Gaganachukki Bharachukki Water Falls

This place is known by several names: Bluff, Shivanasamudra, Shimsha falls, Gaganachukki and Bharachukki Water Falls… enough to confuse those who do not know the place…

This trip was with family. Mom, Dad, Bro and yours truly.

There is so much scenic beauty in Karnataka around Bangalore and Mysore.

I enjoy the journey as much as the destination.

On both sides of the road one can see acres and acres of sprawling green fields. On those countless bus journeys between Bangalore and Mysore in the last few years, I have wished I could stop the driver, get down and stand before the fields, take in all the beauty around me and take some pictures too…

Our wishes are granted ...so often …

This time the driver was none other than my brother and I took full advantage of it…

Didn’t I tell you coconut tree is the most photogenic of all trees?
Like a fountain of fronds held together by a tall slender stem….
Like fireworks in the sky…
Like the pillars of a temple…


This is Gaganachukki falls.


We were not able to get down unlike the previous time. They had blocked the trail with barbed wires. A few of those intrepid but mindless fellows must have fallen and died… too bad…




We spent sometime here and drove towards Bharachukki water falls. Of the two falls, I like this one more. On the way we stopped at this place…



You pass by this place called Madhyaranga before you reach Bharachukki falls. This is a Ranganatha temple.



This is Bharachukki falls.



There are steps all the way down to the falls.


When we reached the bottom…



The brimming river hides a bed made of sharp rocks. Don’t even think about swimming here.



I wanted to float on one those charming boats but my kin would not let me…

All of us sat here for sometime and then returned to our car.

On our way back, we passed by some more beautiful fields.

A field of marigold … I wish this was my garden…



When I stand before a beautiful picture as this, I think green is the most beautiful colour… the colour of prosperity, the colour of nature, the colour of India…but then, when the clouds drift and the blue sky shows, I am not sure…

Kabhi Kabhi Mere Dil Mein......

This probably was the first poem that fell into my ears after I came into this world.

My parents were in Agra.
There was no television yet. All they had was a tape recorder and this cassette which had not just the songs of the movie Kabhi Kabhi, but the movie itself.
My parents would play this cassette everyday.

They did, of course, on many days go to the Taj Mahal and spend their evenings there, before the love monument.

I have grown up listening to this poem and the song that follows. Sometimes, it was somebody else’s poem. And sometimes, it was my poem. But every time I heard the verses, the experience was one full of poignance. In the voice of Amitabh Bachhan, the poem moves you. Even the air that carries the song would become still … such is this song.

It is a poem to be loved. But it’s not a poem to be lived.

Every few years, it became my song, my poem. The journey of life took me to this poem now and then…and the poem helped my tears flow freely, but I always thought I would find another poem, another song…eventually.

But this poem has stayed with me.

These lines haunt me now more than ever before.

I wonder if it was not merely incidental that my life should have started with this poem.
I wonder if it was not merely incidental that my life should have started with the love monument. For that’s what my life has been all about. Love, longing and living.

kabhi kabhi mere dil mein khayal aata hain
ki zindagi teri zulfon ki narm chhaon main guzarne pati
to shadab ho bhi sakti thi

yeh ranj-o-gham ki siyahi jo dil pe chhayi hai
teri nazar ki shuaon mein kho bhi sakti thi

magar yeh ho na saka …

magar yeh ho na saka aur ab ye aalam hai
ki tu nahin, tera gham teri justjoo bhi nahin

guzar rahi hai kuch is tarah zindagi jaise,
ise kisi ke sahare ki aarzoo bhi nahin

na koi raah, na manzil, na roshni ka suraag
bhatak rahi hai andheron mein zindagi meri

inhi andheron mein reh jaoonga kabhi kho kar
main janta hoon meri hum-nafas, magar yunhi
kabhi kabhi mere dil mein khayal aata hai

Lalbagh Flower Show Jan 09

The flower show at Lalbagh happens twice a year. Mid August (Independence Day) and Late Jan (Republic Day). The show lasts about a week.
I did go to Lalbagh in Aug 08. I think it was towards the end of the show that I visited the place. The flowers did not look fresh and since it was a weekend, the place was crowded.

