Textures of India: Our Tropical Memories by RPeddada

Textures of India

Our tropical memories: A photographic esssay, Vol. 1

Raju Peddada

Title: Textures of India: Our Tropical Memories, A Photographic Essay, Vol. I. Author: Raju Peddada Copyright (C) 2012 by Raju Peddada All rights reserved. Written permission must be secured from the publisher to use or reproduce any part of this book, except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles. Published by SATYALU-KRISTI Media ISBN# LCCN#

For my audacious and magnanimous father. Peddada Satyanarayana Murthy, 1932-2007

Preface Our Picture at Dum-Dum Airport, 1959. This picture was taken by our father in 1959, in front of our residence, at the Dum-Dum International Airport in Calcutta. This very picture was then mailed to our grandparents in Ragolapalli, about 1700km away, who had it displayed under a frame, along with their other grand kids. Every other summer, during the 60s and 70s, we saw these pictures that were hung in their main hall, atop the second door frame from the east, leading to the kitchen area. Then, as their (my grandparents and our aunt) saga at Ragolapalli came to a conclusion, in 1984, the pictures, along with many seminal documents, and small household effects were abandoned in Annadaverapeta, at their oldest granddaughter’s place, where they remained for almost 30 years, in rain and shine, as if biding their time. In the mean while, the photograph, along with others, had aged like I had, and, in a circuitous fifty years, found its way back to the hands of its subject, now a middle-aged man, yours truly. What a journey this photograph has had! From the hands of my father, to the hands of my grandparents, who must have reveled upon its arrival, and probably shared it with the household. Now, after five decades, I rescue it, but, the protagonist, and the supporting cast: the one who took this picture, and the ones who received it, had vanished. From Calcutta to Ragolapalli, and then, from Annadeverapeta to Chicago, this picture’s journey, in a way, represented our dissolved time between the stops. This picture may yet survive, after I am gone, if my progeny’s value system, is the same as my father’s. The picture’s life itself, embodied the allegorical sequence of our life: The slick print as our childhood, the static framed print symbolized our middle years, and the present condition, representing our devolution. It also epitomizes the ever evolving textures of life in India.

Textures of India

Our tropical memories: A photographic esssay, Volume 1

“The Places that we have known belong now only to the little world of space on which we map them for our own convenience. None of them was ever more than a thin slice, held between the contiguous impressions that composed our life at that time; remembrance of a particular form is but regret for a particular moment; and houses, roads, avenues are as fugitives, alas, as the years.” -Marcel Proust, Swann’s Way, 1913-1927 “Have you tried Aspirin? No, I think I’ll go to India.” - Paul Theroux, the Great Railway Bazar, 1975

In the cold waning days of my father’s life, his eyes registered that distant look, waging a tough battle of attrition against an implacable enemy. He would say little in that hospital room, and drift in and out of his reveries. There was a lot say, but none of us talked. On the 20th of December, 2007, one day after he had come out of the ICU, on the way to an apparent recovery, I asked him to recall that 1965 trip, and tell me the stops we had made on that indelible drive. He lit up suddenly, as if a switch was flicked on. Then, slowly his aperture widened, refocusing his eyes to the present; warming up, he asks “what do you want to know?” I had my writing pad out, as he started. Then again, his eyes swam away into another sphere, as he spoke: “...it was in the afternoon... a sunny Saturday, around 2pm, the 11th of December... after loading up the car, we started out for Hazaribagh...” a faint smile welling up in his exhausted sleepless eyes. It was a great relief. He gave me the details in perfect chronological order, beginning with his early career, the key people, who had serendipitously influenced his life. He vividly recalled how his colleagues at the office had discouraged that trip. My rare and intensely treasured sessions with him in that room, number 429, lasted all of only five days, that too only in the evenings. On the 26th, his vitals devolved rapidly, as he was removed to an isolation room, number 427. While his battle was nearing the end, we got distracted by the TV coverage of Benazir Bhutto’s assassination on the 27th, the day he was moved. He looked visibly weak, and became reluctant to speak, or even swallow food. His reminiscences faded away. The battle he waged, never allowed him again, to escape into his memories, he was forced to confront the inevitable. It was as if our trip was suddenly aborted. We had lost our life driver, and guide, in more ways than one. The brutality of that experience in 2007, had sucked me into an emotional black hole, time has failed miserably, to mitigate the dreadful vacuum left by my audacious father. I had to continue his trip, only now, the trip had assumed an added dimension, it went from his reality to our escape, and only a trip with the family would quell his restive soul. His spirit had departed the body, leaving his terrestrial travel itinerary incomplete, in a way urging us, to continue, and consummate it. The only real relief from his absence, would come by escaping into his youthful and tropical memories. This is how, after 16 years, we decided to go to India, and celebrate his life. In this long hiatus, India had receded behind a veil of dust for me. I had immersed myself into a new culture, and India had slowly become an estranged concept. The only two tethers remaining were my parents, who continued to rope in the visits back home, after migrating to the U.S. Estrangement from the motherland is not a unique phenomenon. Some of us, in our restless youth, try hard to corral an identity of our own, in rebellion against our parents, and everything they stood for. It is only a mature, and sentimentally circuitous route back to the reality, with more appreciation for what we had abandoned, in our irrational and fiery youth. 4

I had heard of the great progress in India, from the migrating droves of relatives, coming here on work visas, but progress is an ambiguous word. If there is great progress there, then why is everyone lining up to come here? It is a classic oxymoron. My father, after coming to the U.S., did nothing most Indians tend to do, he did not wallow in his “Indian-ness” rather, dove into the new surroundings, and instead of retiring, worked for another four years, and without trumpeting, quietly became naturalized, along with mother.. He even became a philanthropist, giving away relatively large amounts to the “Paralyzed Veterans of America.” what is infinitely gratifying here, is his transformation, especially, after he had turned sixty. Now, how many folks can change at that age, especially coming from India? He had the right attitude, emblematic of true progress. Progress is not always measured in material advancements alone, it is actually gauged as to how quickly one can recalibrate their personal attitudes, assimilate and flow with their adopted surroundings. Material Progress is worthless, if attitudes remain the same, in a new host culture. I was not going to India, after all these years to see their “progress.” I was going there, to take in the old scenes of my father’s youth, and our childhood. More than anything, it was to be a pilgrimage to our ancestral villages, where both my parents were born, and grew up... and, that today are time capsules, fortunately intact, unaffected by the encroaching modernity. This trip warranted a fresh set of eyes, without any preconceived notions, or prejudices that would effect my immersion, as if for the first time, with a child’s innocent wonder - yet, I wanted to gaze at the landscape that defined a culture, which also, had influenced the rhythm our lives there. I wanted to cast my eyes on the panorama that had remained indelible, even after decades, and the visual culture that may never change, like: a Shepard corralling his buffaloes to a water hole, or a “chakaladu,” a washer-man, in a circuitous rhythm, slamming soaped bedsheets on a slab of rock on the river bank, or a pregnant woman coaxing a fire in her backyard. Unforgettable were the scenes of kids in dirty clothes, playing cricket in dusty fields, only pausing briefly to see the train go by, or that coterie of men smoking under a Pipal tree, with steps leading to a river, and those colorfully wrapped woman in the fields, planting and singing in unison. Rhythms of life that seemed wondrous to my boys, who also were entertained by the monkeys on station platforms, and the three legged dog in Katpadi junction that protected its food source, us, against three larger dogs.

Progress, was definitely not something I was looking for there, but, we involuntarily confronted it. In my case, the progress of India became a hindrance, an inconvenience, to the consummation of my emotional fulfillment - which was to feel the “air-and-space” of my parents’ youth. Progress, intrinsically, never does preserve any of our spatial or visual memory, rather, it is erased by it. It is quite obvious why progress is an anathema, and the antithesis to the preservation of memory, especially of places and things, in a place like India. India is an enigma, a work in progress, a canvas of survival, where survival has become an art form. India is also incongruous, and an inscrutable place, where modernity thrives within antiquity, where the disparity between what is right and wrong had been erased, and where order resides in chaos. “Incongruous India” makes make more sense than “Incredible India” as advertised. Incredulity resides in the incongruous existential conundrums there. The incongruity is visualized by things like: Ambani’s $1 billion home rising amidst Mumbai slums; rampant murderous corruption even at the lowest economic level, in the land of apparent piety; where a widowed Catholic woman, holds power over every Hindu and Muslim; where the rich can steal the lands, while the poor and the middle-class sweat on it; where a man’s home can never be his castle; and, where, elephant as a mode of transport is still seen on the roads, along with the E320s. India is, unequivocally, the land of incongruity. Nevertheless, it is an Eden for the senses, and a paradise for the exploring mind. Despite the wonders, it is also the land of brutal reality, and, one must see beyond the obvious in India. It is one scatological and wretched “obvious” that one has to overcome there, through the gray haze of pollution, and the stench of corruption. The old maxim of “When in Rome be a Roman” is more applicable here than anywhere else. Many contemporary authors of the west, travel to India with utopic expectations, only to be shocked by the reality. If one goes to India, with a turd for a brain, then all one will see are the turds. Let me push that even further. It must become an imperative to see beyond their exigent necessity to defecate out in the open. And for that matter, seeing a pile of feces is far better than ingesting fecal matter on a regular basis. That is correct. We in the west, ingest more fecal matter through what we eat, than perhaps the Indians do. How? 83% Of the Processed meats, according to the USDA, and other independent laboratories, available in the “turd” format: hotdogs, wieners, frankfurters, sausages, baloney, salami, and other meats, contain fecal matter. We are big fans of shit sandwiches, and yet, pontificate about the hygiene of others. Therefore, let’s stop judging the Indian squatting, and come down off of our western “thrones.” My apologies for this digression, but, it was necessary to clear the air.

Another thing that we, as travelers to the east, especially India, must keep in our mind, is the concept of preciseness there, or the utter lack of it. There is no comprehension of preciseness, as a concept of daily operation, in the Indian emotional, mental or psychological makeup. There is no exactness in India, it is a place of ambiguities, not merely as an engineering issue, or that benevolent Hindu tolerance, but, as an existential conundrum. Punctuality is an oasis of sanity, found very seldom there. Punctuality, as a personal operating standard, as a principle, is as unrealistic as mangoes grown in Finland. In fact, punctuality can be quite hazardous to your health, it can give you dental problems, acute neurosis, and blood pressure from anxiety and hypertension. India is the antithesis to the concept of preciseness, despite the hordes of engineers. If Germans (not the immigrants) are the epitome of preciseness, Indian society is that poster representing ambiguity. Perhaps, it is the weather, that makes everyone languorous. It’s almost the same in all of the equatorial nations. It must be the heat, but with this heat, come the colors, and the fruit that we love so much. Yeah, tropics translates to taking it easy, where punctuality and preciseness can be summarily banished. The tropics, for all their problems, do offer an escape into a world of vividness and vivacity. I was not looking for any cold preciseness, rather, I was ready to be served by their warm ambiguities. For me, it was an escape for the revitalization, and rejuvenation of my spirit, to recover from the daily grind of living, a new sphere, without the presence of a loved one. I had to escape, like Thomas Mann’s Hans Castorp in “The Magic Mountain” or Marcel Proust did, into their memories, just to find that equilibrium, and continue on. In honor of my father’s memory, I would like to present a photographic essay, on our trip to India in 2008, and earnestly hope that you will revel in seeing beyond the obvious. Each photograph is accompanied by a commentary of sorts, that might open the doors to your own muse, and urge your visit. Let’s enjoy the scenes that haven’t changed much in generations.

“Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky” - Rabindranath Tagore

Frankfurt: A cold gray airport. Day 1. A bitter cold 2007 was nothing but black, pitch black, with the intangible burden of inevitable reality. From the pitch darkness of a patrilineal vacuum, and, like an unfolding screenplay, we faded into a gray 2008. My dry eyes slowly adjusted to “life” again. This was uncharted terrain for me. Full of recurring images that kept coming up like hitchhikers, crowding my resolve to stay unaffected. The excruciating inner journey left me ill-equipped to resume the external journey - peopled with financial, relational, ceremonial, and obligatory banalities. The year began dissolve, immersion in work was no option, as I needed a desperate change of scene. The gloom was pervasive, and we stumbled into it again at Frankfurt. Frankfurt was a refueling stop for Air India, serviced by Lufthansa. At the disembarkation, we were received by these clinically precise and cold German immigration officials, who, like the lab technicians, herded most of the India bound passengers, like laboratory mice, into holding pens, ever vigilant that none escaped into their precious country. We survived three checkpoints for the verification of tickets-to-faces-to-passports. That stern, chilly penetrating gaze of the Germans, with a hint of mock courtesy, reminded me of the Hospital personnel, with their strained smiles, sympathies and euphemistic answers, few months ago. I guess, this was now the way to travel, passengers are presumed guilty, until proven innocent. For $1350 a piece to India, this was priceless indeed. Thanks to Osama! The cold experience at Frankfurt, exacerbated my desire and desperation to escape, into my father’s warm tropical memories.

Frankfurt: A cold grey airport, with the lone worker.

Kukatpally: 5am, My wife peering down, exclaims “Aaah India...!” Day 2. We had arrived at the hotel around 2am, and slept fitfully, three hours later a soft dawn filtered in, waking us up. The scene from our window was a 180 degree turnaround from that chilly composition in Frankfurt. It was shockingly pleasant, and did not sink in immediately. We just kept drinking in this view from atop, from our 4th floor hotel room: the outdoor sleepers in the courtyard, nonchalantly stirring under the twittering birds, for another mild day on the cusp. Our faces, like a seismograph, registered our expanding smile. The informality of it all, what we saw from our window, inundated me with utter relief, this was indeed the perfect escape. Then suddenly, like a primal ordainment that extirpates any left over regrets, we heard that undulating and effeminate cooing of the Nightingale, Coo... Coo... Coohoooh...Coohoooh, it lasted for about twenty minutes. As if an entreaty for the visitors, an urging, to clear their hearts of all the ambivalence, and look to another sphere in the tropics. The nightingale’s melody evoked all the places I had heard it before, in Assam everywhere, in Patna by my old school: The St. Micheal’s, and the Sadakat Ashram with its Mango orchards by the Ganges, at our grandparents’ homestead in Ragolapalli, farms in the south, and, in Mehrauli, our last resort. The Nightingale’s call washed over me in chilly waves, draining away every ounce of tension I had arrived with. Refreshed, we waited patiently for my cousin to take us to his place.

“Do not say, ‘it is morning,’ and dismiss it with a name of yesterday. See it for the first time as a newborn child that has no name.” - Rabindranath Tagore

Kukatpally: 5am view - My wife peering down exclaims “Aaah India...!”

Kukatpally: A lady arriving at work. The hotel was a part of a medium sized complex, with a courtyard, anchored by a duo of the Pipal, and the Neem trees, surrounded, with a hotel, a hospital, and a restaurant buffering the street and the courtyard. I took some pictures, as we waited for my cousin, Rajesh, to arrive in his slick car. And, while we waited, I had fun contemplating about the owner’s great plan of the complex. The customer arrives at the hotel, eats at the restaurant, and eventually ends up at the hospital, from where, he can’t check out on his own volition. As this lady entered the complex, and arrived next to the generator, I saw that she completed the human element in the composition. The dichotomy is unavoidable: the austerity of the rigid blue machine in the shed, flanked by this feminine form in the blue, made for the binary maxim. By the expression on her face, I assume she was either pissed that she was coming to work, or by the fact that I was there crouching for her in wait, to freeze the frame. This serene picture totally belied the murderous bustle on the street few yards away. Basically, I saw a rigid mechanistic life, contrasted and balanced by the feminine flexibility for existence...perish if you do not adapt! (Please see another article by the author titled “Indelible India” published by swans.com)

Kukatpally: A lady arriving at work.

Kukatpally: Sound Horn...OK?! Contrary to the offense taken by the Americans being honked at, the Indian drivers actually desire it, (right) as seen on the back of this small three wheeled truck. There are no lanes and no rules that anyone adheres to. Everyone it seems possesses the faculty of avoiding accidents, with a fruit fly like peripheral vision and reflexes. Driving is not just a skill, but an art form here. I amused myself while my cousin negotiated the traffic into Kukatpally.

Kukatpally: Sound Horn...OK?!

Kukatpally: Facing the right turn, while going straight. Everyone is a bonafide traffic outlaw here, anybody who honors traffic laws becomes a hazard to himself. The scene of a whole family of five (father, mother, two toddlers and an infant) on the motorcycle, with the mother holding the infant in one arm, weaving, stopping suddenly, swerving and riding through the polluted chaos, is simultaneously harrowing and astounding. My Nephew, Gautam, a highly savvy, and visually acute individual said this of Hyderabad traffic: â&#x20AC;&#x153;...drivers here are like Barry Sanders, in their sudden cut backs, to avoid the accidents...â&#x20AC;? true indeed. After absorbing the traffic skills here, I feel that common sense in driving had been wiped out by our litigious culture. Consider this, the U.S., with a population hovering around 295 million, with all its highways, signs, traffic flow design, planning and laws still had 34,172 fatal accidents in 2008; India with over 1.2 billion in population, and more congested and chaotic roads had just over 100,000 fatalities. The ratio of fatalities to population is in favor of India. This tells me that anticipation, adaptation and adjustments made during driving is the difference between the drivers here and there. And, for that matter, very few Indians get into accidents in the U.S., and are a gold mine for the auto insurance firms there. In an inverse manner I liked the chaotic driving here, it is artful, slow and excruciating, but every rider or driver depends on his anticipation, reflexes, awareness, and foresight. Traffic becomes a riddle, and an applicable metaphor. Every little nuance in the traffic condition there is discounted by the driver, and a reflexive adaptation is instantaneous. Laws have given way to the instincts, and order had acquiesced to anticipation, in a chaos that pits man made law versus the natural law. Indian traffic is like the sea, you cannot legislate and police the sea, it will find its own flow, and equilibrium. In my forty plus days, I had not witnessed one fatal accident in this game of survival. The traffic in India telegraphs something else too, the urgency to make a living, where there are no welfare handouts. We arrived safely at my Aunt Vijayaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s place, quite dazed at what we had experienced getting there.

Kukatpally: Facing the right turn, while going straight.

Kukatpally: At my Aunt’s Place. We were welcomed by my aunt Vijaya, her husband, uncle Ramdas, their two incredibly jolly sons, Rajesh and Pavan, both IT professionals, and their dog Bruno, who gave us a cursory glance, as if saying “another batch of free leaders, huh...” Despite Bruno’s tepid reception, the rest opened up their hearth for us, and made us feel right at home. Their apartment was at the edge of the town development, by a small lake, where we found many distractions worth dwelling on. This picture (right) from their veranda looked out over a still body of water, that reflected the distant buildings under construction, set off in the foreground by a fisherman’s shack. And, right beyond their wall was a buffalo corral and dairy that sold milk to the neighborhood, and, also evoked that smokey rural panorama, when the dung odor wafted through on breezy evenings. Such juxtapositions were astounding, but more than anything, I got to see eleven exotic species of birds by the lake everyday, something I had not been able to do for decades. My eyes feasted on the humming birds, the flitting yellow wrens, egrets, cranes, kingfishers, mynas, shrikes, black drongos and swifts, with their scissors like tail feathers, swooping over the water, also, crows, and soaring kites, besides the jittery and noisy house sparrows, while the mosquitoes feasted on us after dusk. The buffet of insects, which the birds, the house geckos, and the dinosaur like lizards preyed on, constituted the urban ecology. The boys had arrived in their sphere, everyone spoke English, and there were a lot of critters... I could see it in their eyes. (See another article by the author titled “The Queen of Kukatpally” published by swans.com). Bruno, a Collie breed, being too hairy and hot, always sought the cozy confines under their sofa, he also had a problem, he was obnoxiously flatulent. And, as we sat on the sofa he would release one of his silent-but-deadly ones, which wafted up, and generated the dirty looks between me and my wife, only realizing weeks later, who the culprit was. Little things made days roll by fast, vegetable shopping with my aunt was utterly entertaining, and so were my early morning walks with her. Kukatpally is a suburb of Hyderabad, but it felt more like a sprawling metropolis, bustling, chaotic and dusty. In fact, the dusty belligerence of the building boom, blankets the surrounding area in fine grit. You see dust everywhere, as a result of perpetual construction. There are no real-estate bubbles here, the values are always on an upward trend, as the construction never catches up with the population.

Kukatpally: View from my Auntâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Place.

Hyderabad: Ceremonial musicians. Day 3. As scheduled on October 18th, our uncle and aunt took us to this marriage ceremony in the afternoon, hosted by my elder maternal cousin, Seshu, for his son, Kumar. Indian marriages are the encapsulation of traditions, opulence and decadence, more so the latter two. Everything is done in excess, planning itself is indulgent. We all arrived at this Andhra Brahmin wedding, with anticipation. The loquacious marriage milieu included most of my first maternal cousins. Informal camaraderie and familiarity of the early years had devolved into distant, competitive and calculating stares. Nevertheless, we were received in warm informality, with no cursory hugs or kisses on the cheeks. I absolutely loved it. Our boys found their cousins, my paternal uncle’s granddaughters about the same age, and it was as if they had known each other. Communicating was easy in English, they did not miss a beat. They adapted to the environment quicker than us, having the run of the place, the huge banquet hall, somewhere in Hyderabad. This picture of the two austere musicians (right) somehow captured the dignity of this traditional occasion, despite the circus atmosphere. They played the traditional drum and reed trumpet, referred to as “Mridangam - Shannai” with piercingly low-high pitched melodies. A magisterial combination, evoking distant and obscure memories of pilgrimages and ceremonies of the past.

