My Favorite "Silent" Scenes in the Movies

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Usually when we think about our favorite movies, we remember the favorite scenes, and within those, the most hard hitting dialogues. But sometimes, even in the movies, silence is golden

This is not a list of scenes from the silent movies era; in fact some of these do have significant dialogue. But in all cases, the enduring impact is achieved by words withheld - and music added.


No 4. The Music Scene from Paths of Glory (1957)

Lesser known that Kubrick's other masterpieces, Paths of Glory is one of my favorite anti-war films. It showed the French military in such poor light that the French Government managed to delay its release in France till 1975. Of course, this was done through diplomacy - not easy to ban a film outright in France, is it?

Let me focus on the scene though. After showing horrific battlefield scenes and exposing the corruption in the French army, Kubrick, in the last five minutes of the movies, introduces the only woman in the movie - Christiane Harlan, who he would marry later in real life.

The setting is a tavern full of French soldiers having some downtime from the war menace. The owner brings a frightened German woman on the stage, and a lot of hooting and whistling ensues. Unsure of what to do, she breaks hesitantly into a German folk song about a victorious soldier marching back home.The drunken revelry subsides and the music soars. The lecherous catcalls give way to sombre silence first and a soulful chorus later. See the men's eyes as the woman transforms from a German plaything to an angel resembling their wife, daughter or sister.

Man - the sexist reference being deliberate and relevant here - is a complex animal.

You have to see the full movie to catch the real impact, but here is the scene itself..

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J0yVoxUQ7Q8



No 3. The Final Scene from The Bicycle Theieves (1948)

The Bicycle Theives

Born out of the death and destruction left behind by WWII in Italy...

Rated as the greatest movie ever made for a few years following its release...

The movie that supposedly inspired Satyajit Ray to become a filmmaker...

Wherein the director Vittorio de Sica refused to cast Cary Grant and picked up a average joe steelworker in the lead role of Antonio...

Featuring, in my opinion, the finest performance ever seen by a young boy: Enzo Staiola as Bruno...


Cut to the scene. Watch Antonio go through the myriad emotions of deprivation, moral dilemma, desperation, fear and despair without uttering a word. Watch Bruno's world crumble as he yells "Papa! Papa!". Watch this boy's restrain as he redeems his father by offering his soft hands.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C_lJbSJoIuw

If you havent reached for that handkerchief yet, maybe you need a chest scan to check for a certain missing organ....


No 2. The "Mozart" Scene from The Shawshank Redemption (1994)

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who love Shawshank Redemption, and those who haven't seen it yet.

Either ways, as in the previous scenes, you needn't know anything about the movie to enjoy this one.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=azWVPWGUE1M


Its such a beautifully crafted scene. Andy picks up Mozart's "Le Nozze di Figaro" with tenderness, while contrastingly, the jailor casually flips through Jughead. There is a jarring moment when Andy switches on the loudspeaker, which reinforces the quality of the music. In one shot, the camera moves from ground level upto the loudspeaker perched atop a tall pole, looking down upon the prisoners listening in rapt attention, like a bird soaring up to the heights. I cant resist typing out what Red says in the clip:

"I have no idea to this day what those two Italian ladies were singing about. Truth is, I don't want to know. Some things are best left unsaid. I'd like to think they were singing about something so beautiful, it can't be expressed in words, and makes your heart ache because of it. I tell you, those voices soared higher and farther than anybody in a gray place dares to dream. It was like some beautiful bird flapped into our drab little cage and made those walls dissolve away, and for the briefest of moments, every last man in Shawshank felt free."

I don't know if these words were necessary, since the music said it all. But no one could have said them like Morgan Freeman.

Incomparable narration. Incomparable music from the incomparable Mozart. Incomparable film-making.


No 1. The Immigration Scene from the Godfather II

Both Godfather I and II have many great scenes, but this one makes it to the top of my list not just for artistic reasons.

I recently visited the Ellis Island immigration Museum in New York. One story I read in one of the displays has stuck with me. The immigration officers were interviewing a Polish immigrant before granting her entry - everyone was welcome except the criminals, the diseased and the "idiots". She was a household maid back in Poland, so to check if she lacked common sense, they asked her "When you wash the stairs, do you do so from top to bottom or from bottom to top?" And she replies "I dont come to America to wash stairs"

This scene encapculates the defining moment in the life of generations of Italian, Irish and Jewish men, women and children who helped shape modern America - the moment they set their eyes upon Lady Liberty. The moment crime, prosecution, famine and poverty in Europe became a distant memory and ahead of them lay the promise of Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness

A lot has changed since then. America's image has taken a beating thanks to incursions in Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan, and the fallout of the financial crisis.

But every time I fly to New York, I get goosebumps as I sight The Statue and feel the freedom as I cross the immigration checkpoint:
in a way not much different from tens of millions before me.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=20zToMCzFw8

Beautiful Bali

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Beaches, temples, spas, wood carvings and rice terraces. Many places offer one or more of these: in fact as an Indian, the thought of traveling to another country to see rice terraces and temples seemed a little silly. But roll all of these into one, add good food and friendly people to the mix, and you get the irresistible concoction that is Bali.

We took a late evening Air Asia flight from Singapore to get there. The flight was only three quarters full, and I had three seats to myself to lie down and sleep for a couple of hours: it's a nice feeling when you pay a low cost fare and get business class legroom. The flight landed around midnight: a pick-up was sent by Surya Inn, a small family-run airport hotel I had booked for the night.

Next morning, I woke up to the sight of one of the elderly women of the household knitting clothes. I strolled into the household temple, consisting of half a dozen small shrines within a spacious courtyard. A young girl was performing the morning rituals, making offerings to the various Hindu deities within the temple precinct. I felt lucky in having chosen a hotel where the owner's home was literally the next door, and they had their own Balinese temple!

For breakfast, we were offered Balinese coffee and grilled sandwiches, but instead of tomatoes and cucumbers, the filling consisted of banana slices, chocolate syrup and cheese. As Jyoti was enjoying her morning caffeine fix on the front porch, I casually mentioned to her that Balinese coffee got its distinctive flavor by using beans that were eaten and excreted by the civet cat. She was almost ready to puke when I added that the coffee variety in question was indeed the most expensive in the world, and it was unlikely that a modest inn would serve kopi luwak - two cups of those would probably go for more than the room rent.

Our transport for the next three days, a chauffeur driven Zen Estilo - a bigger version of what is sold in India - was already waiting for us. Our driver introduced himself as Yo-Man: I didn't try to clarify this easy-to-remember name at that point, but figured out later from his card that he meant Vyoman. Our final destination of the day was the inland cultural destination of Ubud, but we would stop en route at places of interest.

The Beach

First up was Kuta beach: love it or hate it, but you cannot ignore it. It felt like Baga or Calangute, with better food and nicer hotels, and the Russians replaced by Australians. However, there was one major difference: the surfers.

In my book, surfing is the king of all sports: you need speed, strength, stamina and skill. You have to balance and to swim. You require strong arms, a tough back and supple legs. You need to understand wind and waves, climate and current: and you better learn that you mess with the forces of nature at your own peril. If you surf, you extricate yourself from the confines of the 50 meter swimming pool and the great oceans become your playground. You also get the sun, the sand and a lot of attention from the opposite sex.

The trouble is, I suck at it. I have enough trouble keeping steady as the 196 bus swerves from Nicoll Highway onto Mountbatten road. Singapore may be the safest of cities, but I am always running the risk of my skull splitting into two by failing to clutch to the handrails tightly when the bus driver brakes suddenly. I’ve made a fool of myself trying to learn skiing and windsurfing: surfing seems like asking for the proverbial moon.

