244. Wandering Around Kanyakumari

 (हा भाग मराठीमध्ये इथं वाचता येईल.) 

Part 2: Vivekanandapuram

Since I reached Kanyakumari in the afternoon, it didn’t make sense to rush to the "Rock" (Vivekananda Rock Memorial) right away. I could have gone, of course, but by the time I reached, there wouldn’t have been much time to linger. So I decided to spend the first day leisurely exploring Vivekanandapuram.

To my pleasant surprise, there was still hot water available for a bath even that afternoon. The next morning, however, the geyser refused to cooperate. When I went to the reception to leave my room key for repairs, I was told they didn’t keep keys. Carrying a room key while wandering all day always feels like a small burden to me — but so be it. The receptionist called the electrician, who promised to come “in five minutes.” But, as we all know, in India “five minutes” rarely means five minutes. After waiting for about fifteen, I gave up and boarded the bus heading towards the Rock.

While waiting for the bus, I met an elderly couple from Thrissur, Kerala. They told me they had been visiting Kanyakumari every year for the past several years. Over the next two days, we crossed paths a few more times — they were gentle, warm-hearted people. The lady was quiet; the gentleman, with a kind smile, would often let me move ahead in the queue or offer me coffee. My travels across the country have taught me one thing — whether in the north or south, east or west, Indian hospitality towards strangers remains genuine and alive.

Vivekanandapuram wasn’t particularly crowded. July is, after all, school and college season — not the peak of tourism. With that expectation, I went towards the Rock, only to discover how utterly wrong I was.

There were two separate queues — one for those who paid ₹100, and another for those who paid ₹300. The ticket included the ferry ride to and fro across the short stretch of sea. When I had come here in 2011, there was no such distinction. The entry fee was ₹50 then — the rise in prices is understandable, but two different lines?

At pilgrimage centers, temples, and tourist spots, it’s nothing new for the wealthy to pay extra for bypassing the queue. Yet, to encounter this sort of discrimination at memorials dedicated to Swami Vivekananda — who preached equality — and Thiruvalluvar — who spoke of the oneness of humankind — felt ironic, even disheartening. It said something about how deeply ingrained and normalized our social hypocrisy has become.

The ferry service is run by the Poompuhar Shipping Corporation, under the Tamil Nadu government. There’s also an online booking system, which I hadn’t known about earlier. Later, I found out that this dual-fee arrangement had only started recently — on 5 June 2025, to be exact. People love to save time, and many will pay extra to do so. Which means the ₹300 queue is here to stay.

Naturally, I joined the ₹100 line. If you ever wish to understand a country, stand for a while in one of its ordinary queues — they are windows into the nation’s soul. You see everything there — impatience, resourcefulness, small acts of kindness, and flashes of irritation. People were trying to move ahead even when the line didn’t; some slipped in extra family members midway. There were loud phone conversations, crying children, small quarrels, and a constant hum of noise. A miniature version of our overpopulated country, right there.

And yet, the moment the ferry started rocking on , all that external noise disappeared.  The cool breeze on my face, the rhythm of the sea — there is something mesmerizing about being out on the water. The Rock is barely 500 meters from shore, so the ferry ride was brief but refreshing.

The history and significance of the Rock Memorial are well known and well documented, so I won’t dwell on them here.

At the Rock, the crowd was immense. Every corner was filled with people posing for selfies and group photos. This, of course, has become the new normal everywhere — nothing can be seen anymore without people standing in front of it. Tourism today seems to mean: take photos, post them instantly, and move on.

I remembered the days when cameras weren’t allowed at the Rock. You could truly take in the experience then — the architecture, the silence, the sea. Once everyone began carrying mobile phones, that rule lost its relevance. Still, after visiting the main hall and the meditation chamber, I found a quiet corner. Watching the changing colors of the waves, feeling the wind’s steady force — that still remains as enchanting as ever.

Next, I crossed to the Thiruvalluvar statue. The Vivekananda Rock Memorial was inaugurated on 2 September 1970. Almost thirty years later, on 1 January 2000, the towering statue of Thiruvalluvar was unveiled beside it. The Rock entry ticket costs ₹30; there’s no separate fee for visiting the statue. Not long ago, both required separate ferry trips, but now a glass bridge connects the two — yet another attraction for tourists.

Thiruvalluvar the great Tamil poet-saint, is honored fittingly by this monument. And yet, when viewed together, the proportion feels  a bit off. The Vivekananda Mandapam rises about 55 feet, but next to it, the 133-foot Thiruvalluvar seems almost overpowering. Perhaps a slightly shorter figure would have preserved the balance — but our obsession with building “the tallest” remains unbroken. The height, they say, symbolizes the 133 chapters of Thirukkural, Thiruvalluvar’s timeless text.

Standing on the Rock, gazing at Thiruvalluvar’s statue — and then, from the statue, looking back at the Rock — was a very moving experience.

The return queue brought its own drama. A couple of people pushed their way in, sparking heated arguments. Behind me stood a group of Nepali schoolteachers who were visiting India during their holidays — they told me they had been to Maharashtra too. Ahead of me, a Telugu-speaking family from Solapur. We chatted lightly. Two hours in the queue went by almost unnoticed — the sea was company enough.

