunities with attractive remunerations. A laid back lifestyle for those desirous of having one, exceptional educational facilities promising the youth a better, more successful tomorrow, good climate, and a serene environment for those hailing from congested cement jungles, add to its attractions.
Builders have professed that 40% of Pune is under green cover. This and similar claims extolling Pune’s natural beauty have done much to enhance its overall appeal, especially to those starved of any kind of interaction with nature. The numerous apartment complexes mushrooming all over Pune, offering luxurious, aesthetically designed homes set amidst verdant landscaping, have also added to its appeal. We are among those who have moved here seeking a better environment and a good education. Like all the others we have enjoyed good things and faced trials. The following is a personal account of what led us to Pune and the many bitter sweet experiences, trials, skirmishes and ensuing victories that I have gone through in the past year.
For years we had thought of finally settling in Mumbai, but its attractions had begun to fade severely because of its impossible traffic that had trebled the time it took to travel from point A to point B. Moreover, the humidity was killing, and some years back when we had arrived to find a place to buy, the roads were in a terrible state of disrepair. The closely built towering concrete structures, offering pigeonhole sized living quarters for exorbitant sums of money, suffocated me and lessened its desirability in every way. Pune in comparison seemed a more attractive proposition.
In 2003 Pune was a random choice for us. A place we knew little about in the beginning, but that lack of knowledge was soon rectified by a few days of browsing on the net. Our growing knowledge of the ‘Queen of the Deccan’ sitting pretty among the Sahyadris,only convinced us of its suitability for our future needs. The very sobriquet of ‘Oxford of the East’ implied countless educational opportunities for our children. Tree lined avenues, proximity to places like Panchgani, Khandala, even the Konkan, added to its charm. Mumbai was a short distance away, and the expressway a dream to travel upon. We would not be ensconced right in the lap of the family, yet would be close enough to spend weekends with them. Its centralized location made Pune seem like the perfect spot from which paths diverged to innumerable exciting destinations. Visions of adventures and discoveries began dancing before our eyes. After living in the Mid-East for over twenty years the munificence of nature abounding here was especially enticing.
When we arrived, the roads were not in shambles, there were fewer buildings. The area we had zeroed in on, was flanked on one side by a sleepy suburb with small villas and gardens and an equally sleepy village with all its idiosyncrasies, on the other. The apartment complex we chose was beautiful and built very well; my breath though was well and truly taken away by the sugarcane fields on either side. It was the teeming butterflies and birdlife, and last of all a kingfisher on a power line, that finally helped to clinch the deal.
The next three years were spent in a fanciful state of anticipation, dreaming about all the exciting things we were going to do. I began to imagine travelling down the various mountain roads, exploring each cranny and cliff, walking in wildflower meadows and bathing in waterfalls. Our holidays had always coincided with the monsoons and we had only seen the mountains as dream like places cloaked in cloudy mantles, under their verdant cover, with snaking silvery waterfalls. So ignoring detractors, especially my husband, I filled my head with many unrealistic expectations where nothing could go wrong. I could not wait to move to a land of green, fields and hills, gardens and forest.
Perhaps I would have been more ready to be realistic had my husband not always introduced new doubts. The more he thought up potential problems regarding our forthcoming move, the tighter I clung to my ideal dream world. My roses were hybrid, I had bred out the thorns, there were no rough edges and there were no stormy seas.
Anticipating troubles is always a bad idea anyway, because troubles never come in the ways they are expected, but always find new means to manifest themselves. We also had no real way of knowing what troubles we would face. Difficulties also result directly from a lack of knowledge, and there is no way one can arm oneself with all the required knowledge. This only grows through time, a constant quest and through the daily exposure to the various sides and moods of a place.
In April 2005, with rose coloured glasses firmly in place, we arrived by road, from Mumbai, to Pune. Even through the pink tint of our glasses the initial shocks began imprinting themselves on our consciousness. Turning left from the Expressway into Pune, we were confronted with the potholes all the way till our home. We wondered what had become of the roads since we had last been here. In 2003 we had compared them favourably with Mumbai roads, but now we could not compare them favourably even with a bullock cart track, in the remotest Indian village. I will leave that here, for enough has been written on the state of the roads and I am glad that many have now improved considerably, though no doubt countless backbones have paid for their previous neglect. Our second shock was the metamorphosis of our sleepy area, which had now turned into a throbbing glass and concrete IT hub. Any major metropolis would be proud of this blooming suburb with its state of the art complexes, malls and multiplexes. In vain I sought the quaint charm I had last witnessed.
Our little place too had become part of the outsourcing world. The once unending fields besides our complex now proudly sported a brand new call centre, with another on the way, as well as a colossal apartment complex coming up a little distance away. We were told we should celebrate, the price of our property had more than doubled, but I only felt sad, as the greenery was the major inducement for this move.