“Music fills the infinite between two souls.” - Rabindranath Tagore

Hyderabad: The marriage kitchen. The marriage kitchen is set up on the premises, basically to make all the sweets. This place is a hot and sweaty enclosure, with scrambling folks getting the supplies, as the lead Brahmin chef, referred to as “Vanta Brahmalu,” with the help of assistants, turned raw materials into delectable traditional sweets. Big gas fired stoves topped with huge vessels were being attended to by the assistants. Incidentally, most Indians sweets are made of Ghee: melted buffalo-milk-fat, Sugar or molasses, Besan-chickpea flour, rice flour or maida, another type of flour along with various spices like cinnamon, cardamom, cloves and turmeric. There is definitely a method to their madness, and it results in a distinctly south Indian taste: Boondi Laddu, Minapa sunni, BobbaAttulu, Kazaalu, and Arisilu, etc. Barely a generation ago, such marriages were filled with smoke, from the wood fired kitchens, as cooks toiled hard to craft their traditional delicacies. In fact, the whole marriage facility became hazy with smoke, obscuring this strange ritual brewing behind the billowing opacity. People appeared and disappeared in smoke, like the procession of spirits, involved in some esoteric mystery. Fire, happens to be the binding element and power, in all the Hindu social and religious ceremonies, and without it, nothing auspicious or propitious is ever accomplished. Fire, it so happens, ordains everything good in the Hindu culture, unlike the hell it represents in the Sinai desert religions. Long time ago, matriarchs at their homesteads, started the day by bathing at dawn, in the honor of “Surya” the Sun god, then, entered their kitchens to fire up the wood stoves. Preparing the food on fire, blessed by the Sun, had been a divine endeavor for ages. There is something distinctly Epicurean about food being cooked on wood fire... you relish not just the food, you are able to savor history.

Hyderabad: The marriage kitchen.

Hyderabad: The menagerie of marriage hens. Marriage is a woman’s play ground, they were born for this theater, and they live for it. Here, some familiar faces are assembled... a cackling menagerie of marriage hens, having a ball. All their gregariousness, and levity one can behold at venues like this. Indian marriages are at least 2-3 days in duration, with numerous ceremonies unfolding in sequence, leading to the main one, which is the marriage itself. No banal or fatuous ten minute covenants here. The priest presides over a lengthy process of reading the ancient slokas, followed by the procedure of tying the knot, in this case a “Mangalasutra” a necklace of sorts, or orbiting around the fire, like done in the north. Marriage, is again sanctioned and ordained by fire in the Hindu culture. At an elemental level, the Indian marriage is one huge fiery foreplay, before the hard and the moist can engage. It is a big unavoidable fuss for the young, if controlled by their parents. It has always been a stage, where egos get to strut like peacocks, that go around pissing on the unwary. Simply put, it is a very complex affair for the host, and a spectacle for those watching from the periphery, as the participants: the bride and the groom, zombie it through. Woman look their best, it is without a doubt, a festive feast. Some women become mannequins, representing their family’s wealth - laden with pounds of gold, and sarees that cost upwards of $2000. They also manage to change their sarees for every little ceremony, and float around like butterflies in all their petulant resplendence. You see a lady upstairs in a room one moment, then seconds later, you see her in animated conversation at the opposite end of the facility, downstairs, almost 150 yards away. Marriage is a tonic that seems to levitate women to another sphere, rendering them indefatigable... it is mystifying to see them glide from one place to another, they seem to be everywhere at once.

“The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.” - Rabindranath Tagore

Hyderabad: The menagerie of marriage hens.

Hyderabad: Who is the host and who is the friend? The marriage hosts, Lakshmi, the perpetually youthful and mirthful wife, and Seshu, a sagacious character, with a certain élan, upstanding, and the retired CEO of a large petroleum refinery, reveled in our presence, as well as in the panoply of successful and powerful people, who attended the marriage. This was also an occasion to see all of my cousin sisters, and their grown offspring, with whom I never had any contact. The splendid marriage took place in the bride’s town of Hyderabad, and the reception was 600 kilometers away, at the host and groom’s residence in Visakhapatnam, a coastal city, in the image of Miami. Here in Hyderabad, I had the rare opportunity to capture the two boyhood friends together. The serious, and the unflappable presence of Seshagiri Rao, a landlord in the village of Adavikollu, and the unassuming host behind him. Behind that grim countenance, Sheshagiri Rao is a deep and dependable character, with a dry wit imbued with sarcasm, meant for city slickers like us. He kept clear of the small and banal interactions, with most marriage guests, by immersing himself in Sudoku puzzles. I distinctly remember Seshagiri Rao from earlier decades, being less reticent, and rather gregarious in our youth, when we had visited with Seshu’s family, and also his homestead during the 70s. And, how could I ever forget bathing in his muddy dugout pool, only to emerge with dozens of leeches on my back... or a night sleeping under his roof on the terrace, with a cluster of chirping vampire bats, roosting just a few feet away.

“Friendship is a single soul dwelling in two bodies.” -Aristotle

Hyderabad: Who is the host and who is the friend?

Kukatpally: Friendship, fast and strong. Lasts long. Day 4. Back to Kukatpally after the marriage. Here I managed to spot two friends talking (right) next to this cement brand that tied them all together. Priya means Love; so, love cement is fast and strong. Finding a visual pun is pure luck and fun. The maestro at this is my friend and mentor, Art Shay, the legendary photojournalist from Deerfield, Illinois, back home. Below, the street picture from the same vantage point, but a different angle. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s just that everywhere you turn, there is a picture of the human condition waiting to be snapped. In the composition below, I saw the correlation of the bustle and chaos in a descending order: the tangle of wires on the top, followed by the haphazard signage, and the patternless movement of the people on the street... all pointing to the exigency of making a living, survival. But, there was a pattern in this chaos.

Kukatpally: Friendship... fast and strong. Lasts long.

Kukatpally: Ratnam Jewelers. Jewelers are everywhere in India. They are not the luxury shops that people wander into occasionally, they are actually indispensable to the Hindu culture. Every occasion calls for the consumption of gold, whether it is a girl’s maturation ceremony, a marriage, or a birth anniversary. A woman without gold ornaments, “Nagalu,” is an “incomplete” women in that culture, sad commentary, but true. And, gold is always represented by the images of Goddess Lakshmi, and her husband, Lord Venkateswara. India happens to be the largest consumer of gold per capita. They virtually eat it. I spotted this building next to a Homeopathic clinic, it was optically loud, like 24 carat gold, and inversely attracted my attention. It was also quite difficult to get a picture, without the visually polluting electrical, telephone wires, and cables. Getting a clean picture posed a real challenge anywhere in India, but then, that is the texture of existence in India.

Kukatpally: Ratnam Jewelers.

Kukatpally: The reticent squalor amidst the boorish bungalows. One could be led to believe that the poor, who have nothing to lose or safeguard, are consequently much happier than the ones living in those concrete palaces, full of valuables, always worrying about being stolen or violated. You can manifestly see that on the face of this squatter (right), who seems to be just happy to see me take his picture. Some landowners in the city, encourage known squatters to occupy their land, so it is not built on by somebody else, till they are ready to build. It is a strange dichotomy, the rich live constricted, and the poor live untethered, happily. Scenes like this are common in affluent neighborhoods, with strange visual juxtapositions, of thatch huts, a jumble of plastic sheets, pieces of tarp and patched poly bags, against concrete walls. It so happens that these squatters are also menial vendors to their neighbors. A strange sense of equality in the space and air shared in this economic and optical incongruity.

Kukatpally: The reticent of squalor amidst the boorish bungalows.

Kukatpally: A colorful melange of waste. Please pardon the pun here, a dumped toilet bowl, and a sink by a colorfully painted wall, a serendipitous composition, making it a vivid... I could not resist the color. Actually, if you look around in Indian cities, the piles of waste attract pickers, busy separating the stuff they could sell - searing optics of destitution and deprivation, but, great photographic fodder. William T. Vollmann, in his profound work “Poor People” offers this on the concept of ‘unwantedness:’ “... the poor constitute a supply of something - cheap labor, easy availability for some project (war or prostitution, for instance), in convenient obedience - they will be tolerated, even “wanted” to the extent that they constitute a demand for common resources...” He also extrapolates this: “A poor person is someone who cannot be sure of gaining or holding the resources to meet his necessities. Therefore, he is unfree, in peril of humiliation and servitude, and certainly dependent on circumstance if not necessarily on any fellow human being.” Montaigne also echoed the same, over two centuries ago. Recently, I read a disturbing book, on the garbage pickers of a Mumbai slum, called Annawadi, by the Pulitzer prize winning reporter, Katherine Boo, who conducted this investigation almost living there, and wrote about their daily struggles, from the inside out. What really rankled and enraged me is how the Indian police shake down even these folks, living on the edge of oblivion. One thing is manifestly obvious, corruption in India is not just endemic, it is a pandemic that may warrant grass-roots vigilante type activism to just retard it. I would also recommend V. S. Naipaul’s “India: A Wounded Civilization” and “An Area of Darkness” which shed light on the psychology of poverty, and cultural superstitions that hinder real progress. Good waste management, underground sanitation, and eradication of corruption is what constitutes real progress, not cars, cell phones, computers, American brand names, and palatial homes sprouting amidst garbage.

Kukatpally: A colorful melange of debris.

Kukatpally: The shady confines of a construction site. Construction means shelter for the laborers for a few months. They occupy the place under construction to safeguard the premises against theft. If no one kept watch on a house under construction, it would never be built, all the fixtures that can be removed would be stolen at night, including bricks. Simple, it is the law of demand and supply, where supply is miles behind demand. Everything is expensive there. In the U.S., materials are cheap, and if you are a handyman, you could do it yourself, but in India, materials are almost inaccessible, and must be brought in the black market, while the labor is dirt cheap. Things are liable to be stolen, pilfered or taken by the resourceful. Sometimes, the stealing is done, not by the poor, but as such, by the rich and powerful. The poor steal to survive, the rich steal to feed their avarice.

Kukatpally: The shady confines of a construction site.

Kukatpally-Hyderabad: The Dust of progress. Parts of Hyderabad are perpetually shrouded in dust, I guess, in the wake of progress. The fine dust infiltrates into everything, the lungs, the crevices on our body, and the homes. There is a thin film of dust on every surface that has to be cleaned every few hours. There is the dust from construction, a fine pale gray powder, like cement, that is light and stays airborne, then, there is the beige dust from the open fields, from where, the top soil just flies off to mingle with the cement. It is one big dust bowl to reckon with; even the food becomes gritty, with this permeating powder of progress. This scene captures that dusty haze I found very hard to penetrate and get used to, yet, it telegraphs a busy happiness, the mirage of progress.

Kukatpally-Hyderabad: The Dust of progress.

Kukatpally: Kids of the neighborhood. As I walked around in fascination, I came upon many places that begged to be photographed. I could see visual puns, dichotomies, and paradoxes strewn around, but obstructed by wires. Here is a jumble of buildings, seemingly stacked against each other, looking more like people jostling against each other to stand their ground. No architectural integrity or standards, nor any ordinance ever followed. Everyone has their own “man” at the city or the state government office, to get that extra inch of public land for their house. The streets are overwhelmed by the construction debris on either side. And still, the flowers and the fruit bearing trees manage to survive amidst the dusty chaos, appearing light beige, than green. Kids play, despite the dust, and are happy. It is the chaos of urban living, with no apparent direction, but only the satisfaction of owning a property in the city, whose value will inflate four times before these kids enter the workforce. As I passed this dusty enclave, the kids lined up instinctively, in a staggered ascending visual, without my suggestion, as if to indicate an upward trend in their lives, and perhaps suggest that the apparent dust and chaos, is just an illusion.