Later, I signed up for a half-day local tour organized by Ranade Tours & Travels. The fee was only ₹200.

The trip covered the Wax Museum, Tirupati Venkatachalapati Temple, Sai Baba Temple, the Brahma–Vishnu–Shiva temple at Suchindram, the Musical Fountain, and the Sunset Point. It wasn’t a particularly meaningful tour, since there was no guide to explain anything — the driver would simply stop, say, “Be back in thirty minutes,” and move on. I was reminded, once again, why I avoid such tours. Still, it gave me a basic overview of the area.

Some of the wax figures were beautifully crafted — I especially liked the one of M.S. Subbulakshmi. 

There was also an engaging section of “3D paintings” on the floor — if you stood in the right spot, it looked like a tiger was behind you, or an elephant was splashing you with water. A fun and clever display. The lady attendant mentioned that 3D painting is a traditional art form of Kerala.

The Tirupati Venkatachalapati Temple was grand and majestic, its architecture commanding. From its elevated platform, the view of the sea was breathtaking — I could have sat there for hours.

At the Sai Baba Temple, there was a long line. I noticed that most of the religious structures in this area stand on raised platforms. This temple too was clean and well-maintained. But, like many modern temples, it felt too shiny, too corporate — more like an office building than a spiritual space. Outside, a food court displayed menus in four languages, which felt inclusive and welcoming. 

It reminded me how easily cultural pride dissolves when economic interest takes precedence.

The Suchindram temple — also called Shuchindram — is truly magnificent. I had visited it earlier, so I remembered a bit. Without a guide, it’s hard to grasp its mythology. The temple’s name, Sthanumalayan, combines Sthanu (Shiva), Mala (Vishnu), and Ayan (Brahma).

According to the Brahmavaivarta Purana and Padma Purana, Indra once deceived Sage Gautama by taking his form and approaching his wife Ahalya. Cursed by the sage, Indra sought redemption here by worshipping the Trimurti. After regaining purity, he built this temple — hence the name Shuchindram, the place where Indra was purified.

Inside are the famous musical pillars that resonate with notes when struck — sa, re, ga, ma… Photography is not allowed inside the temple, but even from outside, the temple’s grandeur is evident. Its large sacred tank too was clean.

I have seen the sunrise at Kanyakumari many times, but this was my first opportunity  to view sunset from another beach. The beach was crowded, noisy, full of people shopping, snacking, and trying to capture the perfect view. The massive boulders and the enormous statue of Mary there took me by surprise. I told myself I must come back again, quietly, just to sit and watch.

All in all, the tour felt rather superficial. I realized that next time, I should plan better — and perhaps explore with a local guide. There is still so much left unseen.

Moving through these places, I felt anew that Kanyakumari is not just a pilgrimage site, nor just a place of nostalgic memories. It is a collage — of sculptures and wax figures, temples and seashores, meditation and music fountains. After the calm of Vivekanandapuram, the town revealed its vibrant, many-colored self.

Each visit, this old town shows me something new.

That is why I keep returning — not to see the same places again, nor to meet the same people, but to rediscover different versions of myself.

So even though I tell myself, “this is the last visit to Kanyakumari,” I know, deep down, that I might return once more.

The next and final part — soon.

243 Vivekanandapuram

 (Part 1: To Kanyakumari) 

(ही पोस्ट मराठीत इथं वाचता  येईल.) 

Kanyakumari railway station is, in its own way, a charming little station.

Yet this time, when I arrived, my first glimpse of it felt oddly depressing. Dust lay everywhere. Only when I stepped outside did I realize that repair work was going on. It struck me how easily our expect joy from smallest things, and how quickly they could get dashed. I didn’t even bother to take a photograph of the station. A day later, while walking towards the Gandhi Mandapam, I didn’t cast a glance in its direction.

The photo I share here is an old one—clicked back in 2011. 

Outside, rickshaws stood waiting in line. The distance from the station to Vivekanandapuram is barely a kilometre and a half—walkable if you’re travelling light. With luggage, though, there’s no alternative. The driver quoted a hundred rupees, a standard rate by the look of it, usually shared by a few passengers. Without argument, I hopped in, and soon enough, I was at Vivekanandapuram.

Inside Vivekanandapuram

Spread across nearly a hundred acres, Vivekanandapuram is the headquarters of the Vivekananda Rock Memorial and the Vivekananda Kendra. The campus houses a training center  and residential facilities for their workers. There are provisions for nearly a thousand visitors to stay at a time. There is a canteen, a library, a picture exhibition on Swami Vivekananda, a Ganapati temple, a freedom fighters’ memorial, a Ramayana exhibition, and even an environment awareness center. Within the grounds lie the memorial of Late Shri. Eknath Ranade—the Kendra’s founder—with an exhibition on his life. There is also a meditation hall, a school, groves of trees, peacocks roaming freely, and the private beach from where the sunrise is visible.