This time, I went on a weekday, having informed my lead at work that I would come to office by noon. A group from Mysore had organized the show this time. It was indeed different from the arrangement last time. A major part of the arrangement was theme based and the flowers were not packed closely unlike last time but arranged in patterns such that you could see each arrangement distinctly. The theme was Krishna’s story.

I can’t stop being amazed at the infinite capacity of human beings for being creative and original. It’s surprising how, after living in this world for thousands of years and having perpetually created art and beauty of all forms, man has not exhausted his creative capacity!

This has been made out of banana leaves...

This section is based on the theme of Krishna's story. His birth in the prison, the matkas or pots filled with butter...

Govardhana parvatha episode...

This is raas lila...

Kalingamardhana... what an idea!!

Shishupala Samhara...

Sudhama's house...

Thats supposed to be a peacock...

Veena...









Thats the globe.. Peace...No War..

Ah! What roses... white petals with a tinge of blue...

The Moon And Sixpence - Somerset Maugham

My first ever book by Somerset Maugham. And I fell in love with the author.

The story is about a painter called Charles Strickland. And it isn’t quite a story. It’s character sketching.

What could possibly claim to make it a story however, is the extraordinary nature of the turn of events or the unexpectedness of the turn of events that eventually turned a most common man to a celebrated painter. (Please read the word extraordinary as out of ordinary or even abnormal).

Charles Strickland, a very common man whom no one would expect to notice anything in, one fine day, abandons all - family, hometown, job and leaves to Paris where he begins painting. He lives in a miserable condition but goes about his living without any complaint or expectation.
He later moves to an island where he paints some more, gets married, creates some masterpieces and dies of leprosy.

Since the protagonist was a man of idiosyncrasies or eccentricities, and chose to live in oblivion and showed no interest in anything or anyone particular, it can be said that the author’s undertaking to sketch his character was an impossible task.

The author has tried to construct the story of the man from episodes here and episodes there, glimpses here and glimpses there. Where the links are broken, the author tries to help with educated guesses that stem from his own understanding of man and life.

The book, in summary is the incomplete story of Charles Strickland. But it is so well written, full of character sketching, imagery and meaningful insights that it can be the work, only of a genius.

The book also has interesting incidents related to people the author knew in common with Strickland.

If you want to know how banality can be made interesting by way of narration, you should read this book. If you want to understand what ‘bringing out the beauty of the language’ is, then you should read this book.

The book is full of meaningful insights into the subtle workings of human psychology.

The faculty for myth is innate in the human race. It seizes with avidity upon any incidents, surprising or mysterious, in the career of those who have at all distinguished themselves from their fellows and invents a legend to which it then attaches a fanatical belief. It is the protest of romance against the commonplace of life.

I loved the last line.

It is not true that suffering ennobles the character; happiness does that sometimes, but suffering, for the most part, makes men petty and vindictive.

I agree. Suffering can make people cynical and bitter.

Everyone likes power. I can’t imagine a more wonderful exercise of it than to move the souls of men to pity or terror.

What I had taken for love was no more than the feminine response to caresses and comfort which in the minds of most women passes for it. It is a passive feeling capable of being roused for any object, as the vine can grow on any tree; and the wisdom of the world recognizes it’s strength when it urges a girl to marry the man who wants her with the assurance that love will follow. Its an emotion made up of the satisfaction in security, pride of property, the pleasure of being desired, the gratification of a household, and it is only by an amiable vanity that women ascribe to it, spiritual value. It is an emotion which is defenseless against passion…

Isn’t this the founding principle of the institution of arranged marriage? How beautifully, completely and vividly the author has explained this!

She may have had no particular feeling for him but succumbed to his wish from propinquity or idleness, to find then that she was powerless in a snare of her own contriving.

It is hard that a man’s exterior should tally so little sometimes with his soul.