I am sure that it is the same for a great many people who have come here seeking a life close to nature, and if the developers and government do not realize this quickly and plan better, Pune will lose all its charm and will become just another highly polluted, ugly, grey metro. Ironically, proximity to nature is, even today a major incentive while advertising a new complex. What nobody says is that the nature is only there till another complex comes up, and then if you are lucky the people right outside your window might have some attractive potted plants on their balcony to make up for your loss. Wake up people, its time you realized that a cement jungle isn’t the kind of forest we envisaged when we moved here.
While the above were shocks, the problems were different. One of the first we faced was admissions. Newspapers while extolling the education opportunities in Pune perhaps overlook or then just conveniently forget to mention the difficulties that one can face to gain admissions. In almost every school we visited, it was impossible to meet the principal. Often we were turned away from the gate itself by the security. This was doubly disappointing as in those days we used to live in Mumbai and the rejection was really hard to take after traveling half the morning. There was no sympathy for the fact that we had traveled such a long way or that we were trying to resettle in our own country. I began to strongly suspect that the media was actually over hyping and selling Pune for some financial inducements other than the advertisements. Everyone who had promised to help us either seemed to be unavailable on their phones, or else permanently out of the city. This taught me that people here tended to make promises they either had no intention of fulfilling, or then no real way of keeping. It was always better to have other options and an alternate plan of action ready.
There were offers of admissions, on the payment of bribes to certain key people. People suggested there were those who could easily procure the necessary admissions for us on the payment of large sums of money. The idea of bribes was repugnant to me. I though, was adamant that I would not buy a seat for either of my children. They had been brought up in a corruption free environment, and abetting bribery was not going to be their first experience or lesson in their home country. The other alternative was an international school. This seemed ironical, as I had always been an advocate of Indian education in Kuwait. Here in India though, among all the ICSE schools I had no option left but to choose one of the newly mushrooming crop of international schools, offering a Cambridge Certificate. The school I chose was new and they welcomed admissions. Each class was going to be limited to only twenty seats which assured personal attention from all the teachers. The counsellor spent a long time with me, allaying my doubts and showing me all the certificates of recognition that the school had received, both from Cambridge and the Indian universities. In a way it was a moral victory too because though the fees were high, I was paying them by cheque for services offered, and not as a slimy, underhand bribe. As a word of warning to others, I have since then learnt that there are many touts who promise seats in educational institutions and desperate parents are only too happy to pay, sadly losing their money, so do beware.
The second problem we faced was also of admissions, and this time though we were offered in many colleges there was a problem of a delayed transfer certificate. Unfortunately, the transfer certificate arrived after many colleges had closed their admissions. Once again some people offered to get us admission in the college closest to us for the payment of a certain sum of money. Luckily for us, during our quest for a college we met a wonderful person, a professor in a reputable college where the admissions had already closed, who guided us to a newly opened college, where my daughter was sure to get admission. Here once again she was able to get individual attention and the lecturers were very helpful. Also the students here are much closer to their traditions and culture and so she too is able to learn much about it and about a way of living different from what she was used to. This pleases me immensely, especially when I see how fast this same culture is disappearing from many among us.
Once the admissions were confirmed we moved to our new home one afternoon with nothing more than a mattress, a couple of pillows and a few suitcases. Most of our things had arrived from Kuwait by ship till Chennai, and from there by road to Pune. The tin trunks and even the factory packed fridge, washing machine and stove took quite a beating. The house had no furniture and was still being painted so I was unable to open anything to check the state of their contents. This was a mistake as I could not claim the insurance. As the first rains had fallen on the very evening the goods were delivered, and the tin trunks had arrived damaged; this resulted in water seeping into the trunks and spoiling many of the books, clothes and other items in them. We had tried to pack them the best way we knew, using a lot of newspaper and tape yet we had been careless and perhaps even stupid. My advice to anyone who is shipping their goods is crate as many things as possible. Spend freely on bubble wrap and thermacol and see to it that your parcels are waterproofed. In the end the little expense and trouble will save a great deal. After I had buried my prized china; a gorgeous plate with a sea scene from Iraq, hand painted plates from Southern Africa, and some other items lovingly cherished for years, I began the salvage operation.. The fridge had a leak and all its gas was lost. The filter of the washing machine was totally punched in. The stove luckily had escaped without much trauma. I was lucky to find repairmen who were familiar with many of the latest models available abroad. They were also extremely scrupulous, professional and reasonable. All my household items are now in a working condition thanks to them.