As we relaxed on the beach, I enjoyed a beer and Jyoti bought a couple of cheap bracelets from one of the street vendors. We first haggled on the price for what we bought, and then when we saw that she had left one of the accessories in the sand, we looked around to search for her and return it. It made me wonder: how is it that I think it’s fair to haggle over an amount that’s meaningless to me but might mean something to the old woman, but it is wrong if I get the same amount by accident?

Onwards to The Temples

The next stop was the Tanah Lot temple, sitting invitingly atop a large offshore rock. I had read earlier that the locals believe that the temple is guarded by sea snakes from evil spirits, so I expected some snake charmers to be around. Since Jyoti has a morbid phobia of snakes, my eyes were on red alert. As I saw a woman walk by with a covered basket in hand – she was probably just carrying offerings - I pulled Jyoti to the other side, expecting the worst. As luck would have it, I had missed the actual snake-charmer who was seated on the side I had moved Jyoti over too, and just at that moment, he opened the basket, eliciting a terrified shriek from her. In all the confusion, I did not see the snake at all, while it took a couple of hours for her nerves to calm down.

From Tanah Lot, we headed inland and the next stop was the beautiful Taman Ayum temple, a multi-level complex with many multi-roofed structures. The major temples in Bali were certainly charming: that was expected. However, what made Bali unlike any place I have visited were the thousands of small household / community temples similar to the one at Surya Inn. They were omnipresent like bars are in New York or cafes in Paris: not just a relic of the past, but part of a living, thriving culture.

We visited the Ubud Palace and Monkey Forest in the late afternoon before checking into our hotel, Sri Ratih Cottages, and then headed back to the town center for an evening snack.

Food and Dance

We picked a charming little restaurant on main street, and ordered some alcohol and nachos. The latter were presented in an impressive tower formation: alternating layers of cheese, beans and tortilla chips, with a dollop each of sour cream and guacamole at the top.

Thereafter we attended a performance based on Kecak, one of the numerous Balinese dance-drama forms. About 50 men, all from the local community, sat around a fire wearing a sarong around their waist and a flower behind the ear. They percussively chanted “kecak-kecak-kecak” for almost an hour, while a smaller group of men and women, dressed in ornate period outfits, performed excerpts from the Ramayana. Surprisingly, the roles of Ram and Lakshman were performed by women: it made me remember the Kabuki performance I saw in Japan 10 years ago where the reverse was true (See my blog “Tantalizing Tokyo”).

While on the issue of gender roles, I had read somewhere that Balinese women didn’t cover their breasts until the advent of the Colonial powers, whereby it was made mandatory: European women wanting to sunbathe topless in Bali must be cursing their forefathers.

The Ramayana performance was followed by a trance dance in which a barefoot man was kicking around coconut shells set on fire: in contrast, even the remote possibility of one of the shells flying over the barricade towards me had me concerned.

We had dinner at Nomad, the best restaurant we encountered on the trip. We ordered a selection of Balinese Tapas: tofu, spinach, peanuts, green beans, spring rolls. I was amazed they had 5 different varieties just for vegetarians. The place was buzzing with activity, but we left earlier than we would have liked to - and skipped dessert - when the smoke from the neighboring table became bothersome. Except for the lack of a separate non-smoking zone, the place was awesome.

Handicrafts and More Temples

The next morning, we had a hearty breakfast overlooking the countryside around. To go with the usual coffee, toast and hashbrowns, I tried some Avocado juice. I had never had one before and expected the worst, but it was delicious: no wonder the guacamole the day before was so tasty.

The first stop of the day was the Tegallagang rice terraces. They were pretty, but not spectacular. Moreover, there were so many shops and makeshift restaurants around that a lot of the charm was lost. A few months back, I had cycled for about an hour through rice fields in Vietnam (See page 13 of my IndoChina blog): the fields weren't as pretty, nor were they terraced, but cycling through them in a small group had made the experience memorable.

En route to our next planned stop, we stopped at a collection of non descript handicraft stores run by the craftspeople themselves. To add to our collection of half a dozen Buddhas sculptures, Jyoti bought two masks - I was not so sure the Buddha would approve of such excess, but I looked at the purchases in terms of supporting the local economy a little bit.

Our next stop was the 1000 year old Gunung Kawi temple, the best of those we saw in the trip. What made it a cut above the rest was its location: we had to walk down a few hundred steps to get to this complex surrounded by hills, and split into two parts by a water body. On each side were rock-cut shrines carved into the cliff face. Climbing the 300-odd steps in the heat of noon was a "steep" ask, so we figured, why not stop midway and shop? We bought a coconut carving for a few dollars. Jyoti loved a beautiful ebony wood mask representing Barong, the King of Spirits. However, even after haggling, the vendor wouldn't go below 80 dollars, so we let that one go.

Our next stop, no prizes for guessing, was another temple, the Tirta Empul. Unlike Gunung Kawi, which had only a few tourists visiting, this place was bursting at its seams with locals wanting to take a dip in its holy waters. The temple exit was one long strategic maze through the shopping area: we bought another Buddha piece, this time a plaster relief, and finally, after bargaining at many shops, got the Barong mask for 40 USD.

Another Cloud Covered Volcano

By now, I was beginning to think of Bali as Catholic Costa Rica's twin, seperated at birth, taken halfway around the world, and raised a Hindu. Both small equatorial places, but packing a punch: rain almost everyday, surfing beaches, great food, easygoing locals, endless greenery, and cloud-covered volcanoes. I didn’t have much luck seeing volcanoes in Costa Rica, and it wouldn’t be much different in Bali either. As soon as we reached the viewpoint of the Kintamani volcano and settled down for lunch, a large grey cloud came over and spoilt the scene. Next time around, I am waking up at the requisite 3 am for hiking up to the rim.

Finally a scam

Besides excessive smoking by the locals, things were near perfect so far. Everyone drove relatively safely. Haggling was done respectfully. Temple authorities provided sarongs at no charge to foreigners at the temples. Foood was great. Everyone around was smiling. It was too good to last.

Our next stop was the Besakih “Mother” temple, the biggest one in Bali. Anywhere on the island, you could buy a sarong for a dollar: here we paid the same just to rent one. A makeshift “information” counter demanded to check our tickets, put them aside and then told us that we could not enter the temple unless accompanied by a guide: there was no charge for one and I could “donate” as I wished. I noticed that no entry in the donation book was less than 50 USD, so I insisted I would just walk around the temple. The guys then became aggressive and even coerced us for a donation: I firmly demanded my tickets back and walked away.

A dozen other touts harassed us under the same pretext. There was a sign outside the temple saying “No entry except for worship”: either the crooks running the place had put it up themselves, or maybe it was a genuine ordinance by the authorities, sleazily exploited by the cheats.

An Awesome Spa

Back at the hotel by late afternoon, we enjoyed some Balinese coffee with banana fritters at the snack bar, watching the fishes in the adjacent pond. Thereafter, we headed to the Putra Spa for a Balinese massage. I was getting a little worked up as we were made to wait 45 minutes beyond our appointment. But sweet were the fruits of patience! The moment the masseuse applied the first bout of pressure on my left foot, I realized this therapy would be bliss: there wasn’t one false stroke. This was the best treatment we had ever experienced: all for a mere 10 dollars!

I forget the name of the restaurant where we had dinner – we choose it because of the nice Jazz band playing there. But it was the pesto-sundried tomato-feta cheese pizza that made my evening. I hadn’t had one so good for months.

Having stuffed myself, I would have liked to walk back to the hotel as we did the previous evening. But the path was fraught with another chance encounter with a slithering reptile, so I thought it wise to hail a cab.


