Tales Of Kangra Fort

Kangra fort, from a distance

The highlight of our trip to Kangra was our visit to the Kangra fort; something we had left for the very end as we knew nothing much about it and could barely see it atop a hill, somewhere on the outskirts of Kangra town.  Everyone had mentioned various temples and tea estates and Tibetan colonies but no one had really spoken of this monument.

On the last day of our trip, we drove up a winding road, stopped a couple of times to get directions (there is a sign along the way but it points in the wrong direction) and finally reached our destination.  This fort belongs to the Katoch family, the oldest surviving royal dynasty in the world ('Katoch' means 'one who is skillful with the sword').

No fort in India is really dead; its life is embedded in the very stones and earth from where it rose and in tales about how its inhabitants lived (and died).  Kangra was a fort unknown to me and though I had read that it was a flourishing kingdom, I knew nothing of its history.  Fortunately the recent descendants of this family have put together a remarkable audio guide on the history and structure of the fort (evocatively narrated by Roshan Seth, the actor).  This is the first Indian fort I have visited that offers such a tour.  Walking into the Kangra fort, with a headset clamped over my ears playing ancient sounds - the drumbeats of war, old hymns and prayers, anecdotes narrated by the royal family overlaid by descriptions of each part of the fort, was an uncanny experience.  It was like whizzing back thousands of years ago and gradually moving forward again, step by step through centuries.

"Whoever holds the fort holds the hills," was an old Kangra saying - and many attempts were made to attack and defend this fort.  It is a long, sad tale of vicious war, ruthless plundering and treachery repeated endlessly.  Many have attacked this fort but none has been able to hold it and it belongs still to the Katoch family.

The fort encompasses 463 acres

The Kangra fort is India's oldest dated fort, said to be built around 3,500 years ago by Raja Susarma Chandra, a descendant of the Katoch family.  This royal Rajput family was founded by Rajanaka Bhumi Chand in 4300 B.C.  According to the Puranas (Vedic texts), there was a time when the goddess Ambika (a form of Parvati) was fighting a ferocious demon.  It was a long and hard battle and at some stage, a drop of the goddess's sweat fell on the earth.  From this emerged Bhumi Chand of the Chandravansh (the moon clan), who helped the goddess fight the demon.  As a blessing, Ambika granted him the kingdom of Trigarta that is located between three rivers - Sutlej, Beas and Ravi.  Kangra is a part of this region.

Goddess Ambika, a form of Parvati

The earliest references to these kings are found in the Ramayana and Mahabharata, where the kings apparently fought Lord Rama and the Pandavas.  The earliest historical reference to the Katoch clan is a report by Alexander's scribe, describing the valour of the king Paramanand Chandra (also called Porus or Phageus).  Porus was defeated by Alexander on the banks of the Jhelum river in 326 B.C.  So impressed by this Rajput warrior was Alexander that he asked him to become a satrap in Macedonia.

There are subsequent reports on a series of battles involving the Katoch clan, beginning with a battle against King Ashoka (where the Katoch kings lost their lands in Multan) followed by several centuries of fighting against neighbouring Indian rulers.

Stories set in stone

The next mention of these Kangra kings comes in the 11th century A.D., when they were invaded by Mahmud of Ghazni.  Taking advantage of the absence of the Katoch ruler from the area, Mahmud of Ghazni attacked and robbed the fort of its immense stores of wealth - there was so much loot that his scribes had no words to describe it and his army was unable to carry it all.  Muhammad bin Tughlaq and his successor Firuz Shah Tughlaq captured the fort in the 14th century but could not subdue it - eventually they signed a treaty with the Katoch kings.  The Katoch kings also fended off several other attacks including one by Taimur during this period.

In the 16th century, the fort caught the eye of the Mughal emperor Akbar who forged friendship with the Katoch family.  This was just a strategic deal for Akbar; he soon betrayed the kings and confiscated their lands.  In the words of Todar Mal (Akbar's minister), Akbar 'cut off the meat and left the bones', leaving the Katoch kings to fend for themselves in jungles.  Even under these circumstances they made numerous small but ferocious attacks; the Mughals were unable to settle into the fort and eventually the Katoch kings reclaimed their kingdom.

The Mughals tried hard to recapture the fort - they made 52 further (unsuccessful) attempts!  Finally, in the 17th century, Jehangir (Akbar's son) fought a 14 month personal jehad (as he described it) - and won.  After this victory, as Jehangir approached, reading Islamic prayers, slaughtering a cow and destroying temples to make a certain point, the queens of the fort killed themselves by jumping into a well located within the fort.  The well still stands.