Getting a gas connection was another problem. Wherever I went I was told that the company was not giving new connections for the next six months. They gave me a number, said they would be in touch and whispered under their breath that I should not hold mine. For a while we used a camp stove. Then one day I was directed to a lady in the village close by who had taken a gas agency. A very enterprising young lady, she is extremely meticulous and her favourite phrase is ‘no problem’. So far I have had none.
I faced many problems simply because I did not know where to buy things from. For months I was unable to do a simple thing like getting curtains stitched as most shops refused to stitch cloth that had not been bought from them. Finding a choice of hardware and lights etc was also very hard. Since then I have discovered places like Laxmi Road and Bori Ali which offer almost everything a person needs and at much reduced prices than Camp. Exploring the many lanes and by lanes here can help in considerably reducing the cost of many items needed while setting up house.
I think that the worst among my problems was not any of ones I have mentioned before but the auto rickshaw wallahs here. Their rudeness and unreasonable demands made life hell in the beginning. They cottoned on right at the start that we new little about the place. Many simply said they did not have a tariff card so we had to pay whatever they asked. Once, on returning after a week-end in Mumbai, we were conned by a rick guy who showed me a card, saying the tariffs had increased two days back. It was only later I realized that I had only looked at the amount he had shown with his finger and not at the card, which actually was a Mumbai card. Getting out of the house became a problem as we had to walk a long way before we got a rick. Returning home became a major problem too as the complex we had chosen to live in, was a little away from the main road; they refused to come there without being paid at least 30 – 40 rupees extra. Often it was nearly impossible to find a rick even then. Many times I stood out for over an hour, often in the rain but no rick would have the decency to stop. I caught on very fast that they never had change, even if their pockets were bursting with it. They had no scruples about pocketing the difference if you were unlucky enough not to carry change. Evenings out became impossible as the mental stress generated by the rickshaw wallahs dissipated any pleasure we might have got out of a movie or dining out. Planning simple outings or trips became a nightmare. I know there are others out there who have had similar experiences, and will not think I exaggerate when I say that if I hated living in Pune in those first months, it was mainly because of the rickshaw guys. I sorted out the rickshaw problem by taking the cell numbers of every driver with a cell, who was good enough to drop us home without asking for extra money, or fighting half the way. Before that I had to take one to the police station, and threaten another with dire consequences, though I had no idea what they would have been. Fortunately he was unaware of my ignorance. Finally I have a list of decent men on my cell phone, who come to our building and do not put down the meter, till I am actually in the rick.
There is also a maid mafia in our complex and they control the rates and the hours. If one maid works for longer hours for less money she is soon dissuaded by the others. They never give one house more than two to three hours, often running from house to house leaving half the work undone. Many have ingenious ways of relieving the kitchens of extra rations. Our complex has many young, working couples who have no options but to give in to their demands. This makes it really difficult for others on lower incomes, who have no choice but to comply with their unreasonable demands. The maids knowing they have full control take as many days off as they like. There are others who operate differently, making the women of the house totally dependent on them and then asking for loans regularly, which the latter then find difficult or often impossible to refuse. For the time being I am lucky with my maid but I really have not found a workable solution to this. I think only if whole neighborhoods united can this and the auto problem be solved. It is not easy to find such a collective will.
Another bad experience I have had has been with home tuitions. The agencies offering tutor services ask for complete payment in advance. This puts the parents completely in their hands. When one makes an enquiry they are promised the moon, two hours of tuitions five days a week, completion of portion and revision, and one free class, so you can try out the tutor. Of course once the money is in their hands then so are you. The timings are erratic; the five days become four and change so often that one loses track completely. The portion too is completed at the speed of light and two days before the exam the tutor says that no revision was promised.
Home tuitions offer a great service and a very necessary one, as school teachers are not allowed to coach their students, so a few words of advice. Get it all in writing with the signature of the owner of the agency (you have no idea how fast staff changes here) and the tutor. If they refuse, dangle the carrot of needing tuitions all year long or tell them you have had a terrible experience with another agency before, and need to do this. Do not pay the money before you have that in writing and if possible break the amounts into two or three payments. They might insist on a complete initial payment but you can still try. Follow your child’s progress. See what lessons are required to be done, and see to it that the tutor explains slowly and properly, and that the child follows the explanations. Do not accept the tutor’s words for it. Ask him to give homework and to correct it. Make sure that the portion is completed and so is the revision. I seriously think that some kind of law should be made to regulate these people.