Back to the Beach

After a late breakfast and a quick splash in the pool, we checked out of the hotel and headed south. En route we passed through many small towns, one specializing in the made-to-order furniture that Bali is so famous for, another in gemstones, and so on. Soon, the undulating two lane road criss-crossing the green countryside gave way to a 4 lane highway ploughing through the urban sprawl around the capital Denpasar: this was not fun anymore.

Our destination was Sanur beach on the south-eastern shore: it seemed we might have hit the wrong place as it did not seem anywhere as nice as pictures I had seen before. So we headed to the Nusa Dua peninsula, the southernmost part of Bali joined with the main island through a narrow strip of land, and well known for watersports. I expected to have a nice lunch by a beachside restaurant as I watched revelers paraglide in the distance. What a rude shock I was in for! This place was so packed with locals wanting a piece of the banana boat rides, it seemed like an aquatic version of bumping cars at your local entertainment outlet. The restaurants all looked the same and didn’t offer much except fried rice or fried noodles, so we got out as soon as we got in.

We were thus back to where we started from: Kuta Beach. We had lunch, bought some t-shirts, and then made ourselves comfortable on the soft sand, gazing into the horizon and having a quiet chat.


Beware of money changers and cabbies

In the evening, we checked in at the Surya Inn again for the night, and headed back to Kuta. Jyoti liked some shoes at one of the department stores, so I headed out to get some dollars changed into rupiah. I saw a money changer offering more than the market rate, and got greedy. I offered him my hundred dollar bill, he took out a bunch of 50,000 denomination notes and counted them in a suspicious way, while another guy chatted me up. There was a lot of back and forth on the counting and it become a little confrontational, at which point I just took the 100 dollars back and walked out.

I went to another changer offering higher rates, and the experience was exactly the same. Finally I picked up one with market rates, got my change, as well as a receipt, in a matter of seconds. Initially I thought I was reading too much into the modus operandi on the fishy money changers, but further investigation online confirmed that the guys would remove a note or two through sleight of hand while counting.

Anyways, the dollars become rupiahs, and the rupiahs turned, as usually any currency does, into women’s shoes. For dinner, it was pizza again and a delicious Balinese potato-spinach gravy with rice, accompanied by nice cocktails and good live music. It was my birthday the next day, but this dinner was the celebration as we would leave for Singapore the next morning and Jyoti would take a connecting flight to India. She was disappointed we wouldnt be able to celebrate on the actual day, but I couldn't care less (You probably saw this coming in case you have read my profile)

Since it was drizzling, we took a cab back to the hotel. The driver informed us that the minimum fare would be 25,000 Rupiah, and we agreed. When we got there the metered fare was only 10,000 Rupiah. I refused to pay the 25,000 and demanded that he call the company's office: I had read online that Bali Taxi was a reputed company and any passenger could ask to speak to the control center in case of any discrepancy. They heard me out, and to make up to me, they charged us nothing for the ride! I was pleased with myself that I took up such a matter, albeit for less than a couple of dollars, even in a foreign country; and was thrilled to know that the company's actions backed its promises.


Adieu

Needless to say, the flight back to Singapore was not a pleasant affair. As I reflected on the trip, I was struck with one overwhelming feeling: the Balinese version of Hinduism seemed a lot more wholesome compared to what I see back home. I was there for a short time and there is a good chance my understanding is flawed, but I felt that the locals embraced two basic tenets of a sustainable culture: living in harmony with nature, and respecting "The Circle of Life". I just hope that their values remain intact even as they swap their sarongs for denims.

Why do I read?

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A few months back, a friend had asked her bibliophile friends to write about what hooked them to reading. Here is what I had replied back then..


Fans of the late Jagjit Singh might recognize the following lines by Nida Fazli

Dhoop Mein Niklo Ghataon Mein Nahakar Dekho
Zindagi Kya Hai Kitaabon ko Hata Kar Dekho

A rough English translation, at the expense of losing the rhyme, would be: Head out in the sun, get drenched in the rain: look beyond books if you want to experience life)

For about three-quarters of my life (till about the age of twenty four), I took these works literally. I was not averse to books, but reading was limited to newspapers (I started reading them at twelve and gave up by fourteen, they just didn't excite me anymore), textbooks (I memorized them front to back to be able to tackle any potential questions in the exams) and General Knowledge books.

I felt reading was a waste of time. The only genuine experiences one could have were by interacting with the real world. By some unlucky coincidence, there was a bunch of girls in school who were avid readers and snobs of the first grade, and I ended up correlating the two.

A weekend in KL

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KL broke into the list of top 10 cities with the most international arrivals in 2012, but it seemed to have no appeal for me. The iconic Twin Towers? Seen enough of skyscrapers in NYC and Chicago. Shopping? Its tough to get me to the neighborhood mall to shop, let alone another country. The casinos at nearby Genting? Never bet a dollar on blackjack or baccarat in my life. It is only when I moved to Singapore did I think that I must visit KL, which was just a few hours' bus ride away. And when I did go earlier this month, I realized there was much more to the place than I anticipated.

I traveled alone as Jyoti was in India. I took the overnight coach to Genting. Border crossings by land have a different feel as compared to taking international flights: most co-passengers tend to be locals who do this frequently, and they change countries with a sense of comfort and familiarity I have when paying for toll at the sea link or changing trains at Dhoby Ghaut.

The bus reached the fog-covered Genting highlands at a nippy 5 am, at least a couple of hours earlier than I had anticipated. However, like money, a casino never sleeps. There was enough activity to make it worthwhile strolling around, watching the curious cast of characters, all believing lady luck will shower her favors on them at the next flip of the slot machine, or the following roll of the dice. The place was old and tacky, and customer service is non-existent: when I asked a guard for directions, he waved his hand randomly, which could have meant straight, right or left. Maybe this was a metaphor for the casino: trust your luck and pick one of the options! I did, however, see the reason for its stupendous success: it had something for everyone. Papa could hit the casino, Mama the shopping arcade, and Kiddo the amusement park, at a price a fraction of what you would pay in neighboring Singapore.

Why I stopped reading the newspaper

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Caution: This is a highly opinionated piece.

"If you dont read the newspaper, you're uninformed. If you read the newspaper, you're mis-informed" - Mark Twain

If my memory serves me right, I started reading the newspaper when I was about 10-12 years old. I would religiously read the entire front page of the Times of India, and a decent chunk of the rest of it. Before the 9 pm Hindi Serial, I watched the 8:40 news on Doordarshan. By the time I was a teen, I knew of all the regional political parties, the major cabinet ministers and the complicated alliances. I could rattle off the names of the prominent Heads of State across the world. My friends' mothers would exhort them to be more like me.

After a few years, while still in school, I had an epiphany that it was the same old story everyday, and I stopped reading. As my work demands "to stay on top of the news", I tried hard to re-cultivate the habit in my 20s. I subscribed, and quickly unsubscribed, to the Wall Street Journal when living in New York. I received the Times of India everyday when in Mumbai, but never read anything more than the Bombay Times or the sports pages (specifically, the cricket pages). I work in the financial markets business, but sometimes have to scratch my head to remember who India's Finance Minister is. I am not kidding, but in the last five years, I haven't seen a total of more than five hours of news-channel programming: four and a half hours of that was probably the coverage of the 29/11 attacks in Mumbai.

I am a curious person, and love to learn, understand and travel. I love reading, including a lot of non-fiction. So why is it that I cannot get myself to pick up the paper or tune in to NDTV, an act which is as normal for 30 somethings as brushing teeth or watching football.

A technical reason is the quality of writing in print. I am not referring to the sensationalist approach, which is a well known and justified gripe, but to the shoddy penmanship: this is not a fault of the journalist, but a repercussion of working under tight deadlines. Lack of unity, absence of "flow", and the odd typo kill the reading experience: unless the news is of the utmost importance, I'd rather strain my eyes on a well-written book.