He was always blundering. He had a real feeling for what was beautiful and the capacity to create only what was commonplace.

People talk of beauty lightly and having no feeling for words they use that one carelessly so that it loses its force.; and the thing it stands for sharing its name with a hundred trivial objects is deprived of dignity. They call beautiful a dress, a dog, a sermon and when they are face to face with Beauty, they cannot recognize it. The false emphasis with which they try to deck their worthless thoughts blunts their susceptibilities. Like the charlatan who counterfeits a spiritual force he has sometimes felt, they lose the power they have abused.

I have always felt this very strongly. I use my adjectives carefully and advise friends to do so. I have in the recent times felt particularly annoyed with certain useless adjectives having become popular. “Cool”, “Awesome”! everything is cool. Everything is awesome.
What a lousy way to cover up your poor vocabulary!

Until long habit has blunted the sensibility, there is something disconcerting to the writer in the instinct which causes him to take an interest in the singularities of human nature so absorbing that his moral sense is powerless against it. He recognizes in himself an artistic satisfaction in the contemplation of evil which a little startles him; but sincerity forces him to confess that the disapproval he feels for certain actions is not nearly so strong as his curiosity in their reasons. The character of a scoundrel, logical and complete, has a fascination for his creator which an outrage to law and order. I expect that Shakespeare devised Iago with a gusto which he never knew when, weaving moon beams with his fancy, he imagined Desdemona. It may be that in his rogues, the writer gratifies instincts deep rooted in him, which the manners and customs of a civilized world have forced back to the mysterious recesses of the subconscious. In giving to the character of his invention flesh and bones he is giving life to that part of himself which finds no other means of expression. His satisfaction is a sense of liberation.

Wow! I never thought about this one.

Unconsciously perhaps we treasure the power we have over people by their regard for our opinion of them, and we hate those upon whom we have no such influence. It is the bitterest wound to human pride.

I wander along trails that others have blazed for me.

Some men are born out of their due place. Accident has cast them amid certain surroundings, but they have always, a nostalgia for a home they know not. They are strangers in their birthplace, and the leafy lanes they have known from childhood or the populous streets in which they have played remain but a place of passage. They may spend their whole lives aliens among their kindred and remain aloof among the only scenes they have ever known. Perhaps it is this sense of strangeness that sends men far and wide in the search for something permanent to which they may attach themselves. Perhaps some deep rooted atavism urges the wanderer back to lands which his ancestors left in the dim beginnings of history. Sometimes, a man hits upon a place to which he mysteriously feels that he belongs. Here is the home he sought and he will settle amid scenes that he has never seen before among men he has never known as though they were familiar to him from his birth. Here at last, he finds rest.
The mills of God grind slowly but they grind exceedingly small.

Other lines I noted down….

Eccentricity is necessity to becoming great.

On the streets of Paris….clerks, shopgirls, and members, male and female of the professions which make their profit of the frailties of mankind…

I wanted to fight with him… But, his cordial agreement with all I said cut the ground from under my feet…

A nonchalant sarcasm

On the other hand,…………………

The book could have been slimmer by 40 pages (which are a painful read) but for the beauty of the language the author brings about in those 40 pages, as he also does with the remaining 120 pages.

Character sketching seemed kind of inadequate at places and not without instances of incongruence. At one point he describes a man as nonchalant, detached and very commonplace. At a different point he uses adjectives like ‘violent’ while referring to the same man and he uses no example to illustrate or justify the use of that adjective. I became confused. In certain places, character sketching seemed inadequate and ineffectual.

While a few characters in the beginning of the book seem inadequately sketched, most of them are very well sketched. You can ‘see’ them.

The absence of a plot or a story notwithstanding, you don’t tire of reading it and the experience of reading it is not dissatisfying. It is a pleasure to read each sentence that brings out the beauty of the language.
Even if the whole book were about nothing, I would still read it merely for it’s literary splendor.

Kanthapura - Raja Rao

This is one of those books students of English literature study as a part of their curriculum in the universities. I got to hear about this book from a friend Priya who is a gold medalist from Mysore University.