Another piece of advice I can offer based on my experiences here is information. Read the papers, browse the net, talk to people, and gather as much information as possible. When you file all this information make a mental note that at least 50% of it is doubtful or not to be wholly depended upon. Many of my problems only occurred because I took the words of others to be the Gospel truth. The only truth here is that we all have different and varying experiences and what might be right for others might not be right for you. Spend some time getting to know the city; it is a huge sprawling place so it will occupy many hours, but it will be worth it in the end. Compile a list of telephone numbers, if a workman comes to your house to do some work, save his mobile number on your cell as well as write it down in a phone book. Take telephone numbers of shops you go to. Most grocery stores deliver and this can save time and hassle. While reading the ads in the paper, write down numbers you come across, someone offering cable connection or the net or even a taxi to Mumbai or anything. You never know when you will need that number at a click. Keep your eyes open as you travel. Simply observing what you pass can teach you much, and that information can be really useful later on. Make a list of things you need to do and plan your route in such a way that you can do as much as possible without taking detours. This way you save time and money. When I go to pay my electricity bill, I also buy my fruits and vegetables and groceries as they all are in the same place. If I have to go to Kondwa I also do all that I have to in Camp. Simple things often simplify life.
It has now been a few months since we arrived here; it has been an uphill climb with some bad experiences being unique only to us. There has also been some unrest and a few incidences, since we have been here. One day was especially harrowing when my child was in school and a few people decided to stone the school’s buses. Today though, I think we have ironed out much and settled down to a relatively wrinkle free existence. Pune offers many pleasures and we have enjoyed some of them. We have also enjoyed the different seasons and the flora and fauna. Though we have not made many friends, we know many people.
I would have preferred a cleaner, less polluted Pune, with more landscaping on the roads but overall, it has been extremely pleasant. Learning about places, cultures, people, has been an enriching experience. We have discovered good places to shop and some pleasant gardens. Each day we learn some more and we live some more.
No place is perfect, but most places can with a little trying, be made to fit our needs. Pune is no exception.
We lived in Pune for 4 years. After all the initial hiccups we settled down and enjoyed our life there. I enjoyed the greenery in our apartment gardens and beyond, The gardens were full of trees and birds and behind our buildings there were farms and marshes. It was enjoyable to walk in the farms in the evenings. I sighted many birds, purple sunbirds, fork tailed drongo, raptors like kites, shikras, etc but the ones I loved the most were the lapwings which plaintively called from across the darkened marshes in the heart of the night. I would sit out in my balcony watching the birds in the trees outside and the squirrels running up and down the the branches. It was a peaceful way to while away a few hours in the mornings. Beyond the trees were fields and beyond those in the distance were the new constructions, the marching army of concrete but these were still far away. In Pune I started writing for a weekly and that helped me to know the city better than if I had just lived there as a returning expat. I was really pleased with my choice of place. It enriched me in so many ways.
My elder daughter completed her MBA from Pune University while my younger daughter completed her schooling from an International School. During this time we often returned to Kuwait so it was difficult to find the time to travel within India. We did however use weekends to go home to the family in Mumbai and when my husband visited or my family from Mumbai visited we travelled to the many hill stations around. I will be adding writings from those days here and maybe photos also.
Destination Nashik
Last weekend we decided to visit Nashik. It is roughly 200 km away from Pune and for a few km from the Nashik Phata the road is pretty good. Once the toll road ends though, we come to a two lane highway, one lane going either way, though the road surface is still good. The road goes through some developed areas but also passes through villages and scenic farmlands. There are a number of bridges over rivers on the way and it can be quite a pleasant drive. Once we had traveled during a full moon night and the moon reflected in the rivers looked very beautiful. The dark valleys, as we went over ghats, with looming mountains silhouetted against a bright sky and few lights twinkling occasionally, also looked wonderful in the moonlight. Night driving though is not recommended because while the back of all trucks strongly advise the use of dipper, truck drivers almost never practice what they so fervently preach. The drive without stops can take roughly four hours. Often trucks and other heavy vehicles drive without any backlights and a speeding car can hit one before it is even aware of its presence, therefore extreme caution is advised while driving at night. There are places on the highway to freshen up and grab a snack similar to the ones found on the Mumbai Expressway.
Nashik, lies along the Godavari River, 565m above sea level and boasts of a pleasant climate through most of the year. There are a number of lakes and dams in its vicinity. Though it lacks the stunning mountains of the more popular hill stations of the Western Ghats, it still has much to offer and makes a few days visit worth while. The hills and mountains actually are never very far away. The monsoons are the ideal time to visit here, as they bring out the complete beauty of the landscape. The rain here is very light and can be a pleasure to walk in. The hills and countryside are painted in shades of green which can be enjoyed without the cloud covers of the other hill stations. The trees, bushes and even the fields abound in bird life. A number of places can be visited making Nashik the base..
Shirdi, Sinnar, Trimbakeshwar, the source of the Godavri, the Dudhsagar Falls at Someshwar, which are especially beautiful in the Monsoon, are close by and can be visited. Once as a child I had visited Sinnar with my brother and we had discovered the ancient Gondeshwara temple, which I felt was beautiful. There are a number of beautiful temples and ghats in Nashik, as is Panchvati ( Five Banyan Trees) and Sita Gumpha (Sita’s Cave).