In the late afternoon, I made my way to the “Vivekananda Picture Exhibition.” It has long been one of my favorite spots. When I first visited in 1983, it was neat, inspiring, and offered me a new perspective. Today, it retains that timeless quality. At the entrance stands a striking full-length portrait of Swami Vivekananda.

The exhibition, which originally displayed around seventy illustrated panels, has now expanded to include panels detailing the Kendra’s work. I did not know the name of the artist, nor could I find it on the internet. I asked about it to a senior Vivekanada Kendra worker. She told me the name of the artist.  The paintings, created by Raghunath Goswami of Kolkata, are vibrant and evocative. My personal favorite remains the depiction of Nachiketa, a story dear to me.

Captions are provided in English, Tamil, and Hindi, covering Indian history, the journey of young Narendranath Dutta into Swami Vivekananda, and his impact on India and the world. For anyone visiting, I would recommend setting aside ample time rather than skimming through it in half an hour, as most tourists do. I wonder whether the younger generation (used to Instagram and twitter) would read these posters. 

A Disappointing View

Later, I went to the campus beach. The shoreline is protected by a wall; only during sunrise do they open a small gate for an hour, when a guard is on duty. From here, the Rock Memorial should appear majestic.

But to my disappointment, land reclamation work was underway. One reclaimed patch now lay directly between the Rock and the beach, blocking the view.

A morning view

An evening view

An Unexpected Encounter

That evening, apart from the guard, there was just one other person on the beach—a young man. After I answered a phone call, I heard him address me: “Didi, are you from Maharashtra?”

He was from Mewar, Rajasthan, on foot for the Char Dham and twelve Jyotirlinga pilgrimage. For a month, he had been staying at Vivekanandapuram.

At first, we exchanged pleasantries. But soon his words drifted—as such conversations often do—towards politics and religion. He spoke of “attacks” on non-Marathis in Maharashtra, the aggression of the Maharashtra Navnirman Sena (MNS), the mistakes of Uddhav Thackeray in joining hands with Congress party etc. I listened quietly, realizing quickly that he had no interest in dialogue—only in speaking. He was too predictable and hence it was boring to even listen to him. A typical aggression under the name of history, culture, tradition, patriotism etc. 

When he began lamenting that nowadays /in this area girls while visiting temples are “half-dressed" (meaning - wear indecent clothes), my patience was over. “Brother,” I said firmly, “let girls wear what they want. Who are you to decide? And why are you staring at them in temples instead of focusing on God? Don’t be such a  hypocrite in the name of God. Change your ways, man!”

He looked embarrassed, then shifted to criticizing Non Resident Indians (NRIs). They, he said, abandon parents at home while enjoying life abroad. I reminded him gently: “Aren’t you too away from your parents for months on pilgrimage? How different is that?”

He faltered again, then made me laugh outright: “Didi, I promise I will remain unmarried and serve my parents all my life.”

I couldn’t help smiling at the irony. I had travelled thousands of miles seeking solitude, and here, on an almost empty beach, the only tourist I met was him. The world, I thought, is always the same—people good and bad, kind and selfish, naïve and wise. Some use lofty spiritual language; others don’t. That is the only difference.

Suddenly rain swept in. I had no umbrella. He ran. I lingered—soaked, listening to the waves, chatting briefly with the guard, and then walking back slowly, content.

Old Places, New Reflections

Over the next few days, I wandered across the campus. At one place, I was the only visitor at that time. The person in charge was listening to radio. I spend about forty minutes there and that person completely ignored me. I thought you can't train people into passion, it has to come from within. 

At the Ramayana exhibition, with 108 paintings by Bhaskar Das of Chennai, I found the art monotonous, though respectful of the artist’s effort. As I very well know the Ramayana story, I did not spend much time in reading all the text on the panels. On the second floor there are  more images and statues. Next to it is a digital exhibition on “Sustainable Living,” However, I could not understand anything. Only later when another senior karyakarta took me through that exhibition, it became clear to me. This exhibition  building is beautiful. 

What I liked most about this building is it is powered by solar energy and it also harvests rainwater. I guess this building could be a good confluence of religious education and application of science and technology - both aim to improve human life, isn't it! 

I also met a few old acquaintances, exchanged names and memories, and spent quiet mornings by the samadhi of Eknathjee  Ranade.

One morning at sunrise, I sat long after the crowd dispersed. 

The waves roared, The gentle breeze touched time and again. I could see the rock memorial at a distance. No humans around. Birds chirping. An Indian Roller  danced in the air for a long while. Two peacocks strolled by and made their calls.  It felt like as if everything was foe me, I belonged there. Such a blessing.

Traces of the Past

Back then, we had lively debates about what is the relationship of  Vivekananda Kendra with the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS). We had even some innocent colleagues who asked, "What is this RSS you are talking about?" I had some basic knowledge because during a process of forming an organization, we had an introduction to different existing ideaologies in India. It was pretty basic. (Only the other day I met a friend and we laughed at our innocence - of not knowing much about RSS). Today, there is no such debate required—the signs of the Kendra-RSS relationship are everywhere, plain to see.