Gate near the entrance

The 18th century saw the Katoch family (with the aid of the Sikhs) regain the fort and subsequently, much of the surrounding land.  Trouble began once more in the 19th century, with a series of attacks by the Gorkha army of Gadhwal, who took over the fort after much carnage in 1806. A counter attack was planned by Sansar Chand (the Katoch king) with help from the Sikh ruler Ranjit Singh in 1809.  In return for his help, Ranjit Singh demanded Kangra fort and 66 villages, which Sansar Chand handed over.  However, over a period of time, Ranjit Singh did not keep his end of the pact and began encroaching further into Kangra territory.  Finally, when Ranjit Singh demanded that Sansar Chand's daughter be given in marriage to the son of a Sikh minister, the then Katoch king Anrudh Chand (Sansar Chand's son) fled to Hardwar.  The Sikh rulers ruled for a few years, then ceded this fort to the British in 1846, after the first Anglo Sikh war.  In 1947, after independence, it became a part of Indian territory and has now been returned to the Katoch dynasty.

Sculptures of deities and a deer carved on a gate

The fort stands atop a hill, surrounded on three sides by steep slopes; the only way in is through a narrow winding road (the road we took).  The entrance is through a small courtyard between two gates.  The audio tour at this stage plays the voice of the Katoch descendant telling us how his grandfather taught him never to enter the gates head first, in case there was an enemy within who might behead you.  I look up at the gates - tall, unyielding and almost sinister.  It is impossible to know what lurks behind.  There are 11 gates (several added over a period of time by successive conquerors) and 23 bastions.  Outside the temple gate lies the Andheri Darwaza (the gate of darkness), the first line of defence (before people could reach the temple courtyard).  This is 7 metres in length and wide enough only for two men or a horse to pass through, the intention being to slow down an attacking army at this point.

We cross the gates, one by one, climbing steep stone steps and walking past defaced sculptures of Hindu river goddesses Ganga and Yamuna, broken pedestals and stones bearing old carvings and inscriptions in ancient scripts.  The original, broken temple stands with a huge peepul tree in front of it.  Newer smaller temples have now been built for the deities Lakshmi Narayana, Ambika and also to house one of the earliest known statues of Mahavira.  The Katoch family still visits this temple to offer prayers to their family deity, goddess Ambika.

Temple ruins

Carvings on the old temple 

Further on, towards the highest part of the fort, lie more courtyards and small enclosures that display a breath taking view of the countryside below.  It is a sharp, steep drop on all sides.  The Ban Ganga river flows on one side.  The other sides show vertical walls of sheer rock.  Apparently men were lowered down the cliffs to remove all undergrowth and polish the cliff surface till is was smooth and slippery, ensuring that no one could approach by climbing these mountains.  It remains as forbidding today as it must have been through all those centuries.

The fort emanates tremendous strength and energy; physically it has withstood an earthquake that damaged many surrounding regions in 1905.  The Dhauladhar mountains shimmer in the distance.  The land below looks fertile and green, the river flows swiftly and contentedly.  The sky is filled with eagles that swoop down suddenly onto the highest parts of the fort and then take flight again.  These are magnificent birds but I am a little wary of their swoops.

The air is clear and soundless.  The only permanent residents here seem to be the eagles.

What The Ground Says

The last few days have been filled with reports of violence of unnatural and perverted kinds.  Man made and man engendered.  It is at times like this that I look out towards nature and ask, "Is everything all wrong?"  The answer, as some tell us, is blowin' in the wind.  What might it be?  Certainly, the wind, the sky and the earth say different things to each of us, and some of us cannot hear them at all.

This, more than any other, is a time to close our minds, if only for a moment.  To allow ourselves a small respite from the cacophony of cities, discussions of and men and their petty affairs and to look to the spirit for answers.  I quote some Native American voices ( which were recorded as their tribes were dwindling and dying):

"The Great Spirit is our father but the Earth is our mother.  She nourishes us; that which we put into the ground she returns to us and healing plants she gives us likewise.  If we are wounded, we go to our mother and seek to lay the wounded part against her, to be healed."                           (Big Thunder)

"The Lakota was a true naturist - a lover of nature.  He loved the earth and all things of the earth, the attachment growing with age.  The old people came literally to love the soil and they sat or reclined on the ground with a feeling of being close to a mothering power.  It was good for the skin to touch the earth and old people liked to remove their moccasins and walk with bare feet on the sacred earth.  Their tipis were built upon the earth and their altars were made of earth.  The birds that flew in the air came to rest upon the earth and it was the final abiding place of all things that lived and grew.  The soil was soothing, strengthening, cleansing and healing.
   Kinship with all creatures of the earth, sky and water was a real and active principle.  For the animal and bird world there existed a brotherly feeling that kept the Lakota safe among them and so close did some of the Lakotas come to their feathered and furred friends that in true brotherhood they spoke a common tongue.
   The old Lakota was wise.  He knew that man's heart away from nature becomes hard; he knew that lack of respect for growing, living things soon led to a lack of respect for humans too.  So he kept his youth close to its softening influence."                                          (Chief Luther Standing Bear)