From Pathardi phata, opposite the beautifully landscaped Taj Hotel, the road leads to Deolali Camp, through the artillery areas. To the right, one can see Trirashmi Hill, atop which are located the 2000 year old Pandulena or Pandavleni Caves, a group of 24 Hinayana Buddhist Caves dating from around the 1st century BC to the 2nd AD. The caves are rich in inscriptions throwing light on the history of the Satavahana and Kushana dynasties. Water tanks have been cleverly crafted into the rock. My brother used to take me there when I was a child.
The road proceeds through beautiful farmland, with lush green fields and vineyards on either side, till it reaches the little town of Deolali Camp. Deolali still maintains much of its earlier flavour of a sleepy place, though signs of the twenty first century also abound. The large number of sanatoriums, bear witness to its popularity since decades. Even now it is a lovely place to spend a few quiet days. Walking on most of the roads except the main ones is a very pleasurable experience. Overgrown gardens and old villas give a feeling of time standing quite still. Cool temperatures, light drizzles, abounding greenery, and the purple mountains in the distance all go to make it a rewarding experience.
One exquisitely beautiful place we have visited time and again is Bhandardara, near Igatpuri. Bhandardara about 80 km away, can be taken in on a day trip from Nashik but there are cottages available for a longer stay. Lake Arthur and Wilson dam, almost 150 metres above sea level on the Pravara river, are beautiful and the drive through the Sahyadri range surrounded by thick forests, green mountain slopes with small picturesque villages, rivers and waterfalls is not to be missed. Close to Wilson Dam is Kalsubai, the highest peak of the Sahyadris. Once visited, the sheer beauty of this sight beckons repeatedly. Randha Falls, about 11 km from Bhandardara are an unbelievably picturesque sight during the monsoons and I would not be surprised if they have figured in many song and dance routines in films.
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Taking an auto rickshaw ride for 14 km at 6 am, might sound too much, but on the morning of 8th Sept, it was just beautiful and reminded me more than ever why we moved here. Even that early and on a Saturday morning, school kids were out waiting for their buses or rides. It was still quite darkish as we left our compound; the lazy sun stayed rolled in its cloudy quilt, barely opening an indolent eye and there was a nip in the air. The usual glorious sunrise over the river, was absent when we passed the bridge and took a short cut across the army cantonment area, passing their parade grounds and houses with well maintained gardens and beautiful official buildings, remnants from colonial times. This part was about the same as any other Cantonment town, anywhere in India. It is the army that maintains places most beautifully and it is always a delight to visit them.
The drive to the school was more or less a blur, then we and by ‘we’ I mean the Paranoid Mother’s Group, of which I am the supreme world leader, spent an hour, till the buses finally set off to take the kids for their trek in the hills. The kids in this particular school, even the Indian nationals, are almost all from countries other than India, and for many, this trek was a strange and new experience and hence the show of extreme neurosis.
All the buses had to leave together, but after two had passed, a pair of donkeys came and stood between them and the third bus, simply refusing to move. Now this is not so strange because the human: donkey ratio of this part of Pune is almost equal, though it is hard to say, for sometimes you can’t tell them apart. The PMG whipped out the cameras they had carried along but had been afraid to use, for fear of the kids’ embarrassment and protests. Finally the donkeys gave us the chance to take pictures, even if it was only of the retreating backs of the buses and the stubborn donkeys. For some reason none of the members of the PMG thought of shooing away the donkeys, maybe subconsciously we wanted to hold on to our beloved babies for a few minutes more, fearing they would come back all changed and grown up. This climb on slippery mud on some faraway mountain suddenly seemed to appear as some new fangled initiation rite into adulthood. Finally one donkey had the bright idea of shoving the other one like telling him “get out of the way you ass” with his nose. The other guy, who was a bit thick, took some time to get the message but finally both of them moved out and with a sigh of relief the buses headed off.
Even after the buses left we hung around chatting, as women are wont to do when they come together for any reason. I normally don’t need a reason and can pick a conversation in the strangest of places, even supermarket queues and by the time we have finished, e mails and phone numbers have been exchanged and a firm friendship established. Finally after about thirty minutes we all parted and I took my rickshaw back home and this time sat back and enjoyed the ride and the scenery.
