A Sacred Forest Before Breakfast

“There’s a trip to a sacred forest outside Delhi,” said my friend. “But you have to get up at 5.30am. Can you make it?” Well – sacred forests are rare in this neck of the woods, if you see what I mean, so it was a chance not to be missed, especially as our guide was to be Pradip Krishan - charismatic author of a gem of a book -“Trees of Delhi”.

Leaving the main road and Gurgaon’s skyscrapers behind, we bounced over a red earth track into a landscape of thorny scrub and quartzite boulders. Would this have been the scene that greeted Delhi’s many invaders – Tughlak, Timur and Co - as their armed hordes descended on the city? Not quite – one of the most common trees around us was mesquite - an aggressive alien from South America unwisely introduced by the British into the planting scheme for New Delhi. Since then it has followed the example of human conquerors and spread everywhere.

But Pradip summoned us to a rocky outcrop, where we gazed into a steep valley full of uniformly sage-green foliage. This, said Pradip triumphantly, was the sacred forest and the nearest thing to the original tree cover of Delhi. It was uniform because all the trees were one. Not just one species - the dhau - but probably literally- one individual. Dhau had perfected cloning long before Dolly the sheep was ever thought of. It spreads by suckers, so all the trees of the valley probably grew from a single specimen and are genetically identical.

There was a crashing noise and a peacock, all turquoise and bronze, flew in a stately way across the valley to land in a tree close to us. Peacocks are quite bulky birds and you rarely see them so far off the ground.

On the valley floor, just one or two large banyans with dark emerald leaves broke the grey-green sea and at the top of the slope were frankincense trees with their scented gum. Down to the left, we could see the top of a very slim dome marking the shrine to the Baba to whom the forest was sacred.

Pradip said, and I’m still not sure if he was serious (you can’t always tell), that the Baba had a bee in his bonnet about thin domes and even wrote a treatise on how thin a dome could be. Indeed, the dome on his shrine is a monument to all that is svelte.

Sometime in the last century, so the story goes, the Baba, feeling his time had come, walked into a cave in the hillside and never re-appeared. The shrine marks the cave-mouth. “But you never know”, said Pradip a tad irreverently, “he may have walked right through the hill and still be wandering around on the other side!”

Ever since the the holy man’s disappearance, the herdsman of the area (the Gujjars) have protected the forest around his shrine. Pradip says he has even seen people dragging their animals back from the forest edge, so that none of the trees should be damaged.

Watching out for stray Babas, we dropped down into the valley, meeting a sleek tame antelope, a grizzled black dog and a grinning puppy on the way, and walked up the stream-bed to the white-washed shrine. From unglazed windows under the slim dome we gazed out at the lattice of tree-tops touched by the morning light.

Then someone suggested dosas for breakfast and spurred by the thought we sweated back up the slope to the busy world beyond the valley.

Photos by Barbara

Huts, Houseboats and Heartlessness

“If I was going through the jungle and I saw a tiger and a Kashmir government officer I would first shoot the officer.”

Thus spake my husband today on hearing the news that the Dal Development Board, in charge of the lakes around Srinagar, Kashmir, were planning to remove the waterside huts where the houseboat families live.

Many years ago, houseboat families did not live on land. Instead they lived in dhoonga boats, smaller narrower boats than the ones they let out to tourists. Here they raised their children and cooked for guests in the big houseboats.

Then along came the 18 or so years of militancy when the tourist trade plummeted and, to add to the houseboat community’s woes, the Government raised the price of the pine wood required for houseboat construction. As a result, when the dhoongas needed repair the owners could not afford to buy the necessary material.

Having no alternative, the families built huts made from cheap timber on the land they leased from the Government. The huts were not strictly legal and were not pretty but they served a purpose.

Now that Kashmir is limping towards some sort of normalcy, the Dal Development Board, under pressure from some grant-giving body, is planning to remove all the huts from the lakeside. Yes, fine, they need to go at some point but first, in the name of pity, provide some place for the families to stay.

What are the houseboat people supposed to do? Financially crippled by all the years of hardship, many do not have the resources to buy land to build alternative accommodation. And land prices have soared in the Kashmir Valley. What can they do? OK they could move into the boats they keep for tourists but then bang goes their chances of capturing some income this summer.

Sadly, the Houseboat Association, which should be fighting this threat tooth and nail, is badly divided and cannot present a strong and unified front. My mother-in-law, who has suffered greatly over the last 20 years, is frantic with worry. We are pressing ahead with an application for a housing loan to quickly complete the house we started last year. It has been a lousy year for business and we can’t afford it, but there is no choice.

Now I know what it’s like to be a lizard

Weeks ago I blogged cheerfully that winter was over and the heat was on its way! Well- I was wrong and it wasn’t! A cold wave has had India in its grip for the last three weeks or so. Kashmir vanished under 17 feet of snow in parts and even Mumbai had temperatures as low as 8 degrees C, which is unheard of.

Even ordinary winters in Delhi play havoc with your complexion. We really live in a desert and the desiccating cold means your skin resembles that of a very old lizard just before it moults. And it’s not only your face. Nails crack and peel, cuticles and heels split painfully and the rest of you has that tight itchy feeling that no amount of emollient seems to soothe.