I take strong umbrage in the manner crime is reported. The present approach of news reporting skews our viewpoint of how likely we are to die or be injured by crime. Only the exceptional i.e. "newsworthy" event gets focus. For instance, the more gruesome the crime the better. We are shaken to the core thinking about what happened in Delhi recently. But if a girl is raped in a village in the middle of the night, does it make it "less" newsworthy?

Hanging of Qasab is a national issue since he is a first-order criminal, but who will report about the hundreds (yes hundreds, you can check the statistics) who die everyday in road accidents since, a) it happens everyday, b) ultimately all of us are responsible for our road culture, and to that extent, guilty. The news would have us believe that all our dangers stem from the outside and these problems would get solved if we had a better Government. I'd rather not follow what the media has to say.

The most important reason to follow the news would be politics. My friends point out that it is my moral duty to vote and I need to exercise care while casting ballot (I dont have a voter card, but more on that some other time), thereby I need to know whats happening on the political front. I take the point. But here is my argument: every morning when I wake up, I don't have to spend half an hour thinking whether I should be married to the same woman or if I should go to work that day. Why do I then need to follow who said what, what has someone promised, who changed parties, which brother will succeed the father, for one decision that I have to make every five years?

I enjoy the Presidential political debate, but no more than a saas-bahu standoff. Moreover, there is a moral hazard: I dont know whether demand comes first or supply, but thanks to all the televised speeches and debates and all the articles to go with that, a President spends two years at work and the next two years preparing for the next election. That certainly isn't sound leadership on his part or responsible citizenship on the viewers' part. I feel lost when swing states are discussed, but whats worse: my ignorance or the out-dated electoral system?

Given that I trade financial products, you might be guessing I follow whats happening in Europe, or what the economic indicators are saying about the India growth story. Not a chance. It would drive me crazy. One day Germany would say we wont support so and so, then the ECB will do something positive, then the Greek PM (or do they have a President, I am not quite sure) will make an adverse comment, and it keeps swinging like a pendulum - on and on, for months and for years. Its like dating an unstable woman: one moment its "Hum Aapke Dil Mein Rehte Hai" and then "Hum Aapke Hai Kaun". What worthy knowledge or insight could I gain by following these random sequence of events on a granular level! Some astute investors have mentioned the need to step back from the daily noise of non-stop news in order to be a better forecaster. They have also mentioned that real insights are obtained in the real world, and in looking at sources of information no one cares about.

"To bankrupt a fool, give him information" - Nassim Nicholas Taleb, The Bed of Procrustes: Philosophical and Practical Aphorisms

Assuming that there is no "utility" in following the news, what about the ignominy of looking like an idiot at parties? That does happen once in a while: the worst instance was not a social gathering, but my IIM Bangalore interview. A few questions had made it evident that I didnt know much about what was in the papers (There is a difference between whats in the "news" and whats REALLY going on around you). So the interviewer remarked "Your GK is a little suspect". I said "Yeah sure! But I can apply whatever I know better than others. Knowledge without application is useless!" I'll never know if I came across as a confident MBA-wannabe or a giant prick, but I did get the admission offer.

So how do I try to bridge the knowledge gap created by taking the newspaper (or news channel) out of the equation?

By reading books, watching well-made documentaries and traveling. I get the news late, but usually its more accurate. A lot of nonsense which becomes irrelevant gets flushed out. Over time, many genuises who were ignored in their time, get their due. I got to understand more about Kashmir during a four day trip than I would manage through decades of following the events in the news. I can spend half an hour everyday reading about the European debt crisis, but proper understanding will be possible, if at all, when a master storyteller, looking at all sides of the equation, will quite a comprehensive history.

This is not to say that I simply disregard real time news. Online social media and offline social interactions typically ensure that even if you try, you cant keep the relevant news from reaching you. If there a dengue outbreak, you'll know. If Sachin Tendulkar retires, you'll certainly know.

Its a tough life. To be more accurate, its a busy life. There is work (for the unlucky few who dont need the money, dont worry, you can still be a socialite). For the ones lucky to live in Mumbai, there is a 3 hour commute on the smoothest roads or the most princely trains to ease the pain. Evenings are for kids, parents, friends, guests. You probably have a half hour in the morning for yourself, which the newspaper takes away or 45 minutes before going to bed, which is devoted to NDTV.

What does spending 20 hours of reading about the 2G scam provide? Joy? Sense of achievement? Pleasure to the senses? Peace?

Maybe it provides knowledge. You realize that politicians are corrupt and some people made millions. But I am sure you already knew that.

Does it really matter who it was and how they did it?

Tantalizing Tokyo

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Having grown up in Mumbai, I know what "A Citi of Contrasts" means. Swanky high rises surrounded by filthy slums. A sari-clad Indian bride touching the feet of her elders, a day after popping Dom Perignon in a Herve Leger at her Cocktail party. Every place has its share of contrasts, but in my book, Tokyo trumps them all. Read on to find out why...

The place defies classification. London: quaint. Miami: Sexy. Paris: romantic. Barcelona: Fun. Singapore: Modern. Prague: Fairy tale town. It is so tough to find one word that provides a broad flavor of Tokyo, that I have to settle for a term that says a lot without saying anything: exotic!!

Think of how much do you know about Japan: zen, gardens, bonsai, origami, ninja, samurai, Shinto, karate, kamikaze, sushi, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, tea, geisha, walkman, Canon, Toyota, manga, sumo, kabuki. All of this, and probably a lot more. Now make a list of places you have been to, or those you want to visit, or ones that your friends have recommended. Does Tokyo figure in any of them?? Why not ??

Maybe it's far, expensive, esoteric, or all of the above. Anyways, I got a glimpse of this fabulous place back in April-May 2002, when I interned with Merrill Lynch, between the 1st and 2nd year at Business School. The internship was 10 weeks, and I would be spending 2 of them in HK for an orientation program before heading to Tokyo for the remaining eight.

If you love your fish, Tokyo is heaven. And if you are vegetarian, well, you get the point...So like all sensible, home-food-loving Gujjus, I had to carry some food. And eager to make an impression on the job, I decided to carry some books which would help me navigate the world of fixed income markets and spreadsheets. By the time I was done packing, the 35 kgs of weight was equally split between shirts and trousers, theplas and packaged pau bhaji, and Brealey Myers and Fabozzi.

Clearing immigration is not a fun process anywhere in the world. At best, you still have to deal with a serious looking officer giving you a thorough look. Not so in Japan. The way I was welcomed, it felt like I was royalty. It is a small matter that the visa category in the passport said "House-Servant" (10 years later, I still haven't figured that out!). I exited the airport, changed money, and as per instructions given to me beforehand, took a shuttle bus to one of the major city hotels, where I hailed a cab and gave him the map of my service apartment (Besides the passport, this was the most important document I was carrying. Apparently, finding an address in Tokyo is tough even for Japanese cabbies).

After I checked in, I realized I needed to call home and tell my mom I had reached Tokyo in fine shape (Not that I have been ever lost or kidnapped ever, but she insists I always call).The hotel phone would probably have been quite expensive, so I headed to the next door convenience store. I probably sounded like ET when I kept repeating "India-phone","India-phone", till one of the storekeepers realized what I wanted and got me a card.

I felt lucky since there was a phone booth right outside, but there was a minor snag: the instructions were all in Japanese and I couldn't figure out how the system worked. I requested (i.e.probably mumbled "please", "home", "phone", "help" or something like that) a middle-aged woman walking on the road for assistance, and I kid you not, she spent the next 15 minutes, not one less, in understanding what I wanted, where I wanted to call and fidgeting with that phone in the booth till she connected me home. As they say, when you want to reach out to people, language is no barrier!