I love the wild unkempt look this city takes on in the monsoon, like it is rebelling against all the so called progress and development and trying to make a last ditch effort to revert to its original state. How beautiful it must have been once, before the buildings replaced the rolling hills. Some places which have somehow miraculously survived the degeneration, at least for the present, bear a mute witness to this. One of my favourites is an open ground, once again luckily defence land, that is covered by aged, almost ancient banyan trees. A banyan tree is a beautiful entity, its just spreads as it grows, its adventitious roots growing out from the branches; give it a wide, shady and rambling look. We passed the market of fresh fruits and vegetables, and the little bridge over the tiny brook, sadly quite polluted now, and then on to Prince of Wales Drive. This is one of my favourite roads here in Pune, with its old, sprawling bungalows and overgrown, wild gardens. Each driveway looks so inviting but they can only be admired from the outside. One of the gates, declaring the eccentricity of the owner of the house, once proclaimed “Beware of ferocious dogs and ghosts” This was found humourous by one and all. I even thought I would send him a little note saying, “Please tie up the ferocious dogs, coming in to meet to the ghosts” Sadly, I lost my opportunity to photograph it by my usual bad habit of procrastination and now the sign has been gone, hopefully the proprietorship of the house has not passed on from the eccentric owner to some developer. I fervently pray that these lovely old houses never find their way into the hands of insensitive, greedy and unethical builders.
There are many pretty places on this road, like the Bishop’s house and St. Patrick’s Church, the beautiful and extensive botanical gardens called Empress gardens, named after Queen Victoria, once Empress of India. Then there is the Bhairoba canal that brings water from Khadakvasla dam, the Terriers nursery, etc.
There is also a vast open ground, which is sometimes used by the Bhatkya Jatis (Nomadic Tribes) for camping. These people always intrigue me whenever I see them. They travel everywhere by foot with all their worldly belongings loaded in vast net bags, on their horses. The women dressed in traditional, colourful sarees load and unload the horses and set up camp wherever they go. They also sell herbal medicines and the men herd sheep and goats. When they travel they walk in a straight line along with their horses and it is a very picturesque sight. I have often wanted to learn more about them but never had the courage to go up to them and ask questions. Maybe next time, so I always keep an eye out for them whenever I pass this particular ground, where I have seen them a few times before.
One of the most interesting places we pass is the Royal Western India Turf Club or let’s just say the racecourse. On any day it is a beautifully verdant place but of course more so in the monsoons. It is also during the monsoons that the Pune racing season is held and the horses come out to train every morning. These stunning thoroughbreds are walked or ridden to the race course, from stables close by. For a few hours, one can watch these noble and beautiful animals going up and down from the country lane, II Victoria Road, where there are stable facilities for about 600 horses. We followed the animals into the lane and passed them and a moment later two little school girls, with their pigtails tied up with ribbons and their heads close together, talking earnestly as they walked to school. Turning left again we drove up the road passing more rambling gardens and homes. Outside on old bungalow, a cream colour Morris Minor stood a reminder of a slower, more leisurely era.
Most of this was army area, the grounds were covered with grass and the thick, lush hedges with tiny, brightly coloured flowers made a very attractive sight. Driving down the lane where I lived, about 2 km away from the main road, the lovely creepers growing on chain linked fences around the small houses caught my eyes. The rain washed leaves, gleamed clean and glowed golden, in the morning sunlight. It was a glorious sight and I sighed in pleasure. It was one more reminder of why I loved this city so.
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Another Version of the Above
Every weekday morning I have to drive halfway across town from Kalyani Nagar to NIBM, to drop my daughter to school. It is perhaps the most pleasurable part of my day.
Often these days the sun is still lying lazily wrapped up in its thick quilt of clouds. We leave our complex with its twittering sparrows, raucous mynas, melodious bulbuls and abundant surroundings of sugarcane fields and head out towards the main Kalyani Nagar road, passing first of all a large meadow of sorts. Grass, wildflowers and reeds grow in riotous profusion here. Egrets roost in the overhead eucalyptus trees and a sweeper or two busily sweeps the leaves fallen from the previous night, off the pavements. The homes along the meandering lane range from humble village dwellings to bigger but yet unassuming houses. Creepers grow profusely through the chain link fences and a garden or two displays gorgeous vivid blossoms. The steps of the smaller houses are an important part of the social life of their residents and often offer some visual treat or the other; a curled up pet dog, an old grandma sitting and leisurely sipping tea from a saucer, cute little ones playing.
The river we pass over perhaps offers the least pleasure, with its smell, banks littered with plastic bags and foam floating on it. This though, is soon forgotten by the sight of beautiful rambling banyan trees in Koregaon Park’s inner lanes. If we take the main road we usually see a number of interesting people from all over the world who have come to the Osho Ashram. There is an old western gentleman who sits on the pavement reading the newspaper most mornings, who looks like a character straight out of a book.