“From the solemn gloom of the temple, children run out to sit in the dust, God watches them play, and forgets the priest.” - Rabindranath Tagore

Kukatpally: Kids of the neighborhood.

Kukatpally: A House to be unveiled? Here again, my boy provides the symmetry for this composition that seems to suggest a house waiting to be unveiled. Great juxtaposition of textures, of the billowing tarp, framed below the half by the concrete wall. and the iron gate, with the boy in the middle. The houses built in India are of steel and concrete, inside out, and they stay put for generations. Alterations are expensive, and for that matter never done, unless, a contractor had offered two to three flats to the owners of the lot, in which both profit. This has been the trend in residential areas, with lot values in the stratosphere. This constitutes vertical expansion of wealth for the lucky lot owners in metro areas, who had brought land decades prior for their small single family home, which now has the potential to become a residential â&#x20AC;&#x153;towerâ&#x20AC;? with many apartments. I have not seen one locale that is free of construction dust, from New Delhi to Hyderabad.

Kukatpally: A House to be unveiled?

Hyderabad: The railway station. Day 5. We are leaving behind the choked concrete jungle of Kukatpally-Hyderabad, and are on the way to a burgeoning coastal city called Visakhapatnam, 600 kilometers away, where my cousin, Seshu, will host the marriage reception for his son. It’s an overnight trip from Hyderabad, paid for by the host, for the entire party. We arrived at the Hyderabad station in the late afternoon. Much to our shock, it was jammed with sweaty jostling crowds, shouting porters, and just plain animated and anxious folks over their reservations and seating. Then a flash from the past, it had always been like this. All reasonably sized stations are a forest of flailing humanity, trying to get somewhere in life, with bowel rumbling urgency. Every second in that railway station was worth its weight in gold, just by the look on our younger son’s face, who is an absolute train fiend. The wonder in Atman’s face alone justified this trip. The train stations in India are events, absolute theater, and if you like watching people, and see their dramas unfold, there is no place better than the Indian railway station. Trains, for the most part, pull away and arrive on time. It’s a fight to get the tickets, and even with reservations, another battle to get to the seats. Then, as people settle into their berths, all the friction for the space dissipates, as if a disappearing fog, and the journey clearly transforms into a breezy picnic on wheels. The Indian railway stations are living metaphors, they have no equal in the world.

Hyderabad: The railway station.

Visakhapatnam: The matriarch catches a snooze. Day 6. After an overnight journey, we had arrived early morning in Visakhapatnam and were taken to Seshu’s place, where his Rottweiler welcomed us with a blood curdling glare from his pen. In fact, I can safely vouch that this very rottweiler, was the reincarnation of the one that had starred in the horror classic “The Omen.” South Indian marriages are financially and physically taxing affairs, even for the resourceful. One lengthy ceremony is followed by another. Here in Visakhapatnam, the same day we had arrived, my mother’s eldest sister, Seshu’s mother, the bridegroom’s grandmother: the grand lady called Shyamala, who with her husband had presided over my own father and mother’s marriage in 1955, succumbs to the fatigue and takes a snooze, while the ceremony of “Satyanarayana Vratam” is being performed by the priest at their house, for the married couple. An auspicious and festive time in the house, with resplendent ladies lounging around.

Visakhapatnam: The matriarch catches a snooze.

Visakhapatnam: Economic textures. India is a country of contrasting textures, mainly with its people, who have apparently moved into the future with a whole host of technologies. But, paradoxically, they cling to their old superstitions and cultural mores that incidentally make for weird existential juxtapositions, almost inexplicable, like the Zen asymmetry. On the material side, the contrast is stark, as in the disparity of the economic textures, captured in the picture to our right. Incongruity is ubiquitous in India, and it was no different in Visakhapatnam, where we enjoyed the textures of an Indian marriage for three days. This thatch butts against a new building in an affluent neighborhood, next to Seshuâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s residence. The constituents of the hut work for my cousin, Seshu, the spender on this occasion.

Visakhapatnam: Juxtaposition of “economic” textures.

Visakhapatnam: Sitamma Dhara-Bromark Chicken. Day 7. I loved this layered composition. The billboard like display to the left, demarcated by the asymmetrically placed pole off center, as if framing the little pathway through the shanty town, with the shack restaurant in the foreground, made for a beautiful picture. The flat promotional panel in the foreground dominates most of the scene, then, the thatched dwellings, with the buildings in the background, reveal a palimpsest of existence. Incongruity always presents counteracting textures, as we see in this picture. The textures also translate the disparity in style, and the content of existence.

“What is art? It is the response of man’s creative soul to the call of the real.” - Rabindranath Tagore

Visakhapatnam: Sitamma Dhara-Bromark Chicken.

Visakhapatnam: The rich and their suppliers. The rich in India are always surrounded by their ancillary vendors, or rather, their suppliers. All the affluent folks live next door to their suppliers, without them, their life would be poorer. The middle-class and the rich in India, live richer than the middle-class folks in the U.S., when it comes to their menial help. That is an incontrovertible fact, except the rich and the ultra rich. The vendors living right next door, in a hut, providing the services, is what makes life rich for the affluent, without much expenditure. Hereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a specialized catalog of services rendered by the suppliers: 1. cleaning of dishes and homes, 2. car drivers and the maintenance, 3. sanitation cleanup for bathrooms/toilets, 4. cooking and serving, 5. washing and ironing clothes, 6.shopping and running errands, 7. house watching, 8. companionship for the elderly and nannies for babysitting, 9. clothes alteration and tailoring, 10. personal assistants in all sorts of work. Life is easy, even for the middle class, with all the menial jobs outsourced. In fact, outsourcing may have been a concept born in India, because of the division of labor, ages ago. Caste system had been made illegal, but the practice and exploitation persists.

Visakhapatnam: The rich and their suppliers.

Visakhapatnam: A fruit vendor looking at “other” fruits. It was a fair exchange, the ladies were looking at his fruits, while the fruit seller looked at the them. Here, I caught the vendor busy devouring the “other” fruits with his eyes, as my boy looked the other way. The fruits of India are simply out of this world. My wife discovered the custard apple, and, I rediscovered its amazing texture. She could not restrict herself to eating less than six a day. Our taste buds came alive after eating this gritty, and inordinately delicious custard like fruit. The primitive appearance, and the “green” exterior smell of the fruit, belied its heavenly texture and taste. Fruits are rather expensive in India., for many reasons. The best crops and varieties are exported, they also ripe and perish very rapidly in that oven like heat, hence they must be consumed or sold bulk quickly, if the growers are to make any profits. Tending to orchards and raising fruit is a tough business, with a variety of hindering factors like: pests, turbulent weather, birds and monkeys, pilfering, and time constraints. The premium quality fruit always end up in the middle-east, which renders the best quality far from the grasp of even the middle-class. I seldom saw fruits in the homes of folks we had visited. It is a sour irony that the lower middle-class and the poor here, while living in an Eden for fruits, are deprived of this natural bounty, from their palates. One way to reach the customers quickly is to be a street vendor, like the one below.

Visakhapatnam: A fruit vendor looking at â&#x20AC;&#x153;otherâ&#x20AC;? fruits.

Visakhapatnam: No trespassing! Look at those eyes. Without uttering a word, he is shouting “get outta here!” India is perhaps the only place in the world, where land is stolen on a regular basis. Empty plot owners are always worried about their land being grabbed or put under litigation by a powerful entity, claiming ownership to it, with fictitious documents that look original, tracking back two generations. If anyone has property in India, they are encouraged to build on it fast or employ someone to be physically present to guard it. This picture encapsulates that conundrum. India is perhaps the only country where a man’s house is definitely not his castle. Thanks to some “social” rental policies of the Indira Gandhi regime in the 70s. Bloodbaths over land will only get worse, as 1.2 billion folks get squeezed into a landmass, one-third the size of the U.S., with no proper town planning, waste and water management or basic sanitation. I see only vertical expansion in the future. If you are a property owner, especially of the free standing variety, you are at war on many fronts. First, the local authorities, who have you pegged as rich, will squeeze you for the services, then, the encroachers will want one of your walls for their retaining wall, for their thatch or hut, and probably piggy-back or pilfer water and electricity from you. And, if you allowed uncontracted renters to settle on your property for years, they will not leave your property, unless, you pay a substantial part of the value of your house to them. I knew a few renters in Delhi, who had blackmailed the property owners, forcing them to part with lakhs of rupees, then, turned around and purchased a flat for themselves, all this with no recourse for the owner, nor consequences for the renters, who can be construed as real theives. There is no such thing as an eviction notice, and even if there is one, the authorities who enforce it would want a lot of cash to effect it. This is exactly why they have watchmen, like the one in the picture, sitting at the gates.

Visakhapatnam: This is our property, no trespassing!

Visakhapatnam: Tropical textures - government housing. I took this picture (right) of a government quarter, one in a row of them, covered in a variety of mildews, lichens and fungi, making them look really old and dilapidated. It is the drenching rain and humidity that causes all surfaces exposed to become stained, and it is the distressed look that becomes tantalizing, for a texture collector like me. The layers of textures, colors and the geometry conjure up old world feeling, when everything was simple and austere, and, one could imagine the stories that had unfolded in such places. The rigid geometric structures were offset by the billowing curtain, and the clothes on wires, I could not resist the juxtaposition of rigidity and flexibility in this frame. Below is a picture in the same neighborhood, few yards away. The Banyan tree has taken over the little playground, giving shade to the kids as well as the needy.

Visakhapatnam: Tropical textures - government housing.

Visakhapatnam: Tropical textures - Elite classes. This dark set place, with “Elite Classes” posters, looked like a haunted house. It looked mysterious, deserted and stained with mildew, as the late afternoon sun unveiled it. The beauty of concrete houses is that they don’t fall apart quickly, but with no exterior maintenance, they could look eons old. Indians hardly care how their houses appear from the outside, as long as it is livable inside, this attitude results in homes looking like haunted destinations, and this general attitude makes the neighborhood look decrepit, without necessarily having the age. It is a country of perpetual construction and aging, and Indians do have a tough time keeping up with appearances, with a perennial battle of attrition against nature, especially humidity.

“The water in a vessel is sparkling; the water in the sea is dark. The small truth has words which are clear; the great truth has great silence.” - Rabindranath Tagore

Tropical textures - Elite classes.

Visakhapatnam: Tropical textures - Theater! Another tantalizing composition I could not resist. As you can see, the configuration is topped by the organic profusion of the leaves, then suddenly it is cut off by a mildewed wall about twothirds of the way up, a horizontal demarcation, and then, the wall becomes a theater with this baby poster, and the curtain drawn back for the show to commence. It looks staged, but I found this â&#x20AC;&#x153;theater,â&#x20AC;? right after the sunset.

Visakhapatnam: Tropical textures - Baby behind the curtain.

