Blog by English | Digital Diary

COORG MIDWAY batween Mysore and the coastal town of Mangalore sits a piece of heaven that must have drifted from the kingdom of gad. This land of rolling hills is inhabited by a proud race of martial men, beautiful woman and wild creatures. Croog, or kadagu, the smallest district of karnataka, is home to evergreen rainforests cover thirty per cent of this district. During the monsoons, it pours enough to keep many visitors away. The season of joy commences from September and continues till March. The weather is perfect, with some showers thrown in for good measure. The air breathes of invigorating coffee. Coffee estates and colonial bungalows stand tucked under tree canopies in prirne corners. The fiercely independent people of coorg are possibly of Greek or Arabic descent. As one story goes, a part of Alexander's army moved South along the coast and settled here when return become important. These people married amongst the locals and their culture is apparent in the martial traditions, marriage and religions rites, which are distinct from the hindu mainstream. The theory of Arab orgin draws support from the long. black coat with an embroidered waist-belt worn by the kodavus. Know as kuppia, it resembles the kuffia worn by the Arabs and the kurds. 

MIJBIL THE OTTER Early in the new year of 1956 I travelled to southern iraQ. By then iyt hads crossed my mind that i should like to keep an otter instead of a dog and that camusfearna ringed by water a stone's throw from its door would be an eminently suitable spot for this experiment. When I casually mentioned this to a friend he as casually replied that i had better get one in the Tigris marshes for there they were as common as mosquitoes and were ofter tamed by the Arabs. We weree going to Basra to the consulate - General to collect and answer our mail from Europe. at the consulate general we found that my friend mail had arrived but that mine had not. I cabled to England, and when, three days later, nothing had happened. I tried to telephone. The call had to be booked twenty-four hours in advance. On the first day the line was out of order;on the second the exchange was closed for a religious holida. On the third day there was another breakdown. My friend left, and I arranged to meet him in a week's time. Five days later, my mill arrived. I carried it to my bedroom to read, and there, squatting on the floor, were two Arabs; beside them lay a sack that squirmed from time to time. They handed mphaqqote from my friend: "Here is your otter... "

A BAKER FROM GOA Our elders are often heard reminiscing nostalgically about those good old portuguese days, the portuguese and their fomous loaves of bread. Those eaters of loaves might have vanished but the makers are still there. We still have amongst us the mixers, the moulders and those who bake the loaves. Those age-olg, time-tested furnaces still exist. The fire in the furnaces has not yet been extinguished. The thud and jingle of the traditional baker's bamboo, heralding his arrival in the morning. Can still be heard in some places. Maybe the father is not alive but the son still carries on the family profession. These bakere are, even today, know as pader in Goa. During our childhood in Goa, the baker used to be our friend, companion and guide. He used to come at least twice a day. Once, when he set out in the morning on his selling round, and then again, when he returned after emptying his hge basket. The jingline thud of his bamboo woke us up from sleep and we ran to meet and greet him. Why was it so? Was it for the love of the loaf? Not at all. The loaves were bought by some Paskine or Bastine, the maid-servant of the house! What we longed for were those bread-bangles which we chose carefully. Sometimes it was sweet bread of special make. The baker made his musical entry on the scene with the 'jhang, jhang' sound of his specially made bamboo staff. One hand supported the basket on his head and the other banged the bamboo on the ground. He would greet the lady of the house with "Good morning" and then place his basket on the vertical bamboo. We kids would be pushed aside with a mild rebuke and the loaves would be delivered to the servent. But we Would not give up. We would climb a bench or the parapet and peep into the basket, somehow. I can still recall the typical fragrance of those loaves. Loaves for the elders and the bangles for the children. Then we did not even care to brush our teeth or wash our mouths properly. And why should we? Who would take the trouble of plucking the mango-leaf for the toothbrush? And why was it necessary at all? The tiger never brushed his teeth. 

THE TREES The trees inside are moving out into the forest,   the forest that was empty all these days Where no bird could sit no sun bury its feet in shadow the forest that was empty all these nights will be full of trees by morning.  All nigh the roots work to disengaeg themselves from the cracks in the veranda floor.  The leaves strain toward the glass  small twigs stiff with exertiin long-cramped boughs shuffling under the roof like newly discharged patients half-dazed, moving to the clinic doors.  I sit inside, doors open to the veranda writing long letters in which I scarcely mention the departure of the forest from the house.  The night is fresh, the whole moon shines in a sky still open the smell of leaves and lichen still reaches like a voice into the rooms.  My head is full of whispers which tomorrow will be breaking.  The trees are stumbling forward into the night. Winds rush to meet them.  The moon is broken like a mirror,  it's pieces flash now in the crown of the tallest oak. 

TEA FROM ASSAM "CHai-GARAM.... garam-chai, " a vendor called out in a high-pitched voice. He came up to their window and asked. "Chai, sa'ab? " "Give us two cups. " Pranjol said. They sipped the steaming hot liquid. Almost everyone in their compartment was drinking tea too. "Do you know that over eighty crore cups of tea are drunk every day throughout the world? " Rajvir said. "Whew! " exclaimed Pranjol. "Tea really is very popular. " The train pulled out of the station. Pranjol buried his nose in his detective book again. Rajvir too was an ardent fan of detective stories, but at the moment he was keener on looking at the beautiful scenery. It was green, green everywhere. Rajvir had never seen so much greenery before. Then the soft green paddy fields gave way to tea bushes.  It was a magnificent view. Against the backdrop of densely wooded hills a sea of tea bushes stretched as far as the eye could see. Dwarfing the tiny teaplants were tell sturdy shade-trees and amidst the orderly rows of bushes busily moved doll-like figurs. In the distance was an ugly bullinding with smoke billowing out of tall chimneyes. "Hey, a tea garden! " Rajvir cried excitedly, Prnjol, Who had been bron and brought up on a plantation, didn't share Rajvir's excitement. "Oh, this is tea country now, " he said. "Assam has the largest concentration of plantations in the world. You will see enough gardens to last you a lifetime! " "I have been reading as much as I could about tea,  " Rajvir said,. "No one really knows who discovered tea but there are many legends. " What legends? " "Well, there's the one about the Chinese emperor who always boiled water before drining under the pot fell into the water giving it a delicious flavour. It is asid they were tea leaves. " "Tell me another! " Scoffed Pranjol. "We have an Indian legend too. Bodhidharma, an ancient Buddhist ascetic, cut off his eyelids because he felt sleepy during meditations. Ten tea plants grew out of the eyelids. The leaves of these plants when put ni hot water and drank in China, " Rajvir added, "as far back as 2700 B. C.! In fact words such as tea. " Chai" and "chini" are from Chinese. Tea come to Europe only in the sixteenth century and was durnk more as medicine than as medicine than as beverage. " The train clattered into Mariant junction. The boys callected their luggage and pushed their way to the crowded platform. 

THE PANTHER His vision, from the constantly passing bars.  has grown so weary that it cannot hold anything else. It seems to him there are a thousand bars;and behind the bars, no world.  As he paces in cramped circles,  over and over,  the movement of his powerful soft strides  is like a ritual dance around a centre  In which a mighty will stands paralysed.  Only at times. the curtain of the pupils lifts, quietly. An image enters in.  rushes down through the tensed, arrested muscles,  plunges into the heart and is gune.         

FOG The fog comes On little cat feet.  It sits looking Over harbour and city On silent  haunches And then moves on.