For me, though, this visit was not about politics or institutions. It was about returning, looking at the memories. The memories were not only about outside, they were about me too. I can see that those strong bonds exist no more. Acknowledging  what has vanished was not difficult. That is the law of life. As we move on, old things disappear. However what remains, is still valuable to me. Though I know that it too will vanish as life goes on. 

The journey to Kanyakumari mattered. But leaving Kanyakumari mattered too. Both were turning points for me. The journey, after all, continues—always.

242 To Kanyakumari

 (ही पोस्ट मराठीमध्ये इथं वाचता येईल.)

Honestly, I had no plan to go to Kanyakumari.

But a project I had worked on for nearly twenty months had just come to an end. Working online has many advantages, but I had grown weary of endless conversations through the computer screen. I longed to get away, to wander somewhere far. My original plan was to travel to Spiti Valley, but that trip was cancelled by the group I was supposed to join. So, almost on impulse, I thought: “Why not Kanyakumari?”

Reaching Kanyakumari is time-consuming. Of course, today there are multiple routes: Pune–Mumbai–Thiruvananthapuram–Kanyakumari (by bus, train, flight, taxi....) , or Pune–Chennai–Kanyakumari, saving a few hours but adding to the fatigue. Since I wasn’t in a hurry, I chose the slower but more comfortable option: the train from Pune all the way to Kanyakumari.

Decades ago, when I first went to Kanyakumari, it was on the old 1081 Down train. That was my very first long journey in the general compartment.  I still remember the thrill of it. Vendors calling out “Paal, Paal!” startled me until I realized “paal” meant milk. A little girl, Rosie, barely two years old, became my playmate, and her parents helped me through the journey. Back then, one had to change train at Trivandrum, and everyone told me to buy a ticket to “Cape.” Only then did I learn that “Cape” meant Kanyakumari. Memories like these made me choose the Pune–Kanyakumari train again, with a smile.

Now the train is 16381 down, starting directly from Pune and reaching Kanyakumari in about thirty-six hours. It passes through five states—Maharashtra, Karnataka, Andhra Pradesh, Tamil Nadu, and Kerala—before re-entering Tamil Nadu at Nagercoil and reaching the southern tip. Along the way it crosses the Bhima, Krishna, Tungabhadra, Palar, and many other rivers. A journey in itself, rich and varied.

Before booking train tickets, I had to arrange accommodation. For me, staying in Kanyakumari always means staying at Vivekanandapuram. I cannot even imagine staying anywhere else. To my surprise, their website mentioned that single travelers are not allotted rooms anymore. In today’s age of “solo travel,” this seemed a sharp contrast. I wrote to the campus manager anyway, reluctantly mentioning some of my old connections with senior workers. And the accommodation was booked. 

This time I wanted to explore Kanyakuamri a little, something I had never done in my earlier visits. I also planned two days in Thiruvananthapuram on the way back. Accommodations and tickets done. 

On the night of July 23, I reached Pune station. My mobile internet (BSNL, of course!) failed just when I needed to pay (online) the taxi driver. He promptly offered me his hotspot so that I could make the payment. A small act, but one that reflected his professionalism. There is a bridge connecting Metro Station and Pune Railway station. I sat there for a while - doing nothing! 

The train was on time. 

One of my co-passengers was a quiet gentleman who promptly fell asleep on the upper berth, and later, a lady who got on just before departure. We exchanged a few words—she was headed to Erode. The ticket checker merely asked our names and ticked them off without even looking at our tickets. And so, the journey began.

The next morning, I woke up without an alarm. Travel always makes me alert, almost eager to watch the world from the train window. 

Wadi Junction, Karnataka

The lady on the opposite berth  was soon on video calls and YouTube, without earphones. The chatter and music filled the compartment. I gently reminded her to lower the volume a few times, but it didn’t last long. It is a familiar experience in India—people rarely follow the simple etiquette of using earphones in public places. Still, she was warm and simple, and I couldn’t hold it against her.

River Krishna? or Tungbhadra? Not Sure.

By mid-morning, another woman joined us—a fluent speaker of both Tamil and English, working as an agriculture officer for a agri-supply company. She had just been given charge of Vidarbha in Maharashtra. Over coffee and shared idlis, our compartment became a small community. Conversations about farming, rural India, and family journeys flowed easily until each of them got off at their respective stations.

Through the day, though, I saw another side: how rigidly people cling to linguistic pride. Railway's outsourced staff couldn’t speak English; and my passengers could not speak Hindi. Communication was left hanging in mid-air. At first, I helped translate, but after a while, I quietly withdrew. It was amusing to watch the stubbornness on both sides. People are ready to ignore each other in the name of language. There was also a Hindi-speaking family with a two year kid. My co-pasangers even did not speak to that child - who probably did not need any formal language except for a smile.  People are ready to experience discomfort because they are proud of their language. I mean come on! Is it too difficult to understand that "tea" means "chai" and "das" means "ten"? People can be ridiculous at times! I just thought it better to read this book. I haven't read it after I wrote it :-) 

In the process, I picked up a handful of Tamil words—Vanakkam (hello), Nandri (thank you), Saapad (meal), Thanni (water)..... Enough to remind me that with willingness, even language barriers can be bridged. We don't need grammatically correct language to communicate, we just need the will to connect and communicate. 