Visakhapatnam: Hindu-Muslim buddies Is this possible? No, these two were not forced into a picture. As a matter of fact, we found these two gentlemen taking a stroll in the Sitamma-Dhara area at dusk, and were drawn to them for the simple reason that they belonged to ideologies that are essentially an anathema to each other. I was pleasantly shocked with their companionship, especially, after watching hate manifest itself viciously in my part of the world, since 9/11. After speaking with them for a few minutes, we came to know that they were boyhood friends, and had lived around the area for decades. They were in their seventies. They both represented a powerful symbol of what was possible in this world, that is, if we can set aside our differences.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Faith is the bird that feels the light when the dawn is still dark.â&#x20AC;? - Rabindranath Tagore

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.â&#x20AC;? - Buddha

Visakhapatnam: Happy all the time. I found the poor of India, despite the destitution and lack of basic amenities, a happy lot. Perhaps it is the weather, always sunny and warm, that gives a mirthful disposition to millions that go about simply existing. It could also be that they have nothing to lose, and their worry is limited to eating three meals a day, finding a place to defecate, and having a shade on their head. I noticed people smiling and laughing everywhere, and having that hair trigger for laughter. Here, I stole a shot of a banana-coconut vendor having an evening laugh with her neighbor. Wealth, which, has never been a guarantee for happiness anywhere, has fostered some despicable attitudes in folks. H. L. Mencken’s definition of a wealthy man seems to fit most of the Indian affluent aptly: “ One whose income is $100 a year higher than his wife’s sister’s husband.” Here’s an excerpt from a wonderful book by the Dalai Lama, titled “The Art of Happiness:”

“One morning after his public lecture the Dalai Lama was walking along a outside patio on the way back to his hotel room, surrounded by his usual retinue. Noticing one of the hotel housekeeping staff standing by the elevators, he paused to ask her, “where are you from?” for a moment she appeared taken aback by this foreign looking man in the maroon robes and seemed puzzled by the deference of the entourage. Then she smiled and answered shyly, “Mexico.” He paused briefly to chat with her a few moments and then walked on, leaving her with a look of excitement and pleasure on her face. The next morning at the same time, she appeared at the same spot with another of the housekeeping staff, and the two of them greeted him warmly as he got into the elevator. The interaction was brief, but the two of them appeared flushed with happiness as they returned to work. Everyday after that, they were joined by a few more of the housekeeping staff at the designated time and place, until by the end of the week there were dozens of maids in their crisp gray- and-white uniforms forming a receiving line that stretched along the length of the path that led to the elevators.”

I saw glimpses of hubris, and that reductionist attitude in the power elite of India, which was a turn off. One incident clearly affected me. I was standing at the lobby door, waiting for my cousin to come out of his meeting, at this three star hotel. There, I spotted a car with a driver and two men in the back seat, about fifteen feet away from the door, right behind the car, where I was standing. I thought they were conducting a meeting in the car, after about thirty minutes. Then abruptly, a lady got in the waiting car with a chauffeur that was parked in front of me, and the lobby door, and pulled away - while the car behind inched forward coming to a stop in front of me, then, the driver jumped out exigently and opened the rear door for the individual, he then ran around and opened the other one, while the first one waited with a scowl on his face. From the looks of it, these men were Government bureaucrats, who could not get out of the car and walk fifteen feet to the door. The poorest show of power I had ever seen. Is there any bureaucrat, or an affluent Indian, capable of doing what Dalai Lama did... that is, pay attention to someone much lower than them? 67

Visakhapatnam: Happy all the time.

Visakhapatnam: Palms, screen the Bay of Bengal. Day 8. Atop the coastal bluffs, fifteen kilometers north of Visakhapatnam, was a place called â&#x20AC;&#x153;Thotlakonda.â&#x20AC;? An ancient Buddhist monastery, discovered a few years ago, and excavated by the Archaeological Department of Andhra Pradesh, now open to the public. To get there, we took a beautiful coastal drive heading north, out of Visakhapatnam, with verdant hills rising to the left, and the Bay of Bengal to the right, seen through copses of swaying Taati palms, amidst rocky outcrops. The vigorous bay surf could be heard through the brisk humid breeze from the highway, half a mile away. It was surprising to see this entire stretch of the coastal land without a shack or some edifice. I guess the authorities, whoever they were, were aware of the value of the view, and kept it clean.

Visakhapatnam: Palms, screen the Bay of Bengal.

Visakhapatnam: Thotlakonda - Buddhist ruins. “Thotti” or plural “Thotla” means a container, a cistern or even a small vessel that can hold something, in this case rock-cut pools; Konda meaning hill, hence Thotlakonda. The ancient ruins had rock-cut bathing pools, where once, scores of monks had bathed. One rock-cut pool was full of water, with water lilies and frogs, a sure destination for the snakes after dark, as affirmed by the attendant there. This picture (right) was taken by standing in the dry pool looking out at the lone palm. This is the sort of destination I craved, for the architectural symmetry of the 2000 year old ocular brick structures, and for the potential excitement and danger it possessed by the pools, once the sun went down. There was no way of controlling the boys in a place like this, especially our older boy, Raju, who loved the wild dry brush, with potential discoveries in the offing. He loved the suspense presented by large stones, which, he turned over to see the critters scatter, sometimes big and creepy centipedes. Thotlakonda was an unforgettable place. It reminded me of the great Nalanda University, 55 miles south-east of Patna, in Bihar - a 5th century AD through 12th century Buddhist learning center, burned to the ground by a Turkish Muslim, Bhaktiyar Khilji, in 1193AD. The vast library of Nalanda, like the one in Alexandria, was a destination for the Chinese, the Japanese and other scholars from the west and east. The library’s collection of manuscripts was so huge that it purportedly burned for three months, after the Muslims had set fire to it. Thotlakonda Buddhist complex was also a learning center - within the realm of influence of the ancient Kalinga kingdom that became a vital source of dissemination of the Buddhist culture on the subcontinent and beyond, like Sri Lanka and Burma, now Myanmar. It also may have been a place that speeded up the trans-oceanic diffusion of Indian and Buddhist culture eastward. The Indian Navy accidentally stumbled on these ruins during an aerial survey for a navy base subsequent excavations during 1988-93 by the Andhra Pradesh State Archaeology Department identified it as a Hinayana Buddhist Complex, which flourished twenty centuries ago. It apparently experienced peak activity between 2nd century BC and 2nd century AD owing to a brisk Roman trade and religious missions, as evidenced by Roman coins found there. I will go there again one day.

Thotlakonda - A dry rock-cut pool.

Visakhapatnam: The ubiquitous American brands. Day 9. We were on our way to the zoo. Drink and snack shacks had popped up every few miles on regional highways, as oasis for the wary, the tired and the dehydrated. The shack is basically crafted out of corrugated sheet metal tied to pitched bamboo poles that served as walls, and the thatched roof was made of palm leaves called “Taateku.” These stiff, sturdy “W” grooved leaves are layered to provide shade, and diffuse the jack hammering afternoon sun. The American brand muscle is seen everywhere - I had seen it in Africa, and now, here in Asia (see “Travels in Morocco” by the same author, published by Swans.com). I assume that the electricity is pilfered from the lines above, and the monthly inspector is made to clam up with a handful of legal tender and a few drinks. I have seen Budweiser, Coca Cola and Fanta shacks with huge displays, beckoning everyone off of the baking asphalt.

Visakhapatnam: The ubiquitous American brands.

Visakhapatnam: The cycle of texture at the zoo. At the Visakhapatnam zoo, this was a place (right) they kept the generator, and I saw this textured and beautifully decrepit shed with this bicycle parked outside, and could not resist the juxtaposition of 90 degree angles to the big bicycle wheels. This is exactly the kind of place, a snake would seek refuge, to hunt for rats. There was a mystery to the place with an open door, and I was itching to go in there, but decided to heed reason. In India, there is more to see if you walk into the bush, than at a zoo. Seeing animals at the zoo in India is an oxymoron. Zoos are ill-equipped and ill-funded to handle the droves that descend on these places. India, ironically, has more to offer outside, on its streets, than its zoos and museums. India, it so happens, is one large open air museum, displaying life from its most wretched condition, to its most opulent. This is where the crows steal a living, and peacocks strut their topical beauty. This is where every iteration in the art of living beckons the perceptive for a viewing, where every station is an event, and where every interaction is theater. Here I saw fifteen species of birds in one wide angle view, in an urban area, and even caught a belligerent lizard to boys wonderment. I was also was attacked by a snake on the Godavari river, and, watched monkeys mating on the Katpadi station platform, as the ladies squirmed, and saw dogs protect their bitches and their food source, while elephants jostled in the traffic with BMWs. Who needs a zoo?

Visakhapatnam: The cycle of texture at the zoo.

Visakhapatnam: The graffiti tree. I stood atop a four foot high scaffold under the tree, to get up close to all the carved graffiti, which meant that just the trunk of the tree was around 9-10 feet high, before the huge branches splayed out. One had to be “the missing link” to get up there and patiently carve out his and the lover’s name. What else can we say about that labor of love.

Visakhapatnam: The graffiti tree at the zoo.

Visakhapatnam zoo: Elephant feeding We had manifest access to some animals at the Visakhapatnam zoo, thanks to Seshu. Here, you can see our boy feeding the elephant, about four feet away, with the animal attendant. Can you imagine this at the Lincoln Park zoo in Chicago? A whole battery of lawyers would descend on the facility, looking to sue both parties for the safety violations. Somehow, the fun, however risky, had been sterilized and sanitized entirely in our litigious society. It so happened that the chief veterinarian of the zoo was also my cousin’s vet for his rottweiler. After the introductions, and while being chaperoned around by Dr. Sriniwas, (see “Convalescing Kings” by the same author published by Swans.com) he quipped that he was positively petrified of Seshu’s rottweiler, than all the lions and tigers he had treated at the Animal Rescue Center.

Visakhapatnam: The graffiti tree at the zoo.

Visakhapatnam: Tropical textures Day 10. I discovered (right) these beautiful random fissures early morning on the 25th of October, on the concrete retaining wall of Seshu’s house in Sitamma-Dhara, Visakhapatnam. Minute cracks, barely seen by the naked eyes, lay exposed as soon as the surface was hit by water. The overnight thunder shower, as if to recognize my passion for textures, gave me this visual gift, which I happily snapped up, to the utter bewilderment over my insanity, of the folks standing there, waiting to see us off.

Visakhapatnam: Blessings from Lord Hanumanji. After all of the marriage festivities were over, and the relatives had departed, Seshu rented a Toyota mini-van, and took us on a pilgrimage to see our maternal village called Ragolapalli, in the west Godavari district. On the way out of town, and by the bus depot, we were blessed by this facsimile of Lord Hanumanji, looking for alms. In the Indian mythology, Lord Hanumanji, a devotee of Lord Rama, Laxman and Sita, from the ancient epic, Ramayana, is one of the most loved and revered deities, who is believed to ward off bad omens for the travelers. Hence, his facsimiles are ubiquitous at train stations and bus depots, exchanging blessings for alms. Almost all the Hindu families have a deep devotion for this outsize mythological hero of the Hindu culture. My grandmother had a special “kinship” with him. Hindu mythology is similar to the Greek and Roman mythology, in their pantheon of gods, but, western polytheism died at the hands of Constantine the Great, while it still survives in India. And, for that matter, why is Constantine great? He was not great at all, rather he was an average emperor, who was naive enough to be manipulated into giving the monopoly to an intolerant faith over his dominion, that only exacerbated the decline of the secular and tolerant Roman Empire. The Roman empire, which, since 800BC was a diverse polytheistic society that saw its apex during the reigns of the early “pagan” emperors. Constantine’s wisdom was limited to what he was fed by the faithful acolytes, great, he was not. He was the vector for intolerance. How about Buddha the Great, or Asokha the Great, or Gandhi the Great, better yet, Vivekananda the Great? They all were agents of wisdom, on inclusion, diversity and tolerance.