The next task was to figure out how to set the AC temperature. Complex Remote controls are standard now, but in those days I hadn't handled anything except a simple operating console attached to the main body. So I had to get help from reception to make sense of all the esoteric symbols inscribed on the sleek remote. I was impressed at the tech savvy of the Japanese, but this was only a primer. Later on I observed that everyone in Tokyo seemed to carry fancy phones better than the best I had seen back home. In 2002, you could transfer money from one bank to another at the ATM. There was one vending machine per twenty people on Tokyo: they sold everything from rice to condoms, toothpaste to porn. But the most amazing piece of technology I saw was in my own bathroom. The toilet commode had more features than a Mercedes S-Class: seat temperature control, a spray to wash your bottom (with adjustable pressure and temperature, and a different one for men and women!), and some timers, and other stuff I couldn't figure out, and couldn't ask. Fancy, given that the traditional Japanese loo is nothing more than a hole in the ground!

Next morning it was time to head to work. But before that, I headed to the coffee shop for complimentary breakfast. A 19-20 year old girl with the broadest smile I have ever seen in the hospitality business, or perhaps in any business, welcomed me. I managed to explain to her I only needed tea and some toast: no eggs, omelettes, ham and bacon sandwiches pls! It became a ritual for the next 8 weeks: they would bow, I would bow (there was a lot more bowing in Japan than I had imagined), they would ask me "tea and t-oast?" (pronounced as the Italians would), I'd say "Hai", and I would get my morning fill, complemented with that endearing smile that would kickstart my day in the cheeriest note possible. If only I could speak a little Japanese!

I feel the quickest way to peek into the soul of a society is to ride the train. Subways probably warrant a separate blog, but given the current European crisis making news every alternate day, I have to mention my experience on the Barcelona subway during a recent, pre-crisis trip: any time of day, any day of week, you take the train, you see a sea of young women dressed casually, with bikinis underneath, ready to hit the beach. What a life, I thought, until I realized later that almost half of the young workforce in Spain is unemployed.

The Tokyo subway is just the opposite. The world's busiest metropolitan mass transit system, ferrying 15 million passengers daily, is a sea of monotony. Everyone has the same reserved face, everyone is wearing a black or gray suit with a white or blue shirt and a featureless tie. And then when you see young men with streaked hair pub hopping in the glitzy neighborhoods of Omote Sando and Roppongi, you just dont know what to expect next.

Over one of the weekends, I went to watch some Sumo wrestling. I had seen snippets on TV, but being in this huge stadium, watching people as they watched the sport, was eye-opening for me. It's less a sport and more a ritual: there seemed to be 5 minutes of bowing, and salt sprinkling, for every 30 seconds of actual wrestling. And you think American footballers and European footballers (er, soccer players) get all the girls? No sir, check out the Sumo wrestlers girlfriends, and you'll understand how the term "opposites attract" originated.

An interesting fact I observed among Japanese women was that there was an all too obvious increase in average height with every successive generation, more pronounced than I have managed to observe in any other culture. And what a study in contrasts they present! On a clear Sunday morning, I visited the Meiji Jingu shrine in the Shibuya prefecture. One of the top sites to see in Tokyo, the place is nevertheless quiet and austere. A traditional wedding procession was taking place in the courtyard. The bride, wearing a white kimono, was looking down with such shyness, she would put the most demure Indian bride to shame. And right outside the temple, by the Harajuku bridge, there were teenaged girls dressed up in the funkiest, sexiest, outfits, just hanging about, happy to pose with you or for you. From what I heard, these girls live alone in the far flung suburbs, have a tough work week, and unwind in this manner over the weekend.

A bigger problem than language was food. Vegetarianism disappeared from Japanese Buddhism a long time ago. For breakfast, it was tea-and-toast (would have got monotonous but for the pretty waitress, notwithstanding the fact that we only exchanged smiles), for lunch, it was a thepla-cheese sandwich, and for dinner it was again a thepla-cheese sandwich or perhaps the packaged pau bhaji. Even shopping for a packet of potato chips was a challenge: I couldn’t be sure if they weren’t made of bacon or prawns instead. But thankfully some of the stores stocked Pringles (written in Japanese, but the packaging tells you what it is), and so you could be sure they were potato chips. There were many Indian restaurants in Tokyo, but none close to office or work, and after long days at work, I didn’t feel like changing a train multiple times for a decent meal. (Cabs were ridiculously expensive. Even the MDs took the train to work).

One of the evenings I attended a Kabuki performance. Its very much like Italian Opera: the story is simple and usually above love, deceit, honor or revenge. The singing is fantastic: you love the music and have no clue of the meaning. The big difference is that only men perform Kabuki, some dressed as women, as the script demands. There might be a handful of non-Japanese, if at all, in the theater, and I got bored after a while, but its a charming art form. Talking of art, how does one even begin to describe the beauty of a Japanese garden? I didnt visit Kyoto, supposed to have the world's best gardens, but the ones I saw in Tokyo were ...... I could say amazing, wonderful, fantastic, but I think serene best describes it. They dont wow you, there is nothing grand or flashy. They are not large, and its not about having hundreds of plant and flower varieties. Its simply a patch of green with a little water here and a gentle slope there, but wherever you stand, and in any direction you look, its an opportunity to stay still and stare (and take a picture!)

Right outside these havens of peace is the madness that is Tokyo! For me, the energy of the city was at its crest in Akihabara. This is Japan’s, nay, the world’s, electric town. Imagine a Times Square that sells only electronics and anime! This place was a testimony to Japan’s leadership in the consumer electronics business. (till Korea started giving it a run for its money). I bought myself a nice Canon SLR, the non-digital variety, two lenses (28-80 mm and 70-300 mm) and a Sony Handycam. Unfortunately, they soon became useless with the digital revolution.

One of the evenings I strolled through Kabuki-cho, Tokyo’s famed red light district and Asia’s answer to the offerings in Amsterdam. There seemed to be massage parlors all over, but I couldn’t really tell what was on offer as, of course, everything was written in Japanese only. I couldn’t get my head around all of this: here’s a country where women are extremely family-oriented (as the phrase goes “Chinese Food, American Life, Japanese Wife”) and in rural areas do not even interact with their husband’s guests, while there are porn magazines sold in supermarkets and the capital’s sleaze district is a legitimate tourist attraction. A society where flashing wealth is looked down upon, but there are Ferraris zooming past its roads. A place where you expect, as per an article I had read, to encounter a Buddhist monk wearing a Rolex (I saw lots of monks and lots of Rolexes, but wasnt lucking with the combination). A people who are the politest in the world, but also the most reserved. An economy whose work ethic second to none, but was experiencing stagnation and deflation. A civilization that loves its modern gadgets as much as it reveres its King (The Japanese monarchy is the oldest continuous hereditary monarchy in the world, more than 2000 years old!)

I regret I did not explore more of Japan, except for a day trip to nearby Yokohama. Kyoto and Mount Fuji were within striking distance, but I never made it. I was doing well at the internship so half expected to get a full time offer and return soon (I got an offer, but one in NYC, and havent been to Japan since). Cost was a barrier too: it did not help that the Japanese approach to promoting tourism, at least in those days, was that if you buy 19 tickets, you get the 20th free. The other regret from the trip is that the FIFA World Cup was on at that time and I didnt attend a single game: I decided to put in more effort at work than in procuring tickets. How silly was that!

Tokyo is the last place in the world I would want to live in (besides Delhi of course, for obvious reasons), but if I am craving for sensory overload, looking to stare around in amazement, see a place unlike any else I’ve seen, and want to do it in a safe albeit ridiculously expensive manner, I would head straight back to Tokyo, and next time I do, see a lot of the rest of Japan as well.