The train moved through landscapes that kept changing with each state. Green stretches of Karnataka, the dry lands of Andhra, the lush fields of Tamil Nadu, the waterways of Kerala—it was as if the geography of India unfolded in one continuous film.

ShaktiNagar, Karnataka

Somewhere near Cuddapah station, Andhra Pradesh

Somewhere near Nagercoil, Tamil Nadu

And in between these sights, I kept thinking: Why am I going back to Kanyakumari? I have always followed the rule of not returning to places I’ve left behind. Yet here I was, retracing my steps. Perhaps it was an attempt to reconnect with the past. So much has changed—me, my circumstances, even the train’s number! Was I testing where I now stand compared to the “me” of decades ago? But I know for that review I don't need to travel miles and miles. 

Kanyakumari was one of the most important turning points of my life. That first visit had left both immediate and long-lasting imprints—some joyous, some difficult. In many ways, that journey had now come full circle. Perhaps returning to Kanyakumari was my way of celebrating it.

After Trivandrum, the train was nearly empty. Slowly, it rolled into Kanyakumari station—the southernmost railway station of India.

Kanyakumari Railway Station

Decades ago, I started a new path from here. This place is important for me. It will always remain important. 

(To be continued…)

241. Accidental Joy

(ही पोस्ट मराठीत इथं आहे.)

On that day I realized that for a long time I have been planning 'moments of joy'. When one is working, one has to plan leave, one has to arrange for work. Then planning the travel and stay, packing the bag .... come into picture. ‘Vanishing away’ is no longer an option for me. (Ah! Those golden days when I could disappear!)  This has been my lifestyle for many years. Of course, within those planned moments, there  are always surprising moments of joy.

On that evening, there was a Hindi play at a nearby institute. I read about it on Facebook. The name of the drama was ‘Court Martial’. I searched about it on the internet and found it interesting. Indian Express   describes it as:  The play Court Martial is about a highly obedient soldier who is found on the wrong side of the law. His actions shock the regiment and the Army orders a court martial to investigate the actions of this soldier.

Coincidentally my friend Yamini (name changed) called me on the same morning. She was to be in the same area for another event. So, we decided to meet at 7.30 pm.

When I reached the venue for the play, there were already a lot of people. Many young and old were in the compound. I asked the institute staff about the exact venue for the play. There are couple of halls in this institute, so always better to get the direction in advance! The two staff members were engrossed in a video on their cell phone. They asked me to go a particular hall. When I entered the directed hall, I picked up the third-row seat. I saw some young girls in a classical dance attire. I was bit confused. But I thought that may be couple of young girls are performing before the play starts.

One old lady sitting behind me asked, “Is your daughter or granddaughter going to dance?” Then I realized that I was sitting in a wrong hall.  

I came out again and asked the same staff about the play. By this time their video watching was over, so they listened to me properly. Then one of them told me, “Oh! It was yesterday!” He added, “it was little loud, but it was good.” It appears that the Facebook account I follow had posted a wrong date.

Now I had four options. To go home and come back to meet Yamini. But coming back seemed next to impossible. Second option was to go home and cancel meeting Yamini. But I wanted to meet her. We had not met for a long time; it was good opportunity to catch up. Third option was to sit outside under a tree and wait until 7.30 pm. Unfortunately, I was not carrying a book. And the fourth option was to attend the dance or cultural program – whatever it was.

It sounded a bit funny. Not only I did not know anyone of the organizers or participants, but I also did know nothing about dance. I was not invited but had gate-crashed their event. But there were empty seats. I sat in the last row, so that if their guests needed seats, I could leave without disturbing the event.

It was an event organized by one Dance School. The school specializes in Bharatnatyam.I am not providing the name of the school and photos of the performances, because I don't think it is proper to do so.

The person anchoring the program spoke in two languages – Marathi and English. She was fluent in both the languages. Her anchoring was fantastic. It was poetic but clear. She did not keep on talking but only briefly introduced each dance. It was obvious that she had prepared well. After a long time, I was seeing someone anchoring so well. I was impressed.

Bharatnatyam is an Indian Classical dance originated in Tamil Nadu. Even without reading about it, I could guess this - with the kind of music being played when the event started. The music somehow took me back to a period almost forty years ago – to Kanyakumari. When I was in Kanyakumari, I was introduced to the singing of the legend M.S. Subbulakshmi. The early morning devotional songs, the cool breeze, the smell of the sea, sound of high-tide sea,, the peace, the joy … it all came back to me in an instant. It is amazing to note how our mind reacts to different stimulations.

Girls of various ages performed on the stage. It was beautiful to watch them and appreciate their performance. They were using the body to express and communicate to the audience. I did not understand the words that were being sung. But the dancers’ movements and expressions were meaningful to me. Their synchronization of movements with each other and with the song was amazing. For a while I also envied them for being expert in performing art. I am an ‘artless’ person and I sometimes feel bad about it 😊

Do these dancers always feel connected to their body? Do they find words unnecessary to communicate? How do they build the bridges between what dance requires and what the daily life demands?  