The author, Raja Rao, is a critically acclaimed writer from the same district in Karnataka where I belong, namely Hassan. :-) He lived in France and the United States in his later years.
He participated in the Quit India Movement of 1942.
A winner of Padma Bhushan, Padma Vibhushan and International Neustadt Prize for Literature, Rao died on July 8, 2006 at Austin, Texas, at the age of 97.

The story, as suggested by the title is about Kanthapura, a fictitious village in North Karnataka near Mangalore and its people. The time of the story, of course is the historic time of freedom struggle led by the towering figure of Mahatma Gandhi.

In a quiet village that moved in its own slow pace, where people live in the midst of their customs, traditions, superstitions and skirmishes, a disturbance is caused when sparks of awareness cause certain young boys and girls to act differently from the rest – when some of them enter the pariah quarters, when a 12 year old widow walks about without shaving her head, when young people hold secret meetings to cause revolt against the British, etc.

One of the important characters is Moorthy who not only becomes a devotee of Gandhi but inspires other young fellows as well to follow him. Eventually, the entire village, including the women folk, children, Brahmins and untouchables become involved in the freedom movement and in their own small way, contribute to the movement.

The story is very dry.
It’s somehow difficult for me to believe that the picture he is trying to paint itself is dull and dry.
This is because RK Narayan, Khushwant Singh, Ruskin Bond and others have painted the same rural India and their writing is so charming, interesting, engaging and amusing while providing insights into the social life in rural areas.

The specialty of this book I believe, is owing to the fact that although it is an English book, it is as good as a Kannada book translated into English WORD BY WORD.

Is he my uncle’s son that he should favour me?
That son of concubine!
Corner house Moorthy
He wants me to be his dog’s tail... I refused…
If we do not stop this...We all shall eat mud...
If you are the sons of your fathers....then fight that rascal…
Broad filigree Benares saree…
Lantana lane…
Paraiah Rachanna, Beadle Timmayya…

Even as I read these sentences, I know which particular sentence in Kannada the author conceived in mind which he then translated into English.

He has painted the most accurate picture of rural life of India during pre Independence era.
It is accurate but certainly not beautiful.

Another thing : I am not sure if the nuances are all captured although the narration is accurate.

The nuances contained can be read but not felt or understood.

If you read the book for nuances, then you are reading the lyrics of a song but not listening to the song...you are reading descriptions of a painting without actually seeing the painting.

He spat thrice to the east and thrice to the west as he stood at the village gate...
They beat their cheeks before the Kenchamma goddess and said “ We will never let these thoughts enter our minds”...
Women with shaven heads will welcome the bridegroom during the marriage...Wait and watch!

Would a non-Indian know what these mean? A non Indian or even a non Kannadiga will not be able to make any sense of the book.
This is one of those books authors write for themselves but not for readers.

While all the above observations summarize my experience of reading the book, I must mention that the book is what it is because the author meant it to be that way.
The story is narrated as seen by a grandmother in the village who is one among the characters, part of the story and part of the scene she is portraying.
It is therefore so matter-of-factly. If the narration had been as seen by someone outside the scene, an observer who had understood what was happening, then he would do justice to the nuances of Indian village life as he would have paused to observe and explain the purport of gestures and the meaning of words uttered by people.

The same rural stories told by RK Narayan, Khushwant Singh and Ruskin Bond are so different because they were bystanders and onlookers who observed village life (although they may have been villagers themselves sometime).

I did not find any literary splendour on the language front. The language is simple and that’s the only thing about the language.
It’s neither lyrical, nor beautiful nor rich nor juicy, nor crisp, nor brisk.
Imagery and portrait are also painful to follow.
On those fronts such as character sketching, beauty of language, plot, imagery and portrait, the book offers what can be expected from a grandmother’s narration; not fine, not subtle, not polished, but matter-of-factly, exaggerated and somewhat crude.