A short trip to Kashmir

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Agar Firdaus bar rue Zamin ast, Hamin asto, Hamin asto, Hamin ast!

So much of the lyrical quality of Farsi is lost if one quotes the English translation "If there is heaven on earth, it is here...". Words from the Persian Poet Jami inscribed in many places in India and Pakistan, but we now associate these words with the magical Kashmir valley, and how rightly so!

I had visited some parts of the Valley en route to Ladakh back in 2009, but Jyoti had never been there, and living in a Srinagar houseboat was close to the top in her travel wishlist. We made plans twice earlier but they didn't materialize. Once we planned to travel during the late winter season to enjoy some snow, but ended up in Goa instead. I had booked tickets last year as well, but then I quit my job, and had a lot of time on hand during my gardening leave, and we flew to New York (Kashmir may truly be heaven, but does heaven have the vibe and energy of the Big Apple? Save that for another blog).

If things would have gone as planned, we would have been in Mauritius instead of Kashmir. A family emergency resulted in the cancelation of the week-long beach vacation. (I have a policy of avoiding, to the extent possible, booking the entire trip through a single agent. The hotel cancelation was free and I lost only 20% of the airfare) Once matters were fine, we still had a few days of leave left and figured the easiest option would be to drive down to Goa. On a whim, I checked Srinagar flight tickets before leaving from work, and got a not-so-bad price for a flight next morning, and we had to quickly unpack the beach wear and get the woolens out (even though this was July, a jacket would be useful in the higher altitudes)!

Day 1: Srinagar

An early morning flight took us to Srinagar with a stopover at Delhi. The last 10-15 minutes of the flight from Delhi were particularly scenic as we crossed the mountains seperating the Kashmir Valley from the Jammu region, and the dark green of the forests gave way to the light green and brown of the fields and meadowns. As we started the descent to Srinagar, we flew over Anantnag at a low altitude and got a relatively close view of the "sangam" of the Lidder and Jhelum rivers. Unsurprisingly, the Srinagar airport was one of the prettiest in India, with snow clad mountains in the distance.

The most standard itinerary for tourists visiting Kashmir covers Srinagar, Gulmarg, Pahalgam and Sonamarg, and quite often the last three are visited as day trips from the foremost. I had been to Gulmarg during my previous trip, and stopped for a bit in Sonamarg enroute to Leh. So during this trip I definitely wanted to see Pahalgam, and one of the newer destinations such as Yousmarg / Doodh Pathri. Given the limited time on hand, we decided to skip Sonamarg.

I had done a little bit of research the previous evening on some well-known houseboats in Srinagar and nice hotels in Pahalgam, but we had no reservations and no itinerary. As we exited the airport, we were approached by a guy, carrying the badge of some houseboat association, who offered us a package tour: a houseboat stay for 4 days including dinner and breakfast, and a Toyota Qualis to go around, all for about INR 20k. Now I knew that I could stay in the best rated HBs, and rent a car everyday for about the same price. Usually I would simply walk away (I dont quite like getting your acco, meals and transport arranged by the same guy) but since I had little time to look around for the right place, I decided to "minimize the hassle" (not a good idea when traveling) and accepted his offer. Without bargaining.

So this gentleman promises me that if I dont like the houseboat, I can just pay the airport transfer charge and look for another place. He then escorted us to the parking area where we met another young gentlemen who would take us to the houseboat. Addressing me as "sir" and Jyoti as "sister", he told me how he had friends in every city in the world that I have lived in, who kept coming back to his houseboat, or sent their friends over. He also promised us elaborate meals and an AC car. He and his family ran a bunch of houseboats (called the Palace Group), and he took us to one on Nigeen Lake, smaller and less crowded than the more famous Dal Lake. While we could reach it by road, he took us on a Shikara to make it more appealing.

Most of the houseboats in Srinagar have a similar basic design, and this one was no different: an open, but covered sitting area facing the lake; right behind that, a common room with a TV, a few books and lounge beds; thereafter a dining area and small pantry; and finally a corridor leading into usually three rooms, the last one being a little larger and called the "suite". The basic visual difference between the boats is that half of them have a dull, light colored exterior (it seemed to be that they were made from cheap wood and painted), while the other half, including ours, are made of cedar wood, and had ornate carving all over: ceilings, wall panels, bed stands, window frames etc. The carpets and linens could have been better maintained in the "suite" we were offered, but I was in no mood to spend an entire day of my four day trip looking for another place.

It was about noon by the time we checked in and we had some tea and sandwiches before we freshened up and headed out to explore the Mughal Gardens. The most impressive of the three of them was Shalimar, built by Shahjahan in the 17th century, which was our first destination. With Dal Lake in the background, Shalimar has three large terraces: the lowest one for the commeners (Diwan-E-Aam), the next one for private audiences (you guessed it, the Diwan-E-Khas), and the highest one for the royal women (the Zenana terrace). Even today, its a nice enough garden but for the crowds, and one needs to imagine Shahjahan courting Mumtaz (and hundreds, if not thousands, of other women too) here 400 years back, under Chinar trees as they changed color in spring or autumn, to understand its long-lost splendor. The next garden we visited was Nishaat, somewhat similar to Shalimar and I felt we could probably have skipped it. The last one, Chashmeshahi, is a small garden but is situated a few hundred feet higher than the other two, and gives a nice bird-eye's view of Dal Lake.

The last stop of the day was the Hazratbal Shrine, containing a relic believed to be the hair of Prophet Muhamad and thus the holiest Muslim shrine in Kashmir. Unfortunately also the site of the month long standoff between seperatists and the Indian armed forces back in the early 90s.

Going around Srinagar, one cannot help but wonder what the place could have been but for the decades-long strife between India and Pakistan. As the rest of the country is experiencing an investment boom, Kashmir is sorely lagging behind. Mercedes, Audi and BMW are opening up showrooms in Tier II cities across India, but an i10 or Swift is a top end car here. There are no modern malls (I hate them, but the cause here is unfortunate). There is the odd beautiful bungalow though. And there seem to be way too many chemist shops. I initially thought it was an observational error, so I dug deeper (which in today's world is grabbing your smartphone and typing "chemists in srinagar") and found this.

http://www.risingkashmir.in/news/turmoil-rises-drug-consumption-in-valley-18240.aspx

I wanted to have a nice bottle of wine, before dinner, by the sit out on the houseboat, so I asked the driver if any alcohol shops would be open, since it was the month of Ramadan.

He replied that there were only 3 alcohol shops in all of Kashmir, and all were closed for the month. Back at the houseboat, as we lazed around watching the sun go down, every few minutes we were approached by salesmen on a shikara trying to sell their wares: flowers, fruits, groceries, wood carvings, lacquerware. They are quite insistent you have a look: "dekhne free hai". Jyoti got attracted to some lacquerwork marketed by an old gentleman wearing the traditional phiran gown, while a younger denim clad member of his family rowed the shikara. He was really a sweet talker. "I have two daughters at home, you are my third daughter" he told Jyoti. I told her that even after bargaining, which she usually leaves to me, she would be overpaying, but she was feeling generous: we bought a couple of jewelry boxes for about 1k, which we later saw at the airport store (which tends to be expensive as well), for about 700. I didnt mind shelling out a few bucks extra, but I didnt like the fact that the houseboat guy would get a nice cut out of it.