Some students were very young. And some of them were experienced women. These older ones were actually dance teachers. But there was no hierarchy in how they performed and the focus of the performances. Except one, all were group performances. How much efforts the performers and their guides must have gone through – one can only imagine.

Most of the dances were about Shiva, Nataraja, Goddess Parvati, and Ashtalakshmi. I heard different terms like Pushpanjali, Alarippu, Jatiswaram, Devi Kirtanam. There was also a brief description of Raaga and Taala.

Enjoying the performance for about ninety minutes, I had number of reflections.

The first was about how I lost interest in Mythology. Many Indian mythological stories (like Shiva is dancing, and Ramsetu is being built etc.) are wonderful. I used to enjoy them a lot. However, in recent times I have lost all connection to these mythological stories. Why? Because nowadays ritual have taken control of everything. In my world, in the world around me, the innocence of celebrating festivals (with love, with joy, with connecting communities around) has vanished. It is more of being “proud of being born in a certain religion”, it is about “us versus them” and so on …. It does not suit my disposition.  So, I have distanced myself from these festivals. But it is time I go to the mythology again.

Another reflection is: you don’t have to belong to some group/community to be able to enjoy and appreciate. If there is something good happening, one can always feel positive. One can laugh well with strangers too. One can enjoy with strangers too.

I always feel that I am thrown in this world (like I was in that event hall) without knowing anyone. I don’t belong here. It is not my home. I am here just for a while. I am not going to carry anything from here. Hence I have no bonds. I have no chains. I have no attachments. 

At the same time, there are people, places, mountains, rivers, sky, ….. who are part of me. They have enriched me. Without them I won’t be who I am. As long as I remember, within me both these contrary aspects ‘live happily with each other’. 😀

I have always found avenues to enjoy. to smile; to have fun; to experience and express emotions. Without any formal label for these connections, I have always been connected. There have been many strong connections throughout - some temporary, some long lasting. It is never about whether ‘to be or not to be’; it is more like ‘be and be not’.

After some time, it was time to call my friend. I silently left the venue – without saying goodbye to anyone, without giving explanation to anyone. No one noticed I was there and no one noticed that I left. Perfect. That one and half hour was a kind of summary of my life. Have fun, carry nothing, leave. May be in real life I am one of the performers at times – definitely not Bharatnatyam performer 😊 

Another reflection point is - Planning is good. But that does not necessarily mean unplanned is bad. There can be joy even in accidental experiences. There can be joy even with strangers. One has to be always open to new possibilities. One has to be open to new opportunities. New experiences count. New people enrich us.

“Accidental Joy” happens. It might be waiting for us at the next corner. The ‘accident’ of entering into a wrong event not only gave me moments of unfiltered joy but also gave me opportunity to reflect and realize.

This was great. 

What else do I need?

Nothing! 

240: An Experiment in 2024

(ही पोस्ट मराठीत इथं वाचता येईल.)

Questions like "Who is your favorite teacher?" or "Who is your favorite author?" often seem amusing (and sometimes even pointless) to me. The reason is simple—there is rarely a single person who stands out so distinctly that no one else comes close. We can admire multiple teachers and/or authors simultaneously, each for different reasons. Our memories of people and experiences are shaped by various contexts, and predicting which memory will surface at a given time is impossible.

Someone recently asked me, "What was your happiest moment in 2024?" and I found myself utterly confused. Several things came to mind, but ranking them seemed impossible. How do I compare the joy of unexpectedly spotting a beautiful bird with the happiness of mastering a new skill? Do I even need to rank them? Must one experience be considered superior while the rest become insignificant? Of course, I didn’t express all these thoughts to the person who asked. Instead, I gave a quick, generic response and moved on.

A Yearlong Experiment

Later, when my work was done, I opened a small box from my cupboard.

No, not to eat Shrewsbury biscuits (those were long gone!) This box contained notes from an experiment I had been conducting throughout the year. It was time to examine them carefully.

At the beginning of 2024, I came across a Facebook post suggesting an interesting activity: Every week, write down a positive event from that week on a piece of paper, store it in a jar, and at the end of the year, revisit all those moments to reflect on the good things that happened.

I was curious about the experiment. I decided to try it, with a few modifications. Instead of a jar, I used a box. The idea of simply noting a "positive event" felt too vague, so I redefined it: "What made me feel happy or content this week?" This is what I recorded every Sunday evening. A reminder on my phone helped me stay consistent with this Weekly Positive Note practice.

Of course, I didn’t always manage to write the note on Sunday itself. Sometimes, I would delay it by two or three days. When I finally opened the box at the end of the year, I found 51 notes out of 52 weeks—one week must have been missed, or perhaps a note had slipped outside the box into my cupboard.

What Did These Notes Reveal?

There was nothing grand or extraordinary in these notes—just small moments, everyday experiences that might have otherwise been forgotten. If I had tried to recall my happiest moments of the year without these notes, I would have remembered only two or three. But here, I had written proof that I had experienced joy 47–48 more times! And this was just what I had consciously recorded—surely, I had felt happiness even more frequently than that.

So what were these happy moments?