Visakhapatnam: A snoozing passenger. Thousands of buses traverse the Indian roads like the Saifu ants in Africa. It is the most economical and efficient mode of transport for most Indians. Andhra Pradesh State Road Transport Corporation - APSRTC wields 25,000 plus buses, touching every little place not on the map. The rides are spasmodic, bumpy and downright rough in spots, as they board more than the bus was built for. Inconvenience is a mere inconvenience. However, there is a four tiered bus service, depending on how deep your pocket is. The lowest is a sitting proposition all the way, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the iron butt ride; the second is limited seating, with reclining seats; the third is the deluxe, having airliner seating arrangement, with air conditioning that carries 30-40 passengers; the ultra luxury buses offer sleeping berths, accommodating only 30 passengers, on overnight routes to larger destinations. Public sector businesses like the APSRTC are rife with corruption. In fact, our relative, the retired president of Tamil Nadu State Road Transport Corporation-TNSRTC, tells me that bus drivers, conductors, superintendents and deputy directors reporting to the ministry is one big chain on the take from the proceeds. Look at the woman (right) staring at me from behind the dusty window, while I snapped the shot. What is she thinking? I would love to know.

Visakhapatnam: A passenger snoozing.

Main street farmers market We drove through several idyllic villages in the morning, and, as we passed through this one, just before Annavaram, I took this picture from our moving car. The Leica lens on my digital camera is able to capture the freshness of the vegetables displayed in the baskets. “Organic,” mostly translates to marketing hype in the U.S., but we found real organic vegetables in India. They are grown in small batches, and in very small plots of land, with no pesticides, and they taste very distinct than their plastic counterparts in the U.S. People bring their produce from faraway places, in various modes of transport, at the predawn hours, and wait for the traffic to build up, like you see in the picture. The sellers must sell their vegetables, they cannot take them back. I love the exigent cacophony of the vegetable market, referred to as “Subzi Mandi” in the north, and “Kuralu Bazaar” in the south. The haggling, the arguments, the coercions, the urgings, and more so, the scoldings from women, can be pure entertainment. It is a colorful theater, with rural woman wrapped in their primary colors, selling their freshly cut, plucked and dug up vegetables. What makes a huge difference is that they are sold off locally, unlike in the U.S. In most cases, vegetables being prepared in the kitchen here, were probably harvested less than two or three hours ago, in a nearby field. Vegetables here are the true product of the earth, and not something a laboratory or a mind that genetically engineered them for industrial farming, to have more box or shelf life. They are truly fresh and perishable.

Main street farmers market

Annavaram: A fixture on the main street. The drive to Annavaram was filled with mirth, and occasionally uproarious laughter, over Seshu’s reminiscences of our grandfather, (RBR-Rebbapragada Buchiraju) RBR’s sarcasm, particularly the affect on the victims. Sarcasm like humor, cannot be translated with it’s fine cultural nuances, it has to be enjoyed in its linguistic origins - this is why, we find James Joyce’s “Finnegan’s Wake” and “Ulysses” challenging to read, with all the colloquial Irish humor. Seshu had lived in Ragolapalli as a young boy along with his family, while his father, Mr. A. Rama Rao, tried tobacco farming there. It was a gamble that failed, but the nearly two years under RBR’s aegis, filled Seshu with admiration for his grandfather, which was manifestly evident on this trip. (See the author’s article on RBR titled “The Man They Called Baldy” and “The Boarding Pass” on Swans.com). After driving through several villages and towns for almost three hours, we arrived at a very famous pilgrimage place for the locals. The Annavaram temple sits atop a hill, with a stairway leading up to the complex. Climbing the stairs to visit a deity is often seen as a penance, an atonement, and, this gift of the effort translated to ardent devotion. The street level town, surrounding the temple complex, caters to all the pilgrims that pour into the area during the seasonal festivities. Colorful roadside shops are laden with goods to attract the pilgrims, the flower shops, restaurants, and street vendors proliferate the area in competition for the customers, with loud calls over each other. Each has his own special call, and it’s the commotion of commerce at the survival game. Here is a street of shops, with that wandering cow, a fixture on the Indian streets. One thing I would like to add is this: no matter which city the Hindu temple complex was in, it was usually surrounded by Christian banners that were in your face, screaming such things as “Jesus will save you,” or “Come and join our church and see the miracles of healing from a living god” or “The one true God,” and “Join our Christian family and gain comfort in life, “ with no protests, in any shape or form, from the Hindus managing the temples.

Annavaram: The cow is a fixture on the main street.

Annavaram: Women at the flower shop. Perfumes are expensive in India, and in that sultry weather, everyone can start smelling musty and crusty like Fungi, almost decomposing, while standing in the sun. Women in particular are susceptible to bad odors in that sticky weather. The best local and economical antidote to bad odors is sticking a bunch of flowers in your hair, close proximity to your nose. The white jasmine, referred to as “Malli puvvu,” and the “sampenga” flowers provide a powerful covering fragrance that thwart foul odors around. Besides, they make women look anachronistically beautiful. Flowers in the hair, especially in the south, is a tradition that goes back ages, almost to the courtiers of the 10th century in the southern empires. It was also a tradition in ancient Egypt, Greece, Rome and the orient.

Annavaram: Women at the flower shop.

Annavaram: Road side restaurant. I remember eating at the road side eateries during our 1965 car trip through out north India, and as well as in the south. The eateries in the north were referred to as “Dhabas” and the food served was basically cooked Dals or legumes, along with a vegetable curry, with rotis, or flat roasted breads, made from whole wheat flour. In the south, the menus were inordinately larger. They served local specialties, and also the main fare like Puris: whole wheat deep fried bread with potato stew, Dosa: lentils and rice flour pancake with potato curry, Idli: dal and rice flour dumpling served with a hot soup called Samber, and two chutneys, one of ginger and the second of coconut, and they also offered up Vadas: deep fried Urad dal dumplings with sambar and ginger chutney, and there was no limit to the kind of the vegetable curries they made. It was fun eating outside, because it was relatively cheap, and everything was prepared right in front of you. Notice the food served on banana leaves in the plates (right), this way, the leaf isolates the eater from the surface of the plate, which may have been given a cursory wash, due to the acute water scarcity. Eating off of a banana leaf is the sanest thing one can do as a visitor, and it is the best biodegradable “plate” one can find.

Annavaram: Road side restaurant.

Annavaram: A store packed with color. Can you spot the American brands? This store, next to the restaurant, was full of colorful brands that did not have many visitors. Expensive? Perhaps, but the owner doesn’t seem to care, who is busy on his cell phone. Such places cater to the visiting rich from out of town. We were there in the off season. After Annavaram, we got back on the highway and headed for Thirugudumetta, across the Godavari river. The west bank of Godavari is lined up with dusty small towns and villages, more quaint and visually alluring than the opposite bank, with Rajahmundry. This side of the river is spotted with these huge Banyan and Pipal trees (Raavi Chettu), anchoring small temples, with steps leading to the river. We pulled up at one such place, that looked cozy under the dappled shade of a huge Banyan tree. A mature coterie of men were engaged in a humorous repartee, on the patio of the Shiva temple. The dusty-golden glow, in the late afternoon, filtered through the banyan canopy, and the tolling bells in the temple dissolved me into the decades past, it seemed hours... I surfaced, and saw the steps leading to the shimmering river. There, as I trotted down the steps towards the river, half way down, suddenly, a two foot snake rushed out of the bush from the left - it was fast, and it was yellow, green, brown and black, in a reticulated pattern, just beautiful. I froze, gathering my wits. The reticulated pattern told me that it was a baby python, but I was not sure, it moved too quickly for a constrictor, and in seconds, while I contemplated on catching it, it turned around and attacked me, as a defensive measure. While I tap-danced on the steps with the snake, I heard Seshu shouting at me, standing atop the steps. “Oore Yadhava... What in the world are you doing... that could be a lethal variety... and we don’t have helicopters nor hospitals with anti-venom facilities... you can’t do this stuff here in the tropics, man!!” It resonated. I abruptly stopped, I had been watching too many Austin Stevens (The Snakemaster) episodes on Animal Planet, and the tropics harbored mostly venomous snakes... This was no Garter snake from Des Plaines, I immediately jumped three stairs up, and let it slither away... probably saving my ass. The boys were disappointed over my failure to get it, and, I could not explain why it was better for them to see me alive, than handle a cool snake.

Annavaram: A store packed with color.

Annadaverapeta: The water carrier We stopped at my mother’s birth village of Thirugudumetta. Where, every vestige of their existence, especially their old homestead, had simply vanished with time. We barely stayed twenty depressing minutes there, talking to my mother’s distant, and indifferent paternal cousins. After an optically stimulating drive from Visakhapatnam, we cut across from Thirugudumetta to Annadaverapeta, through the deep farming interior, and reached there around 2pm. In Annadaverapeta, I couldn’t resist taking a walk in the afternoon heat, with my son and my niece to see their small town. Here, I saw this man in his lungi, a form of a folded toga, speaking on his cell phone, few minutes later, I saw him again, bearing water on a balance, called “kavidi,” headed for home. The interplay and dichotomy of the modern equipment like the cell phone, set against the backdrop of antique traditions, such as this, was a feast for the senses, and the mind. It is interesting to note that every person there had a cell phone, even the ones who lived in a shack, a thatched hut, but, every morning they had to find a place to defecate. Basic amenities like sanitation and sewers, running water, electric supply without interruption, and public washrooms were still nonexistent in the remote villages, but people had gold, satellite phones and TVs, and cars. This was a astounding paradox. I cannot help but contemplate this visual, of a person talking on a cell phone, while defecating in the bush... only in India!

Annadaverapeta: The water carrier

Annadaverapeta: Textures of commerce What displays more character? The store front here in the picture or the Neiman Marcus storefront? One may be slick, in more ways than one, but this one has more character and texture, also a mystery as to what is there inside. My son went and stood by the pad locked door instinctively, inducing me to take the picture. These are true mom-and-pop stores, and most stores in India are of these kind. And, god only help them, if Walmart is allowed to set up shop, which may happen sooner than later.

Annadaverapeta: Textures of commerce - A closed store front

Annadaverapeta: Textures of neglect. We walked by this wall with peeling paint, revealing the previous paint job and another paint underneath. The textures of aging, decay, neglect and distress are simply arresting, and from the Zen perspective, profound. Incidental-accidental beauty that is ephemeral, serves as the subtext on our own temporality. Every texture is a fingerprint of existence, a span of time experienced, and left behind. Will I find the same texture when I visit the same spot in a few years? I doubt it, but I may find it further withered or coated over, as if death or rebirth had manifested. Many textural memories surfaced in my psyche, on this trip, and one in particular.