After the little bit of shopping, I was chatting to the father of the guy who had dropped us here in the morning. The family lived in a house just adjacent to the houseboat and this guy was usually around the property taking care of the guests. Like his son, he talked about his friends in Mumbai, New York and London, and how they kept coming back. At some point of time, we spoke about Ladakh. He mentioned he didnt like it because it was too barren. I agreed on this point: I had a good time there when I visited, but I was yearning for some green after a few days. He then remarked that Buddhist temples were all the same (within Ladakh, this is somewhat correct), while Hindu temples had a variety of architecture, and that the people of Ladakh were not warm. I dont know if his resentment arose from personal beliefs or from the thriving tourist flow to Ladakh, but I was beginning to dislike this guy. The people of Ladakh were quieter, but honest and just as hospitable, albeit in a more reserved manner.

For dinner, we had some aloo-gobi, roti, rice and dal. I didnt want a spread, but some yogurt and papad would have been nice. Post dinner, I headed up to the upper deck for some stargazing. I had recently picked up Rey's classic "The Stars: A New Way to See Them" (its not so new anymore, he almost redefined how people looked at them), but it was the monsoon season in Bombay! I wasnt carrying the book, but I had read the introductory section on locating the pole star using the big dipper, and I did that, and got a nice kick out of it! Of course, Jyoti's smartphone had a compass, so all this direction finding business has no real "utility" in the modern world, but its fun, and pretty. Just as pretty was the lake with the reflection of the gently lit houseboats houseboats, with the lights of the Shankaracharya temple atop an adjacent hill adding to the charm.

Day 2: Charari Sharief and Yousmarg.

As often happens when I travel, thoug I intended to doze well into late morning, I lost sleep at daybreak. I headed up to the upper deck and did some yoga. The setting was special: the still waters of the Nigeen lake producing a mirror image of the houseboats bathed in the warm morning light, the odd shikara trying to disturb the quiet surface, and the symphonic chirping of birds providing food for the soul. After the yoga session, I was relaxing by the sit out when I was joined by a Swedish woman probably in her late forties. She was a painter and was traveling with her "guru" and presumably short term boyfriend, whom I later discovered to be a Hussain lookalike, albeit a couple of decades younger and quite portly. She told me he was at his easel all night and wouldnt be up till late. What a life: no time table to adhere to, a pretty Swedish woman for company, travel and paint, and then some more !

Once Jyoti was up, we had a breakfast of poha with tea, and around 10 am we left for a day trip to Yousmarg. We had a nicely maintained Toyota Qualis, but there was no AC as promised. Why would I need an AC while driving through mountains in perfectly agreeable weather? Because to get to the mountains, you have to first get out of Srinagar, and then pass some small towns with crawling traffic, and the mixture of dust and smoke churned up by trucks gives you a headache. The Army convoys are the worst: there probably is no PUC requirement for them. Call me a softie, but I'd rather walk or cycle for a couple of hours in clear air, rather than be stuck in a car with no AC in a high pollution zone. But there was no alternative today. Our driver, Yakubbhai, was a typical lanky Kashmiri, fair and bearded, and kept alternating the radio stations between one playing old Hindi film music (which was nice) and another broadcasting religious messages connected with the Ramadan fast (which was unmusical and incomprehesible, so I didnt really appreciate it)

It took us a good 45 minutes to get out of Srinagar as we headed South West of the city beyond the airport area. The landscape changed dramatically thereafter as the winding and undulating road traversed through apple orchards. This was a different side of Kashmir, something we had not expected, as the vegetation around was anything but dense. We stopped at one of the apple orchards: this wasnt one of those places with signboards welcoming tourists to pick a basketful of apples for x dollars. We loitered around for a few minutes till a few kids came out of the household looking at us curiously. Then a traditionally clad woman, probably around 30 (very pretty and with flawless skin inspite of all the exposure to the elements) offered us a few green apples, and a restrained smile. Jyoti remarked how nice it would be if she could spend all her time in the sun without getting a tan! Am sure many Indian (non Kashmiri) women would echo that sentiment. Unfortunately, we had nothing to offer in return to the kids, and offering money would probably have been offensive.

Moving on from the orchards, we reached the 600 year old Charari Sharief, the tomb of the Sufi saint Sheikh Noor-Ud-Din Noorani, also known an Alamdar-E-Kashmir (flag bearer of Kashmir) or Nund Rishi, the latter being symbolic of his teachings on communal harmony. Destroyed and rebuilt a couple of times, the shrine's architecture is influenced by Central Asian architecture. In fact most of the mosques in Kashmir are unlike the domed structures one finds in the Middle East of India. Though the roofs were green as one would expect an Islamic monument to be, the structure reminded me more of Ladakh monasteries than the mosques in Istanbul or Mumbai. The shrine was mostly quite simple on the inside, with the decorative element provided by the ornately carved wooden ceiling.

A half an hour drive from Charari Sharief, the landscape changed from sparse vegetation to lush green coniferous forest: this was quintessential Kashmir. The last 20 minutes of the drive to Yousmarg was bumpy, but enchanting as the road wound its way around a small lake, with horses grazing in the adjacent meadows. Yousmarg is being developed as a new destination: there were 3 or 4 cars parked when we got there, a tourism department hotel that was not yet operational and an unmanned checkpoint. Like other destinations in Kashmir, the promise is the same: grassy meadows amid majestic peaks, gurgling brooks, long walks among the pines, and little ponies to take you around. We decided to head to a nearby stream: I wanted to walk while Jyoti got a pony, with a 10-12 year old boy ferrying the animal around. I told "chhotu" that I would pay him only if he ensured that none of his friends harangued me for getting a pony as well.

The stream was pretty, as you'd expect. We were the only ones there, besides chhotu and some village boys. The takeaway from this trip was the money we had to pay chhotu for 2 hours of service: a measly 120 rupees. There were so few visitors at Yousmarg that chhotu probably got one customer a day: more likely he got one in a few days. Then there would be months of off season when he probably had no customers. He would have to spend some money in feeding the pony (its name was, you guessed it "Dabangg"! The females were named Munni or Sheila). All this for a measly hundred bucks or so! Thats like what I would pay back in Mumbai as "service charge" for an English speaking waiter to pour a glass of wine at the Four Seasons rooftop, as I savour the view of the Mumbai slums, spoiled somewhat by the ugly presence of the vast ocean and the race course. People who have nature have no money , and vice versa, and those who have both by owning sea facing homes in Mumbai, have lost the ability to enjoy nature thinking all day about the money.

We had a late lunch at the tourism department hotel (thankfully the restaurant was operational, though they only had rice to go with the dal and veggie, no roti-shoti). There was some activity back in the office in Mumbai as we headed back to Srinagar in the late afternoon. So I asked Yakubbhai to stop at a place where there was a strong signal. I had to use Jyoti's iphone to call as my blackberry seemed to be no good, though both of us were on the same network. And there I was, a la Hrithik Roshan in ZNMD, trying to get trades done, ignoring the beautiful country all around. And I wasnt even going Moshi Moshi....

Once back at the houseboat, we headed out for a shikara ride on the Nigeen lake. Whenever I am on any sort of vehicle, I get curious to figure out how it works. There is nothing fancy about a shikara, but I always wondered how it kept going in a straight line even as the boatman rowed only on one side. He then showed me how: after making a rowing stroke from front to back with an almost vertical oar that would make the boat go say left, you tilt it outward with its face resisting against the flow of water, so there was a breaking effect that would make the boat go right, thus always going straight if you could manage a proper offset in the two actions.

Talking about a few different things, I asked the boatman about his family. I dont know if what he said was true, but he mentioned how he had spent most of his life trying to make enough money for his sisters' wedding, and now had to do the same to send his kids to school. He was regretful that he never got a chance to get an education. He did not even own the boat, and most of what he made was gone to either the boat owner or as commission to the houseboat owners who would get him a ride. He even told me that if I would give him a tip in sight of the houseboat owners, they would demand a kickback from the tip as well. Maybe this was just to implant the idea of a tip in my mind, but whether he was a simpleton or had a bit of cunning about him, I felt sad for him either way.