There are way too many characters. Ramaiyya, Thimmayya, Rachanna, Rangamma, Lakshamma, Seethamma, Venkamma, …and a hundred more… making the reading extremely painful.
The book could have done with half of the characters; for it is not as if each is a distinct character but one among the herd. Instead of giving a name to everyone in the herd, the author could have picked just one in each herd or category. Characters seem redundant because they are all the same and all doing the same thing.
Once again, if a grandmother would be narrating, she would simply say all that she could remember and exaggerate some. She would not care to summarize or organize or structure her story.

The book at best, it gives me glimpses of things such as the way people in rural India conversed among themselves, their demeanour, disposition, mindset, social system, caste system, the state of widows in a society, the place of God in society, etc.
Such a book would of course deeply interest the westerners who cannot stop being fascinated by the rural life, buffaloes on roads, hungry children, customs and traditions of India.

And this was the only one-liner I noted down.

Less strange are the ways of Gods than are the ways of men.
If you have patience, you may read this book.

Beeti Hui Galiyon Se...

Beeti Hui Galiyon Se… Phirse Guzarna Yaara Seeli Seeli…

This old melody by Lata from the movie Lekin is a haunting one.

The experience of revisiting places of the past can churn much philosophy out of even those who dwell on the lower planes of self awareness.

One of these days, a woman of 28, traversed those roads that she had lived by twelve years ago.

An apartment painted in ivory and sea green on a tree lined street.
The tulasi plant in front of every house. Rangoli designs at every doorstep.
Old trees that formed an arch above the road.
A mendicant playing the shehnai went from door to door, receiving alms.

The place itself had not changed much but remained what it had been. And therefore it reflected with a more pronounced effect those changes that had come upon her person over the years that had passed.

There she saw a girl walking those roads and lanes without taking particular notice of her surroundings.
Her mind was elsewhere.
The girl was making plans for her future. There was very little doubt and much certainty.
She was dreaming. She was a girl of sixteen.

In her world, there was black and there was white. And almost everything belonged to one category or another.
The choices, therefore, were pretty simple.
Life had only two dimensions, perhaps three.
To define life was a possible undertaking and there were some definitions.
She had seen very little. And hence, she knew a lot.

The woman stood there and watched the girl of sixteen walking away with a spring in her step, down that road of tantalization, at the end of which was disillusionment.

There was a philosophical, poignant smile on the woman’s face and a faraway look in her eyes.
She shed a silent tear for the girl of sixteen.

She shed a tear for herself who had to let go all the castles built in air to make humbler dwellings out of stone and mortar.

A woman of 28 smiled affectionately at a girl of sixteen.
A woman of experience smiled at a girl of innocence.
A woman who had encountered destiny smiled poignantly at a girl who knew free will.
A woman who had seen the vicissitudes of life smiled at the naivety of a girl who was busy drawing accurate plans for her future.

A woman of 28, traversed those roads, one of these days, only to revisit herself, a girl of sixteen.

Someone rightly said ‘There are more preposterous vicissitudes in life than a single philosophy can conjecture’.
The woman of 28 looked back in retrospection at all those vicissitudes that lay strewn on that road…

As the girl of sixteen continued her walk down that road……
There were ups and downs, curves and bends…all unforeseen.
Dimensions of life became manifold.
More knowledge was acquired and the picture became less clear.
Black and white remained but there were way too many shades of gray.
Who could define life?

A drift in the plane of existence.
A shift in the plane of awareness.
Exposure. Perspective.
Many amendments to a constitution.
A world gained and a world lost.

Some dreams that had taken flight but never found landing…
Others that had landed without taking off…
Those seeds that never sprouted…
And those flowering trees which had never been planted…

Proposals of man and disposals of God…
But more importantly, disposals of man superseded by proposals of God.

The setting of the story changed. So did the place and time.
But the story itself remained the same.
Love. Longing. And living.

And through all this changing time and weather, if someone had endured, it was her.

Through all this changing time and weather, if something had endured, it was her heart.
For it remained where it was born. At the age of sixteen and forever on that road of tantalization, at the end of which was disillusionment.