Having a business dealing with delicate silk and wool fabrics is a nightmare because the slightest rough patch on a nail or finger can catch on and ruin an expensive shawl.

This year the lizard phase has gone on for much longer and I have run through not only two huge bottles of body lotion but also a gorgeous luxury bottle of oil from The Sanctuary in London, sent in an emergency parcel by a sympathetic friend.

But it is warmer now and things should improve. Tomorrow I plan to wear sandals for the first time in weeks.

Cold comfort

Two weeks ago was the festival of Lohri, a Punjabi celebration of harvest and the end of winter. Children hoard hard-to-come-by wood for weeks beforehand and fires are lit in the street in a proximity to houses that would make a fireman sweat. But no one worries too much about that. It’s a cheap and cheerful way to party. Hosts hand out peanuts and popcorn, wandering bands come to play a Punjabi beat and neighbours dance round the fires.

Everyone assured me that the day after Lohri it would suddenly get warm. Delhi is a surprisingly chilly place in winter, especially when the winds blow down from the Himalayan glaciers up north. The houses are designed for summer heat and concrete and marble are unfriendly when temperatures hover around 7 degrees C.

Now, two weeks after Lohri, it’s colder than ever. Writing this, I’m wearing tights, two pairs of trousers, a thermal vest, sweater and fleece. And I have a blanket over my knees.

But Delhi being Delhi, it won’t be long before we are complaining about the heat as usual.

Loss to the World

Last Thursday, I was sitting down to blog something lighthearted about Christmas  in Delhi when news of the attack on Benazir Bhutto came through. Suddenly my pictures of kids in Santa hats and jolly remarks about our ethnically mixed Christmas dinner seemed utterly inappropriate.

We watched the unfolding news with mounting horror. Kashmiris are emotional and Tahir in particular was terribly upset. What distressed the family most was that a violent attack had been mounted on a woman - an unforgivable act for a true Muslim. Not completely understanding this I kept saying, predictably, that it was wrong to kill any leader - male or female. This elicited slightly reluctant agreement.

As moderates, the family are also saddened by the further blow this heinous act strikes at the already battered image of Muslims worldwide. Kashmir, despite its recent bloody history, has a tradition that stresses the love, peace and brotherhood within Islam. Tahir particularly admired Benazir as a great role model for modern Muslim women.

A TV image that stays with me is the sight of Benazir’s coffin leaving the hospital for the flight to her home district for burial. Borne aloft above the heaving crowd, it tipped and swayed alarmingly and at times seemed in danger of falling. Not only that, but the lid was only lightly tacked down and one corner had already come open. As the pale wooden box slanted towards the camera you could see, through the glass pane at the head end, the dark blue tunic and white scarf Benazir had worn for her last and fatal rally. It seemed an undignified way to handle the mortal remains of a woman of such importance but, as the people doing the handling were her devoted supporters, I don’t suppose Benazir would have minded.

Local economy unravels

New town planning regulations or new enforcement of old ones- no one is quite sure which - have driven businesses from basements all over Delhi. Commercial activity in basements in most areas has been declared illegal and those who flout the rules may have their workplaces sealed with all the stock inside. A month ago, throughout our district of Lajpat, people were emerging from their basement workshops and showrooms and scurrying around trying to find new premises with an increasing air of desperation.

Some like us, were lucky, and found a perch. The others have left in cars, autos and tempos with their stock, machines and workers to set up again in Delhi’s outskirts. More than 5000 people quit the neighbourhood over a space of two weeks. Suddenly it was quiet, the roads no longer choked with traffic, the chai and samosa sellers idle. Photocopy shops, printers and stationers that served local businesses are feeling the pinch and will soon be gone too.

The local economy, never robust, is unravelling before our eyes. Basements are now illegal so the ground floor shops that have been authorised are charging huge rents that many cannot afford. With the loss of so many people from the district, takings in all local shops are substantially down. To add to the misery, the closure of basement storage facilities means that the chemists and grocers can’t store extra goods close at hand.

Before the trouble began you would go to our tiny pharmacist and ask for some medicine or other. If he didn’t have it on his shelves he would send a boy to the “go-down” a couple of blocks away to fetch extra supplies. Now he can’t do that. Instead, he will ask you to wait a couple of days for stock to come in from the outermost parts of Delhi. In the worst case supplies have to come in from one of the states bordering the capital and be subject to interstate taxes, adding to the cost of daily living.

Small but real sadness

This has been a sad week. Four years ago, husband Tahir proudly set up a sizeable showroom in south Delhi. After years of struggle and working for others, he at last had a place of his own. Starting as an unprepossessing basement space, it became an Aladdin’s cave. From floor to ceiling, glass shelves glowed with a selection of brilliant silks and other textiles – zari work, block print, embroideries, tribal work, appliqué, patchwork and crewel – the colours and textures irresistible to all but the most unresponsive visitor.

This was Tahir’s stage and on it his salesmanship was pure theatre. Rhythmically and enticingly, gorgeous shawls and scarves were plucked one by one from their shelves and spread out with a flourish and an enquiring smile. Just a pause for the customer to appreciate the piece, then another would follow, and another and another, till the floor was knee-deep in glorious fabric and the mesmerised client begged for mercy!