New Delhi: Textures of memory - Lodi Gardens, circa 1967. The mildew textured walls here bring to mind a picture, taken a long time ago, in 1967. My mother took this rare picture of my father, holding us boys close to him, at the Lodi gardens, in New Delhi. This picture, though in poor quality, tugs at me in many ways. First, my young fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s body language, which was brimming with affection for us, then our surroundings on that picnic day, the ancient wall behind us, with its mildewed pattern. I always fantasized about locating that exact spot where we stood, with that wall behind us. Would I find the same old mildew stains on the old wall there? That is, If, I can locate the exact spot, and I think I could, based on the wall stones behind us in the picture. It was sacred ground, the spot and the moment, where my father had expressed affection for his boys. Did we give back enough? There are many spots like these I want to visit, where our moments still hover, where perhaps, I can reconcile with my fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s spirit.

Annadaverapeta: The teacher and the student. My niece and my son (right) in front of her school, few furlongs from their residence. An idyllic spot for a school, under the fruit bearing trees. We were at Annadaverapeta for less than 24 hours, but the soul satisfying respite was priceless. What wonderful hospitality, and what a family! Then, in the mid afternoon, around 5pm, we drove over to Ragolapalli, where my mother grew up and lived for 18 years of her life, before getting married, and leaving forever. We left the main road turning left at Gajjaram, onto a rutted dirt road, with huge pot holes on alternating sides all the way. We swung from side to side, as if on a new kind of roller coaster at the Six-Flags. Ragolapalli is an interior village, away from the commercial bustle of the highway. It is a quite and isolated village that still has no paved roads, and only received electricity in the 70s. The village is dominated by a hillock to the south-west, referred to as the “Metta,” by the locals and the family. Atop this hillock, under a huge banyan tree, our ancestor, Nagarajugaru, had founded a small temple in the late 19th century for the deity “Subramanya Swami” after he was told to do so in his dream. Many festivals and ceremonies took place by the temple during the halcyon years from 1937-1982. The whole complex on the hill transformed into a bright carnival, with small vendors of sweets and toys, puppets shows, plays, and devotional songs sung all night, and into the wee hours of the morning. Just by the light and smile in my mother’s eyes, I could gauge what she had experienced as a child... aaah, what I would have given to travel back in time, to just be able to see, the festivities, and how she frolicked with her siblings in that atmosphere. My maternal grandfather, RBR, was the “Karanam,” the village officer there, for almost five decades, under whose aegis, the village functioned smoothly, and festivities were conducted without any sort of political dysfunction. Today, as we saw it, the temple complex was almost in an abandoned state of disrepair, with the wild brush growing everywhere. Soon, we realized that we had to watch our step, as the complex was run over by the Christian converts, who used the premises to relieve themselves, and as this goes on, the local Hindu farmers turn their heads the other way. I assume, it has to be profitable, to garner any of their interest in protecting the complex, or perhaps this encroachment was not on their property. Despite the local politics, Seshu, one of the dozen grandsons of RBR, now living almost four hours away, who actually had lived in Ragolapalli in the 50s, is the only one who endeavors to take care of the temple, and perform ceremonies there every December.

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Annadaverapeta: The Cousins.

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Ragolapalli: The welcoming committee. We were in Ragolapalli, arriving by the reservoir to our left. I recognized it instantly, even though I had last seen it with my mother, around 1975. It was as if the clock had reversed itself involuntarily for me, and I could see my boyhood hover as a holographic projection on the calm surface of the reservoir. My mother had that pensive look too, as she took in the scene. I wonder how many incidents in her memory flashed before her, as we came closer to that turn by the village reservoir, to the well and the Pipal tree adjacent to it. Hundreds of mirthful arrivals, and doleful departures of the loved ones had taken shape here, this one spot. I can only imagine what my mother was going through. Suddenly, an old man materialized (happened to be my mother’s childhood friend’s brother) and asked “Meeru avaru andi?” Translated: who are you folks? Then, he recognized my mother, and the show unfolded. Ragolapalli was where we all grew up, whether we lived there or not. Also, what is unfathomable, is that men like this one, never stepped out of their village, they were delivered here, and probably would die here, without ever breaking the bounds of the village. Most of us are not content enough, even after seeing the world, and here was a man, who stood in his small world, and looked very content. Details of my childhood visits here filtered through slowly, as I silently absorbed this rural lair from our past. Nothing had changed, yet, everything felt different. Neighborhood children, through the decades, always came running innocently towards whoever entered the village, inquiring about their destination, and then, running towards that destination to inform the hosts, before the guests got there. No such thing happened to us. This lone man in his seventies, who saw us arrive, probably did what he had been doing since he was a toddler, checking out the visitors. Only this time, he did not run to us, rather, he materialized mysteriously, like time itself, with a welcoming smile. I saw the spatial spirit of the place affect my mother, as she vainly attempted to corral and recoup any vestige of her childhood. Standing there, we soaked up the primal fragrance of this rural lair, that once was ours. I realized that Ragolapalli had become a long lost token of our collective mirth, a propitious symbol of an era long dissolved, like the festive “muggulu” that decorated our homestead.

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Ragolapalli: The welcoming committee.

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Agra: Grandparents at the Taj Mahal - circa 1971. These are my maternal grandparents, presiders of the Ragolapalli homestead. They made only one epic journey north, and thankfully to our place. This happens to be a very rare picture of this magnificent couple at the Taj Mahal, in Agra. They stayed for a mere month with us, but, never really checked out of our hearts. Here, in this stately B&W picture, both, Lakshmi Narasamma and RBR, can be seen with that far away look, above the banal banter surrounding them, almost in poetic communication with eternity. Theirs was a story that actually was poetry in motion, never to be seen or felt again. A vanished dream by Raju Peddada The primal aura of ages, from the dung & dirt, at dusk; A rural theater, gift of a sage, who’s hearth, visit we must. Education today: stagnant water, daily toils, as the wisdom well; Ancestors diligently gathered, the maxims, on how to dwell. Home, anchored by the Raavi, the Tamarind & the Neem in hold; A triumvirate shade, all of it free, a hundred years, in blissful fold. Laxmi Narasamma’s homestead, lives only in the hearts & minds; Ragolapalli: Aaah, that cuddle! RBR’s lair, many myths to find.

In the matriarch’s warm care, festivities, blithefully staged; Under, RBR’s guiding stare, ceremonies, got one made.

Somnolent leaves, in the day, stir for conversations at night; Arriving breeze: evenings of May, leaves partying, simply outasight.

Ancient recipes, on wood fire, delicious heritage, exquisite fare; Ancient traditions, is it a mire? In RBR’s court, anyone dare?

We lay in the dappled shade, under the silvery lunar gaze; Listening, to the leaves bade, reluctant farewell to the breeze.

In the name of pious gaiety, the village supped at dusk; Dusty visitors ate heartily, in total merriment, they bask.

Ragolapalli: that halcyon venue, thwarted everyone’s dysfunction; Whoever, experienced it anew, came away, with redemption.

RBR’s augury: well of resource, Everyone departed, fulfilled; Providential blessings on course, A wonder indeed, nothing billed.

Memories, in mental videos, evoke that youthful fragrance; mothers now, as hoary widows, nothing left, only remembrances.

Ancient souls, spirit a welcome, to all of the descendents; Lure of origins, for some, in legends and stories to tend.

Everyone, departs their home, never, to return again; Stories remain, reluctant in some, pushing on, thwarting the pain.

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Ragolapalli: Mother’s school - circa 1941 Visiting Ragolapalli with mother was a transcendental treat. We had come here last, during the waning years of RBR’s regime. Their homestead still stands, occupied by a familiar family of two feuding brothers, who have severed the house in two, building a wall right down the middle of the property. We were received by the ladies of the house. I saw mother’s lugubrious countenance, as she walked in and around the house. The place where our matriarch, Lakshmi Narasamma, nurtured, and raised two generations. Our gratitude is evident in our visit. I cannot possibly fathom what my mother was going through... how many events, stories, and incidents she recalled that bubbled up like hot caramel, burning, yet sweet. The videos “on pause” in our heart’s eyes, “played” again, after a long hiatus, dissolving us. In this picture (right), mother is at the village elementary school, that she had attended till the 5th grade. The older building in the back was the original structure from the 1930s. She also pointed out the three Tamarind trees, bordering the school yard to the west, that she had climbed as a child, as she stood facing them in this picture. The smaller picture under this copy, is from the 21st of May, 1943, just about the time she was attending this school, at age seven.

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Ragolapalli: Motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s school, circa 1941

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Ragolapalli: The tree I never forget. The anchoring force for the homestead was an old Pipal tree ( Raavi Chettu) in the north-east corner, which nurtured two other trees within its hold, a Neem and a Tamarind. The kinetic shade from this green triumvirate had cooled two generations of kid slumberers, who, on their visits, had heard mythical tales of Ramayana and Mahabharata, from their aunts. The Raavi, with its hold, was hacked off by the new occupants, as if they, the new owners, wanted to extirpate every vestige of the previous occupant. The spirit of the place had vanished, along with the ancient Raavi, whose roots I believe are still in the ground. There were also two coconut palms at their homestead, one was by the wall near the well, to the right, after the entrance on the east, and the other one was to the north of the house, few yards from their side entrance. Both the trees are still there. I am standing under that very tree, that had witnessed all of our lives unfold over the decades. The tree is almost a hundred years old. I remember having bathed under it as a kid, during our summer visits in the 60s and the 70s. They would heat up the big copper cisterns of water, using coconut stems as firewood a few feet away. Then, they mixed the cold well water to the scalding water, to mitigate the heat, and then scrub us with gourd sponges and soap, while we sat naked on a stool, with the household milling around. The bath water would drain into the tree hold, a circular dug-out area, with the tree in the middle, like you see in most parks. I have vivid memories of this tree, and was always afraid that a coconut would fall on me, while being given a bath. Here I am, leaning on an old friend, as a middle-aged man, while our souls commiserated. This, and the other coconut tree were the only things intact, but then, why would these folks hack off these trees, they are income producing trees.

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Ragolapalli: The tree I never forget.

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Ragolapalli: Return of the natives. The sun had set, and while we dodged the dung piles on the street, letting the old place take a piece of us. I just stood there, silently, trying to gather myself, and dispatch my melancholy in earnest that had taken over, since we had arrived. Then, as if all this experience amounted to nothing, I was suddenly made aware, by my mother that my father had contributed to Lord Ramaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s temple behind me (picture below), and his name was welded onto its security door, in the inner sanctum. I was simply overcome. I escaped into the temple, avoiding the presence of everyone there. Later, I left some money with an old lady attendant there, then, I stepped out into the golden dusk, rubbing my eyes, as if from the dust, and took this picture of the farm hands (right) returning from the fields. In that dissipating light, we visited another family temple of Lord Hanumanji, founded by the same ancestor, Nagarajugaru, by their old farm at Gutaala. After a few minutes, reluctantly, we headed back to Annadaverapeta.

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Ragolapalli: Return of the farm workers.