• Meeting people and sharing their joy.
• Unexpectedly spotting a beautiful bird.
• Enjoying the rain.
• Taking a peaceful Sunday morning walk on empty roads.
• Visiting parts of the city (like Kondhwa and Ramwadi) for the first time.
• Noticing magnificent trees while riding the metro.
• Buying books.
• Reaching my goal of reading a certain number of books in the year.
• Writing something meaningful.

Even work-related joys made it into my notes. I have always chosen work that makes me happy, but looking back, I realized that even the small details of the work gave me joy.

• Successfully holding an engaging discussion with rural communities on LGBTQ+ topics made me feel accomplished.
• Completing a training manual was a moment of satisfaction.
• Seeing participants in a workshop actively engage in meaningful discussions brought a sense of fulfillment.
• Learning a new language and watching a film in that language with minimal reliance on subtitles was an unexpected delight.

There were new experiences too—visiting the Pune Meteorological Observatory for the first time, attending a workshop on Constitution of India, and listening to instrumental music at Yashada. Even something as simple as eating a pancake after many years found its place in my happiness list! 😊

Healing and Gratitude

2024 also brought an accident, followed by a necessary surgery. Naturally, a significant portion of my recorded happiness revolved around medical progress—

• The ability to sit up on my own.
• Regaining movement in my arm.
• Being able to eat with my right hand again.
• Returning to typing on my laptop.

For nearly three to four months, my notes were filled with milestones in my recovery.

Some entries expressed gratitude—for people, for life itself. Even letting go of certain things effortlessly brought its own kind of happiness.

What Did This Exercise Teach Me?

Happiness and contentment aren’t found only in big achievements or major events—something I already knew in theory, had read about, and even experienced before. But going through this year-long process reinforced that understanding.

Of course, my year wasn’t without struggles. There were challenges, pain, and difficult moments, as expected in life. But now, looking at these notes, I find myself smiling again.

In the final balance, these small joys were what remained and truly mattered.

I am sure such positive moments have always existed in my life, but I had never made a conscious effort to observe and appreciate them before. If I pay even closer attention, I know I will find even more layers of joy in everyday life.

So, I think I’ll continue this experiment in 2025 as well! 😊

239. The Search... for a Book

To begin with, this post is both about 'that one novel' and yet, it isn't. It's not about that novel because this post doesn't aim to introduce the book. Yet, it is about that novel because... well.... 

In truth, this piece is less about that novel and more about myself. As usual 😉

*****

This story dates back to around 1993-94. It's so old, and the details are so hazy that I might even be remembering the year incorrectly. The point is, it's a very old story.

A friend of mine was working in Allahabad at the time. The atmosphere around her was such that people insisted on calling it 'Prayagraj' instead of 'Allahabad.' She was working full-time for an organization. I had worked full-time with the same organization for six and a half years and had left a couple of years earlier. However, there was no animosity between my former colleagues and me, or if there was, I wasn't perceptive enough to notice it.

This friend, let's call her Meena (I've changed her name since we're not in touch anymore), was eagerly inviting me to visit Prayagraj. I was drifting through life at the time. Having a clear direction and I never really got along, so whenever something new caught my eye, I'd take a peek. (Not that things are any different today!)

So, I went to Prayagraj. Meena was busy with her work, surrounded by a group of activists, all of them enthusiastic and young. Some of them I had met earlier during my time with the organization, and some knew of me from stories they'd heard. So, whenever Meena wasn't free, one of them would keep me company, take me around, chat with me, make me eat local dishes, and gift me things.

But one day, no one was available to keep me company. They were busy planning an important event and would be in a meeting for half a day. I found a book on Meena's desk and said, "You all go ahead with your meeting. I'll read this book in the meantime." They felt reassured and got back to their work.

I had (probably?) never read a Hindi book before, so I hesitated a bit at first, but that novel captivated me. The flowing language, the unique subject matter, the blend of worldly life and spirituality... it was delightful. I enjoyed it. The three or three and a half hours flew by unnoticed. It felt like I had been transported to another world. I made sure to write down the name of the book and the author on a piece of paper and carefully tucked it into my bag. I decided that whenever I have a home of my own, this book must be in my collection. This thought made me smile since it was somewhat contrary to the message of the novel.

The next few days were busy. Eventually, I returned to Mumbai (I was living in Mumbai at the time). Later, I moved out of Mumbai and settled in another city. I worked as a volunteer for a year in the earthquake-affected areas of Latur. Then, I worked full-time for another organization for four years. My work took me to various parts of Maharashtra. Amidst all this, the memory of that novel would surface occasionally. But the piece of paper with the book and author's name, carefully tucked away in my bag, had vanished. I remembered some characters, dialogues, and events from the novel, but I couldn't recall the name of the book or the author, no matter how hard I tried.

When I met Meena, I asked her about the book, but she had no recollection of such a book being on her desk. So, there was no point in asking further.

Ten years after this visit to Allahabad, I began to visit the city regularly again. By then, I had stopped working as a full-time volunteer and had started working for a social organization as a salaried employee. During each visit to Allahabad, the memory of that novel would inevitably resurface. I thought of asking my new colleagues about the novel, but the details I could provide were so vague that even a well-read person might not recognize it. Moreover, there weren't many book lovers around me, and the few who were didn't read Hindi. As a result, I found myself reading more and more English books.