The basement is there but Aladdin has gone, banished by new planning regulations affecting businesses in Delhi. Now, we’re in a small shop we were lucky to get and Tahir must sit on the floor to show his shawls. With a lot of hard work and the intrinsic beauty of the products, the place looks nice but, it has to be said, it’s not the same.

After the Fast – the Feast

Yesterday was Eid ul Fitr – the festival at the end of Ramadan and an occasion of much rejoicing. In Kashmir, India’s only majority Muslim state, feasting, dressing up and meeting up are the order of the day. It’s also one of the few times in the year when the police turn a blind eye to gambling! But for Kashmiri families like ours who are outposted in Delhi the Eid is bit subdued.

At the height of the ‘militancy’ there were lots of young single Kashmiri men in the Delhi and they used to come together for big parties at Eid. Now most are married and settled and we get just a trickle of visitors for tea and cakes. The saddest person in our house on this day is Asif, who works with us. He misses his family all the time I know, but especially today. Next year I hope he will spend the festival in his village.

But Asif’s Eid lunch was superb. Heavy fare with a light touch. Chicken with spinach, meat in yoghourt, cheese in tomato sauce, dum aloo (potato in curd) and spicy meatballs. My sole contribution a garlicky salad. After some spectacular culinary failures here, I stick to roasts, pasta, salads and English puddings. Can’t seem to master the grammar of Kashmiri spices. There are all sorts of rules, for example you must always add black cardamom to tomato to stop it tasting ‘fishy’.

Getting ready for this festival requires peculiarly flexible organisational skills. As the end of Ramadan approaches you cannot be sure exactly when the sliver of new moon will be seen and which day will be declared as the Eid. Last year we heard at 8pm that it was to be the next day. There was then a frenzy of shopping along with everyone else who’d got left behind – chickens, meat, cakes and biscuits, new clothes ­– all before the markets closed at 9.30 pm. Frantic but fun. Just imagine if that’s all the notice you got for Christmas! This year we were all prepared with a full fridge on the Friday to ensure full stomachs on Saturday, only to find the big day was Sunday!

A Cloud Passes

The festival season approaches and in Lajpat Nagar there’s a lot to celebrate. Thanks to manoeuvres in high places, a whole year’s worth of stress and worry has been lifted from the business community.

For the last 12 months or more Delhi has been in a planning crisis. Well – it’s had a planning crisis for a long time but recently matters came to a head.

When the British left in 1947, New Delhi was a garden city of tree-lined streets, low white bungalows, a smart colonnaded shopping centre and splendid government buildings interspersed with Mughal and other monuments.

Since then it has grown not only like Topsy but like all Topsy’s brothers sisters and cousins too. The tragedy of partition brought refugees from Punjab who settled in places like Lajpat Nagar and built lives and businesses with remarkable drive and energy. Afterwards came migrants from every part of India. Tamils from the south came as domestic helps and shop workers. Trouble in Kashmir impelled houseboat owners and others to morph into businessmen and to Delhi they came with their beautiful shawls and carpets.

In any part of Delhi, except the poshest, basements and ground floors hum with activity. Garments are made, embroidery is done and goods of all sorts are stored and or sold.

In the smart districts residents naturally object to such goings on but in our noisy Lajpat Nagar the residents are the ones who own the businesses.

Last year, the Supreme Court came out with orders banning commercial activity in residential areas. Premises were sealed in official raids; a terrible fate, especially if your stock was inside, as you never knew when it might be released.

For months “sealing” was on everyone’s lips, slightly qualified by. “When”, “Where next” and “Who”. People squirrelled away their stock and lay low. No one knew where they stood. Most were paying commercial house tax and electricity on their premises so their position was ambiguous. There were riots in some places and stress on everyone. Even small businesses support surprisingly large numbers of people. If the orders were fully enforced, there would be massive social unrest.

But now there’s a stay of execution. “Sealing-wealing”, as it’s known in local rhyming slang, has been stopped for 14 months while Government finds a solution. Last year Lajpat Nagar’s shops boycotted Diwali in protest, a massive gesture. This year they can celebrate as usual.

The Great Game

As I write, Lajpat Nagar is exploding in a cacophony of car horns, fireworks, drums, firecrackers and primal screams. India has just won the Twenty20 World Championship (cricket) against Pakistan in a nail-bitingly close match of exemplary sportsmanship and skill. For the last three hours not a car or rickshaw has moved in our street. When India were ahead firecrackers exploded and loud yells came from every living room: when India faltered a sepulchral silence settled on us all.

Now it’s like Diwali, Dusshera and Holi rolled into one. Herds of youths on motorbikes and scooters are streaking and weaving along the roads with two or three up and an Indian flag to top it off. Tahir says Lajpat Nagar always celebrates an Indian win over Pakistan with particular fervour because so many of the families here were driven from Pakistan at partition.

That may be true. At the moment however it’s all lots of good clean fun. Am glad there aren’t any pubs in the area and hope none of the boys fall off their motorbikes.

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