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Ragolapalli: The 21st century bullock cart! The bullock cart was, and still is, the main mode of transport for everyone in the village, as it was, decades ago for RBRâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s homestead, with many storied arrivals and departures that are worth a listen. One amusing story took place on the stormy evening of October 28th, 1956. Since their bulls were loaned out for plowing the fields, my grandfather borrowed a pair of unbroken bulls, from a neighbor, to have his daughter: my mother, in labor, taken to the hospital, a few kilometers away. It was dark, cloudy and stormy, with swirling winds. The bullock cart departed, laden with ladies and the kids, and slowly arrived at the junction, where the village ruts merged with the asphalt. The bulls, laboring a steep incline to the road, saw two huge headlights bearing down on them, it was a truck. Within seconds, the agitated bulls shed off the yoke, and fled in panic. The two wheeled cart, without the bulls, and weighted to the rear, tipped backwards and rolled into a ditch, upending all of its contents: my great-grandmother, grandmother, my aunt and her kids, and my mother. All of them, rendered into rolling lumps, fell upon some thorny bushes growing there. My great-grandmother, first to land, wailed and flailed, after being thoroughly scratched, somehow my grandmother quelled everyoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rising panic. My mother, despite falling on another body, and being in acute labor pains, was oblivious to all the commotion that ensued. My grandfather, who had chaperoned the cart, riding ahead on his bicycle, hurried back nervously, to see the apparent carnage, but, everyone was safe, despite the near catastrophe. In the ensuing decades, the details of this accident always triggered laughter. An incident that preceded my arrival, by mere hours. It was a comic conclusion to a potential disaster that could have been lights out for yours truly, before any terrestrial experience.

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Ragolapalli: The 21st century bullock cart!

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Annadaverapeta: Delightful hosts. We arrived in Annadaverapeta after all the daylight had dissipated, but I could still make out the neighborâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s evening activities, like the dishes being washed after supper, the buffaloes being corralled into their holding pens, and the kids being called back to their homes. Our wondrous hosts, my oldest maternal cousin sister: Seshuâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s older sister, her husband and their daughters, in other words, my nieces, were relentlessly therapeutic, with their informality. Simply put, their place was a resort for the soul. The two daughters, Pedda and Chinna Ammalu, with their English Masters, are teachers at local schools, and began their day before 4.30am. Household and dairy chores were followed by personal care, then, breakfast and lunch preparation, then, off to their schools on public transports. In the late afternoon, arrive back home, followed by the chores again, supper at sunset, followed by cleanup, then, sequenced by tutoring the local kids on their verandah. Wrapping up the day past 9pm everyday, all this was accomplished without an ounce of friction, and with proactive filial piety. Exemplary folks, regardless of the perspective. Below, is a rare picture of my mother (right) and my eldest cousin sister, Papa-akka (left), the wife of the gentleman and the mother of the girls in the picture to the right. Looks like PapaAkka was pregnant here, which means this picture is at least 50 years old. Both the ladies are still very close. Regretfully, our stay there was less than 24 hours.

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A delightful evening with their family.

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Annadaverapeta: Settling after supper: A traditional and typical verandah scene after supper. Here Mr. Rama Rao browses through the newspaper while our younger boy runs butt-naked around their yard in bare feet. The boys again, were in their sphere. Every man there is interested in politics, and most of the newspapers are in English. One thing is certain, no matter what the news is, it will never affect the villagers and small town folks, their life is like that irrigation canal, with a predictable trajectory, without fluctuation. For that reason alone, I would love a rural life, away from this rat race, and that is the irony: you always live the life you hate. Perhaps, this is exactly why I did not see any form of stress on their faces, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the humor that mitigates the daily grind. Day 10 was indeed a deliciously long day, like a ten course meal.

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Annadaverapeta: Settling after supper

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Annadaverapeta: Emerald infinity! Day 11. We were showered and ready early, and had had a hot breakfast. After breakfast, I went up to their terrace and saw this lush verdant landscape, waking up to another day. The sheer diversity of the flora was simply overwhelming. You could see in the distance, the tall indigenous palms, “Taati chettlu” and you also see how their leaves are used as roofing material on the buffalo corral, in the foreground; and the banana grove adjacent to the hut made for a tropical essay. It will be an Eden, for even the mildly inclined horticulturalist, let alone the immersed ones. I just gazed at every leaf, with childish fascination, for camouflaged life, or tried identifying or admiring the shape. I could spend whole days, like our boys did, just staring at the minute forms of life, going about their organic business in that emerald infinity. Incidentally, it is in the tropics that one begins to really appreciate the magnificence, and the fragility of our ecosystem. Finally, late morning, it was time to bid farewell to our hosts. Then, Pedda Ammalu reminded me of some “documents” I was interested in, and took me to their north verandah. There, in two small rusty trunks, dissolving with age and oxidization, I found, what amounted to, and remained of my grandparents’ entire life at Ragolapalli. The trunks were left with these folks, when my grandparents left for their son’s place in Peddapuram, in 1984, after closing out their 46 year saga in Ragolapalli. It is simply unfathomable as to what they must have felt, on that fateful day, leaving their own roots behind. I cannot begin to imagine leaving a place, after living there for almost two generations. The trunks had been sitting there for almost thirty years. The brittle, faded, and water damaged pictures, letters and documents from the inception of their homestead in 1937, to the conclusion of their stay in that village, constituted the real treasure I brought back home. Letters, my young mother and father wrote 50 years ago, letters I and many others wrote, and historic receipts, postcards and notarized documents from RBR’s daily grind, like pieces of a puzzle that came together to form a mosaic - our story.

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Annadaverapeta: Emerald infinity!

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Tallapudi: The Kotnis hospital. Tallapudi, on the west bank of Godavari, is the regional district headquarters. It was also the starting point for many lives and pilgrimages, from the maternal side. The default medical facility, within ten kilometers of RBR’s village, was this privately owned clinic called “Kotnis Hospital,” once under the aegis of a brilliant and instinctive individual, the late Doctor Rajugaru. Today, his son, Dr. Kotnis Kalidindi, runs the facility with the same determination and dedication to helping the medically needy. We stopped at this medical complex, on our way to the East Godavari district, and were cossetted by the hospital staff, with warmth and questions. The main photograph to the right highlights the hospital staff with their cheerful disposition. The picture below shows the unassuming entrance, and the founder’s picture above it.

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Tallapudi: The Kotnis hospital staff.

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Tallapudi: The libation of nature. It took only fifteen minutes to arrive in Tallapudi, from Annadaverapeta. There, we stopped at the Kotnis hospital, which had served the RBR clan for decades. The facility is cocooned in shady orchards and coconut palms, once the home for the black-faced langurs, large monkeys. In the early 60s, when my mother brought me here for my tonsils operation, I remember gorging on ice cream, after I had come around from the surgery in the late morning. In the afternoon, lolling around in pain, after the anesthesia had worn off, and with mother out of my room, I saw this huge langur sitting on the window sill, looking at me placidly, as if watching over me. Surprisingly, the pain dissipated, and I wasn’t scared either, it seemed perfectly natural, to be visited by an ancestor ascendent. I also recall falling asleep that evening to a nightingale’s “lullaby,” a resident of the surrounding orchards, as I was kept there for observation another day. According to my mother, Dr. Rajugaru, was quite hesitant and diffident in presenting an invoice for 33 Rupees, less than dollar, for that surgery, and the following treatment. I was simply stupefied with this nugget of memory recently from her, and living in a country, where medical billing must be audited with an electron microscope. I snapped this picture after drinking up two coconuts. The hospital gardeners coddled us with informal warmth, and insisted that we have coconut water, and what an offering it was. The best drink anyone can get under the circumstances. Rejuvenated, we continued our visit.

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Tallapudi: Kotnis Hospitalâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Coconut water - libation of nature.

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Godavari: The begining, and the end. All flowing rivers in India are symbolically referred to as “Ganga” or “Maha Ganga.” If one had to do a comparison of familiarity, then, river Godavari is the Brahmaputra of the south. Both voluminous rivers are connected to our childhood. Our parents were married by this river, in Rajahmundry, on the east bank, and we (I and my brother) were born on the west bank of Godavari, and had lived by the Brahmaputra, in Assam, in the early part of my father’s career. Godavari is a rapid river that originates in Maharashtra and washes down 1465 kilometers, dissecting Andhra Pradesh, east of the Deccan plateau, in a coffee colored silted current, to the Bay of Bengal. The widest part of the river is between the towns of Rajahmundry and Kovvur, at 5 Km, almost 3.2 miles. The river coddles many islands, with farms, temples and yearly celebrations, and many temples have steps leading to the river on either side. The river banks in India, harbor many a story of every individual, who had ever come across it, for a gathering, function or the end. One of my maternal uncles, who had passed away as a toddler in Vegesarapuram, in 1944, was buried on the west bank, by the town, south-east of Tallapudi. My grandmother, an extremely pious women in control, who often traveled east for functions across the river, could never avoid the melancholy, to her right, where he lay, while on the bridge heading east - wondering why, and wistfully wiping away her emotions. The rare picture below reveals a young couple, our grandparents, with their boy, our uncle, perhaps the only picture of him available. He would have been 69 years old, if he was alive today.

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;He who postpones the hour of living is like the rustic who waits for the river to run out before he crosses.â&#x20AC;? - Quintus Horace Flaccus, 65BC-8BC

Godavari: where it all begins and ends.

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Godavari: Eventually, we all get washed away. This photograph I thought, was an appropriate conclusion, to the first part of my photo-essay. Here, a washer women is at work, on the west bank at dusk. Washing by the Ganga, referred to any general flowing body of water, is, in the Hindu culture, the ultimate act of cleansing. Here, while we washed our clothes for external cleanliness, we also bathed in the river to extirpate all our sins and bad Karma, and in the end, the river eventually washes us away, along with our stories. This can be thwarted, if, we can attend to our stories. Our remains are washed away, but our stories can live indefinitely. Ask Mr. Herodotus. Small stories are as intriguing as the big ones. How would we ever know, how intense a pleasure RBR and grandmother had derived from that uncle, who had lived only 18 months, or the three girls and another boy, whose remains were interred somewhere next to that Ragolapalli reservoir, by the old “Velagalu.” Only by the intensity of their grief, would we derive any clue, of how much they had longed their kids. According to my mother, a primary source indeed, RBR was completely shattered with grief over his boy’s demise; this for a man, who had been labeled many things, but emotional. Who had ever seen, or even remember his youth? Who among us will ever know what he had experienced after his father’s (Sarrajugaru) death, his stolen boyhood - and, after all the responsibilities that befell him? We had only witnessed him as a stern and stony middle-aged apparition, a taskmaster, much later in life, after all his battles had taken their toll. Part II of these travels into my mother and father’s India, will be released in due course. Thanks for sharing the journey.

“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it.” - Norman Maclean, 1902-1990

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Godavari: eventually, we all get washed away.

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;I like the evening in India, the one magic moment when the sun balances on the rim of the world, and the hush descends, and ten thousand civil servants drift homeward on a river of bicycles, brooding on the Lord Krishna and the cost of living.â&#x20AC;? - James Cameron, Filmmaker

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Textures of India

Our tropical memories: A photographic esssay, Volume 1

Raju Peddada