If we take the road to Ghorpuri, we go through the Cantonment area, passing their parade grounds and houses with well maintained gardens and beautiful official buildings; remnants from colonial times. Once again we are delighted by the many banyan trees and walls and fences decorated with creepers, displaying pretty little pink flowers. If it has rained the previous night, everything appears bright, fresh, clean and doubly beautiful. I love the wild unkempt look this city takes on in the monsoon, like it is rebelling against all the so called progress and development and trying to make a last ditch effort to revert to its original state. How beautiful it must have been once, before the buildings replaced the rolling hills.
After passing two level crossings and Ghorpuri village we come to Victoria Road, another one of my favourite places. Much of the charm of Pune lies in these lanes as in others like them. Outside on old bungalow, a cream colour Morris Minor stands, a reminder of a slower, more leisurely era. Race horses are stabled here during the Pune racing season and every morning we can see these stunning thoroughbreds walked or ridden to the race course. The bright verdant spread of the racecourse is another visual delight, as is the contrasting, sprawling wild look of the Empress gardens opposite it.
Facing the gardens, there is a small pool formed by the overflow from a broken wall in the pumping station nearby. This pool is used by various people for different purposes. In the mornings washer men bring clothes on motorcycles and wash them here, vegetable sellers arriving from the villages, wash their vegetables in it to give them a fresh look before they go to the market, auto drivers wash their auto rickshaws in it and sometimes you can even find a half submerged Indica Taxi merrily bathing in it. On hot summer days it is just a pleasant place to relax by under the shade of the many trees.
There are other treats on this road, like the Bishop’s House and the St, Patrick’s Church.
A vast open ground belonging probably to the abandoned old relic besides it, is often used as a camping ground for Bhatkya Jatis or the nomadic tribes. These people always intrigue me whenever I see them. They travel everywhere by foot with all their worldly belongings loaded in vast net bags, on their horses. The women dressed in traditional, colourful sarees load and unload the horses and set up camp wherever they go. They also sell herbal medicines and the men herd sheep and goats. When they travel they walk in a straight line along with their horses and it is a very picturesque sight.
One of our favourite roads here in Pune is Prince of Wales Drive, with its old, sprawling bungalows and overgrown, wild gardens. Each driveway looks so inviting but they can only be admired from the outside. One of the gates, declaring the eccentricity of the owner of the house, once proclaimed “Beware of ferocious dogs and ghosts” This was found humourous by one and all. I even thought I would send him a little note saying, “Please tie up the ferocious dogs, we are coming in to meet to the ghosts” Sadly, I lost my opportunity to photograph it by my usual bad habit of procrastination and now the sign has been gone. Even the sight of the new buildings of Wanowrie is unable to take away from the pleasure of the previous thirty minutes and after I drop my daughter off to school, I sigh in contentment at the prospect of the drive back home. It is just one of the reasons I love this city so.
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September has meant different things at different times. When we used to live in Kuwait it had meant returning back to the hot desert and to school after a month or two with family in India. September then was not looked forward to in the least. If we had stayed behind in Kuwait, then it was looked forward to, as the heat began to abate and we had pleasant evenings and mornings after putting up with temperatures that were known to zoom to 60 degrees C in July and August.
It also meant ‘ we only have five days to hurry up and finish those summer projects before school begins again’.
One year they had to make the Congo, a hut and a desert. Those were very pretty projects, the Congo was made on a sheet of thermacol and had a little mountain with small trees made with toothpicks and green and brown crepe paper, and a river painted in shades of blue, flowing through. There were many many more trees in the valley and little plastic replicas of African animals (No tigers, tigers are Asian; don’t they teach teachers that!).
The desert had three sized camels, (printed out stuck on card paper and cut out), making a straight line caravan, over real sand dunes ( easy when you live in the desert, cannot use beach sand though, desert sand is much finer).
The hut was made of straw and palm leaves, with a little chart paper well outside, and goats, sheep and cows grazing on green crepe paper grass. Sadly this mom then was not so handy with a camera and has nothing to show. Well she was actually, but it is another long story.
My younger daughter’s best friend has her birthday in September, so we could be late going back for school but we could never be late for her birthday on tenth September.
My eldest niece has her birthday on 5th September, one night we decided to wish her at midnight as soon as her birthday began. So we rushed to my sister’s home armed with bouquets only to find that everyone was fast asleep. A sleepy bemused servant opened the door to let in what seemed an army of aunts, uncles and flowers. We woke the poor girl up from the dreams only a teen can see, to force our wishes on her sleepy state.
My sister who wakes early, woke at 5 am to wonder where the flowers had come from in the middle of the night.
Once she wanted to dance in the rain (niece not sister) so her party was held on the open terrace and we all had to get wet if we wanted to attended it. The guest list for birthdays normally includes relatives, friends and neighbours, so there were a lot of us getting wet that evening. Luckily for her even the rain co-operated. It was fun, it was wet and as souvenirs some of us got the sniffles.