As life settled down, the urge to recall the name of that novel grew stronger. Meanwhile, I had become quite familiar with the internet, but I couldn't figure out what keywords to use for the search. I couldn't remember the author's name. I remembered a few specific words from the book, like "Rishikumar," "Princess," "Bullock Cart," "Life," and "Brahma." I was struggling to type in Devanagari. Whenever I found some free time, I tried searching for the book using these words, but I couldn't find anything. I just couldn't remember the right keywords.

Then, I searched for a list of famous Hindi authors, but none of the names seemed familiar in the context of that novel. Thus began another restless search in the dark—a growing frustration at not remembering the name of a book I loved, the annoyance at not having anyone (who reads Hindi) in my circle who could provide the right information, the self-reproach for losing the piece of paper with the book and author's name twenty years ago, and the repeated attempts to convince myself that "If I can't remember it, maybe it wasn't that important a book for me." But these efforts would only lead to a sense of helplessness. There were countless things happening outside, I didn't have time for them... yet, within me, the struggle to recall the name of that book continued relentlessly.

Meanwhile, in 2010, I moved to Delhi. During that time, I focused on reading Hindi books. I bought a lot of Hindi books, which took me years to read, but that's another story. I read classics like "Kathasaritsagara," "Sant Kavi Ke Pramukh Dohe," Premchand's "Mansarovar," "Shrikant," Ismat Chughtai's "Tedhi Lakeer," Shrilal Shukla's "Raag Darbari"... one after another, But I did not find  the novel I was searching for. 

Eventually, I left Delhi. While living in another country (other countries), the only support I had was my 'Kindle'. Along with that, I tried to learn the basics of foreign languages (other than English). I made clumsy attempts to read in those languages.

*****

While searching for Hindi authors, I ordered some Hindi books from 'Rajkamal Paperbacks' in 2021. One of them was Hazari Prasad Dwivedi's 'Punarva'. During my search for Hazari Prasad's books, I came across the name 'Anamdas Ka Potha', and it felt somewhat familiar. When I looked it up online, I found its cover, and...

...And this felt like the very novel I had been trying to remember for the past thirty years.

But Rajkamal didn’t have the book available; perhaps the edition was out of print.

In December 2023, I went to the Rajkamal stall at the Pune book fair. I had decided to buy 'Kashi Ka Assi' by Kashinath Singh, and suddenly, I spotted 'Anamdas Ka Potha'. Needless to say, I immediately bought it.

So, after thirty years, I found this book back again! 

That whole idea of "Kayanaat" (the universe conspiring to help you achieve something you truly desire) ... it’s not that, you have to make efforts yourself—that’s another truth I realized during this journey.

It felt as if I had met my past self once again. Will the novel resonate with me today as it did back then? Will I understand it now as I thought I did then? Or will I discover something new—about the novel, and about myself as well?

After getting this book, I felt an immense sense of calm. The restlessness that came from the feeling that something precious had slipped away from my hands (and memory) was gone. I experience a state of peace. I felt having a strength to completely shut out the external noise. The feeling that there’s nothing left to search for anymore... a sense of having reached the destination, with nothing more to do.

These feelings don’t seem to align with the message of the novel, I realize now. Perhaps I’ll gain more clarity when I read it again.

For some reasons, it took me six months to finally open the book.

Currently, I’m reading it, which is why all of this came back to me.

*****

Hazari Prasad Dwiwedi (1907 to 1979) was a renowned Hindi author. He taught at Shantiniketan for many years, and the influence of that experience is evident in his writing.

This novel includes the story of the sage Raikva, mentioned in the Chandogya Upanishad.

Raikva, who lost his parents at a young age, is deeply immersed in meditation and asceticism, and has come to the conclusion that Prana (life force) is indeed Brahman. During a stormy rain, he encounters Jabala, the daughter of King Janashruti. She is the first woman Raikva has ever seen. What follows is a love story, as well as a tale of the search for truth.

The characters in the novel are all remarkable. Much more could be written about them. But as mentioned at the beginning, the purpose here is not to provide a book review.

More about the novel can be found here.

238. Just Walking!

Within a day or two I would probably reach the destination!

The destination is none other than 'the Earth's Core' according to this Pedometer!

Well, this is hypothetical destination. So far human beings have not been able to travel to the Earth's Core - except for the trio Axel, Otto, and Hans - who travel to this destination in the novel ' A Journey to the Center of The Earth' by Jules Verne!

Nevertheless, it is fun to reach somewhere - even if that somewhere is actually nowhere

I always had (and still have) special affinity with 'walking'. This monitoring of walking started on 2nd September, 2018 in Nay Pyi Taw in Myanmar.

It continued in Philippines. During Covid era, home was my walking ground. Then came the Bharat Jodo Yatra. And I kept walking, meeting different people in the process.

What next? If I continue to walk straight, I might end up in a strange land or more possibly in Pacific waters

So, I will return home - walking! Or may be start walking towards another unknown corner!