On our short trip around the lake, we found a bit of Goa in the middle of Srinagar: a bar and a run down hostel at the edge of the lake, accessible only by boat, run by a happy-go-lucky fellow from the South, catering to the backpackers who loved a beer by sunset and wanted to shake a leg thereafter. This guy had a party going every Saturday night and we figured it might be interesting to head back there the next day, but we lost the enthusiasm overnight. For dinner, we had the same dal, roti and rice, thankfully with some palak paneer, which though wasnt enough for both of us.

Day 3: Pahalgam

We were to go to Gulmarg today, but there was some incidence in the valley the previous day and one of the political parties had called for a strike. The houseboat owner advised that the road to Gulmarg might be closed and that we should go to Pahalgam. I am a firm believer that most places on earth, including Kashmir, Pakistan, Iran, or the hinterlands of Africa, are for the most part as safe for travel as it is crossing the road in Mumbai, or living in Delhi. I trusted the guy's judgment, though I didnt like him much otherwise. I didnt bother to check what had happened: its just as said whether its a bomb going off or someone is shot. I didnt care which political party had called for a strike: Arent they all trying to divide and conquer? Without them the world would be one big boundaryless place, and we wouldnt have to grovel and beg for visas any longer.

The upshot of all this strike business was that the traffic was sparse. As we headed south on the Srinagar-Jammu highway, there were a lot of expected sights: saffron fields, shops selling walnuts and almonds, factory outlets selling Kashmir willow cricket bats, army convoys, military areas, a policeman on patrol every few hundred meters. What I did not expect was rice fields. The green meadows that I saw from the plane were actually paddy fields, one of the most important crops for the Kashmir economy.

At Anantnag, we turned left and headed north-east towards Pahalgam, the road running parallel to the Lidder river. In my book , the Lidder is one of the prettiest rivers I've ever seen: fast flowing, white, gushing, surrounded by an enchanting valley. Jab Tak Hai Jaan was for the most part an atrocious movie, but it was good to see Yash Chopra return from Switzerland to the place where he shot parts of Silsila. The latter part of the breathtaking drive up the hills was was dotted with Amarnath yatri camps.

This was a sensitive area after all: we had to get out of the car with our duffle bags at the check point before proceeding to the town center, where we shared a chole bature at Nathu's Rasoi, the most famous restaurant in the area.

Ponies were three times as expensive here compared to Yousmarg, at 300-350 rupees an hour. We spent the next three hours exploring (Jyoti on a pony, myself on foot) the surrounding meadows and trails. One of the most well known of those is Baisaran, nicknamed the Switzerland of India, where some zorbing was going on. We confined ourselves to more sedate activities like cuddling a lamb in exchange for a 10 rupee "baksheesh". I totally fell in love with the place: there are so many meadows and trails all around that I could spend a few days here just walking around. But time is a scarce resource for those who can afford many other goodies. Lunch was at Nathu's as well (we opted for Chinese for some variety) before leaving town for Srinagar. En route we stopped at the banks of the Lidder at a nice spot where some river rafting was going on, dipped our feet in the cold water and just watched the water gushing by.

Dinner back at the houseboat consisted of Aloo Gobi again to go with the same dal, roti and rice. I probably belong to the smallest of minorities, but I dont like Gobi. Actually I dont like in the vegetable form. Mash it and made kofta or paratha with it and I will relish it. Its all about the texture. I requested the manager to make something else for dinner the next day I would have liked to sit out by the lake, but there were too many mosquitoes and no repellant. So we watched Housefull 2 before retiring to bed(television makes a great movie alright and a terrible movie bearable).

Day 4: Gulmarg

An hour and a half’s drive west from Srinagar brought us to Gulmarg, home to the highest green golf course in the world as well as one of the highest gondolas in the world. The last 10 km of the drive from Tangmarg, up the Pir Panjal mountains covered with dense pine forests, was quite scenic. As we walked from the car park towards the base of the Gondola, we were hounded by the pony owners. Some of them will tell you the gondola is shut (which it sometimes is), while others will lure you into the ride overstating the distance five times. (It’s only a lazy 10-15 minute walk)

One old man followed us all the way insisting that he would wait for us at the Gondola and then take us for a ride around the meadow. I had to tell him very clearly we didn’t need a ride, lest he plead for money on our way back.

As Jyoti was standing in a “ladies only” queue for the Gondola tickets, a male guide just barged in. When I asked him to back off, a woman who had hired him told me he was buying tickets for her. I lost my composure, gave her some crap and called her “stupid”. We then get our tickets and join the queue: as it the norm in most places in India, many visitors were cutting the queue. In fact, the Gondola was built by a French company, but the experience was all Indian. The last time I had visited, I had to wait in a long queue to get the tickets, and then in another one for a refund as there was a mechanical failure. They kept announcing on the loudspeakers “People who bought their tickets at 10 am, please head back down or your tickets will be considered void”. I look at my watch (most people were ignoring the announcement), I have 10 am tickets and I still am on a queue to go up! I panic a little, then Jyoti reminds me this is India, don’t take it too literally!

So I begin to chat with this gentleman ahead of me in the queue. He happens to work in Citibank Singapore in the audit department. I am moving to Singapore in a month, I tell him! We exchange some notes, and the same lady I called “stupid” walks right by his side and he says “Meet my wife!”

Thankfully that was just when we were about to board the Gondola. For a 10 rupee tip, Jyoti and I had the cabin to ourselves. The Gondola had two stages: the first one transferred us to the Kongdoori Valley, and then next one took us to 4000 m, close to shoulder of Mt Apharwat. The winter snow hadn’t melted in certain parts of the mountain, but the little bit that remained had practically turned brown, trampled over by thousands of daily visitors. The view was breathtaking (literally, as I began to feel the effects of scant oxygen). The Line of Control, marked by a Pakistani outpost, was visible in the distance. The high altitude was giving me a slight headache and we quickly descended back to the first level at the Kongdoori meadow. We had a mixed pakoda and masala maggi lunch at one of the restaurants (almost each one of them had plastered on their hoardings: Jain Food available, which I found quite amusing)

After lunch we headed back down to Gulmarg, and lo and behold, the same pony owner, in spite of all my earlier warnings, was waiting for us at the base. It was a reflection of the sad state of affairs in the valley: too much supply of labor in the tourism industry, with demand lagging behind even as people have been flocking back in the past 3-4 years. Jyoti felt sorry for the guy and we hired him to take her around the meadow, with me following on foot. It was a picturesque walk, with the small matter that I had to walk a good 50 meters behind her pony: every time i was walking beside, this man would start off about how he waited for us for two hours, and whether he should take the long route or the short route, and maybe I should get a pony too blah blah blah! We were back in Srinagar before sundown and relaxed at the houseboat in the evening.

Day 5: Back Home

An uneventful day as we checked out after breakfast, and headed well before departure time to the airport, since Srinagar has “extraordinary security measures”. On the flight back, I was wondering what a great destination this region could become. With all the demand for adventure sports, a lot can happen here: skiing, paragliding, mountain biking, trekking and somewhat more sedate activities like golfing and fishing. But the infrastructure will not develop till there is security, and that seems like asking for the moon! I was left with one lingering thought: working for an American bank, living in Singapore, what say do I deserve in the entire matter? All the qualified, well heeled, well traveled, intellectual, modern Indians in India and across the globe have a rational theory about the past and future of Kashmir. But what physical or emotional investment do they have there? Everyone is entitled to their opinion, but ultimately, in my opinion, only those who are still living in the shadow of death, day in, day out, should have a real voice in the determination of their future.