Now September’s coming means the last of the good weather. October here is normally hot. Monsoons in Pune are pleasant and most enjoyable generally. In September though the monsoon is making its presence felt with a bang. It is showing its reluctance to go and throwing petulant, often even angry tantrums every second day, resulting in a sound and light show and a deluge for awhile.
One can wake up to a patchy blue sky and by afternoon it can turn grey and with a few fireworks the downpour can begin; as it is doing now. The sky cleared for awhile but is becoming threateningly grey again.
The other day the clouds gave us plenty of warning. It was a Thursday I remember, and the powers that be have decided for some reason known only to them, that Thursday should be loadshedding day. That means that unless we are very very lucky, on Thursday there is no electricity. This Thursday we were NOT lucky. Yes, we had no power as in no lights, no fridge, (yikes melted icecream), no washing machine and no iron (yippee no laundry), no microwave ( no quickly heated snacks and tidbits, no rice cooker (the maid gets to burn the rice on the stove again), and horror of horrors no computer!!! No Chat! Luckily we have generator back up so the elevator works and common areas are usually lit up, we also usually have two lights one in the drawing room and one in the kitchen. I said usually but that day was an unusual day. So there we sat in the growing dark.
The clouds took a few hours to congregate, but perhaps they were not happy to meet their fellow clouds for every time a few more rolled in, there would be angry roars from above. That was certainly not a happy get together. By five the expected downpour began, though not to last for days as they do in Bombay but less than an hour. For all their preparation they might as well make it worthwhile and rain away for a few days. of course then we would be housebound, in the dark, without even a comp, which is an unbearable thought.
After the rains stopped the western sky turned a deep yellow, colouring the world with its glow, making it appear like it was being viewed through an amber filter. The east maintained its paleness. All the drama is normally in the west where trees jiving and leaves dancing in strong winds and enthralling sunsets through vividly painted clouds, are the norm. Having a balcony on either side affords me plenty of moments to mull over the difference on both sides, separated by the barrier of our seven storey apartment block, of ten buildings.
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We rush through the days, cursing the pollution and the traffic, always in a hurry to be somewhere else. It is very rare that a person takes time off from the busy daily grind to just look around and spare a glance for the beauty that is so abundant, especially in this season. Monsoon is a time of grace, bringing new colors into our lives. It covers every inch of exposed brown ground with a lovely verdant cloak and adds lovely and vivid wildflowers to fallow fields, hillsides and vacant lots, turning them into beautiful meadows. Nature’s palette though isn’t satisfied with colouring the Earth but also turns its full talent on to the sky. Imaginative children still catch animals, birds and even dragons in the firmament which quickly turn to witches, monsters, fairies or even people. There is nothing a creative child cannot spy in the cloudscapes but we as adults have perhaps forgotten the wonder of those times. Sometimes sunlight falls filtered through clouds and seems like blessings are being beamed down from the sky. Often on full moon nights the wind plays with gauzy clouds that move this way and that like chiffon curtains around the moon, sometimes hiding, sometimes displaying its radiance. It seems that an ever dissatisfied nature is trying to perfect itself. The best though are the sunsets when the westerly sky often offers tableaus which are both wonderful and quite distinct. Sunsets can be witnessed from many of the bridges in the city. As the sun goes down the temperature drops and cool breezes add to the pleasure of the evening. The last rays of the setting sun are caught by clouds and the whole sky is ablaze in colours that darken and change almost every minute from golden to orange to deeper reds, as the sun goes lower. The light caught by the clouds lingers in lovely hues for quite a while and the once cerulean sky turns to darker blues and purples, till finally dusky darkness envelops both Earth and the Heavens.
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3 am here in India, sleep is far away from my eyes. I lay down under the children’s starry ceiling trying to sleep. Bats wanted clouds and the sky on her wall but as I could not find someone to paint that, so we compromised by getting a starry ceiling. The first night we had moved here we had brought nothing more than a mattress some sheets, pillows and our clothes. There wasn’t a stick of furniture and the house still smelt of paint. The lights from a distant construction site threw shadows of the tall trees dancing in the wind, on the wall. I swore the first thing I would do the next morning was put up curtains. The silence and the shadows were eerie. Though the buildings were populated with people, behind lay a dark marsh. By nine pm most of the people went to bed. We were unused to such early hours. Earlier we had gone for a walk in the garden and met no one except the security guards. Most of the lights had been switched off. Suddenly that night as we lay trying to find sleep, a commotion erupted. The night watchmen began wildly blowing their whistles, stray dogs were barking somewhere outside and we could hear the sounds of running feet. The whistles went on for a while then finally everything quietened again. Finally with trepidation we fell into a disquiet sleep.
Weaving Tapestries, Painting Pictures, Dreaming Dreams 