"I wonder if the ground has anything to say?  I wonder if the ground is listening to what is said?  I wonder if the ground would come alive and what is on it?  Though I hear what the ground says.  The ground says, It is the Great Spirit that placed me here.  The Great Spirit tells me to take care of the Indians, to feed them aright.  The Great Spirit appointed the roots to feed the Indians on.  The water says the same thing.  The Great Spirit directs me, Feed the Indians well.  The grass says the same thing, Feed the Indians well.  The ground, water and grass say, The Great Spirit has given us our names.  We have these names and hold these names.  The ground says, The Great Spirit has placed me here to produce all that grows on me, trees and fruit.  The same way the ground says, It was from me man was made.  The Great Spirit, in placing men on the earth, desired them to take good care of the ground and to do each other no harm..."                              (Young Chief)
                                                                           

"Oh, yes, I went to the white man's schools.  I learned to read from school books, newspapers, and the Bible.  But in time I found that these were not enough.  Civilized people depend too much on man-made printed pages.  I turn to the Great Spirit's book which is the whole of his creation.  You can read a big part of that book if you study nature..."                                                   (Tatanga Mani)

"I had learned many English words and could recite part of the Ten Commandments.  I knew how to sleep on a bed, pray to Jesus, comb my hair, eat with a knife and fork, and use a toilet....  I had also learned that a person thinks with his head instead of his heart."                         (Sun Chief)

"The man who sat on the ground in his tipi meditating on life and its meaning, accepting the kinship of all creatures and acknowledging unity with the universe of things was infusing into his being the true essence of civilization.  And when native man left off this form of development, his humanization was retarded in growth."                                                                        (Chief Luther Standing Bear)

"What is life?  It is the flash of a firefly in the night.  It is the breath of a buffalo in the winter time.  It is  the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the Sunset."          (Crowfoot)

(Quotes from 'Touch The Earth', compiled by T.C. McLuhan)

Mangoes Arrive!

Here they are - slowly ripening on trees, piled high on pavements, stacked attractively in fruit shops - the first mangoes of the year.  A few weeks ago, green mangoes made their appearance.  These are sold for pickles and chutneys which seem almost essential with every meal given our jaded summer appetites.  The early windfall mangoes - tiny little things without any seeds have a very different flavour from the big green ones.  They are earthy and smoky, more like berries than fruit.  They are mixed with a few spices (largely chilly and salt) and made into a fresh pickle eaten with rice or rotis.

This year, so far, we have tasted three different kinds of mango pickles already - one with whole baby mangoes from north Karnataka, another with freshly sliced raw mangoes from an orchard in Maharashtra (lots of some unidentifiable Maharashtrian masala and the taste of fresh, raw mango), a third golden yellow (laced with ground mustard and chilly) from Uttar Pradesh.  Also, my own strange experiments, of mangoes cooked with jaggery and whole spices (not very successful but not dreadful either)!  Very soon will begin my next phase of cooking with unripe mangoes - green mango rice with hints of fresh coriander and coconut, sweet and sour green mango chutney and shredded mango salad with peanuts.

Tiny, flattened dried mangoes

As for the ripe mangoes, early varieties from Andhra Pradesh and Maharashtra and our own state of Karnataka are slowly trickling in.  Apart from buying at regular shops or pavements, each year I visit Maharashtra Mandal, where a lady rents some rooms to store and sell Ratnagiri mangoes.  This year was no different and last week I trundled up to this inconspicuous building in the middle of the crowded lanes of Gandhinagar.

Maharashtra Mandal stands at a corner, apparently quiet but buzzing with frenetic activity deep inside the 'mango rooms'.  Rows of crates are stacked from floor to ceiling in the inner rooms; these are periodically dragged out when customers arrive.  The crates are expertly flipped open, the contents revealed to customers (each of whom has a precise set of requirements).

The customers here are invariably aggressive and extremely particular about each piece of mango being the very best - as if they were buying bullions and not fruit.  The quality of a mango is determined by the size and external appearance and the fact that it must be blemishless, much like models in fashion parades.  This is quite amusing to watch.  Customers are also invariably in a hurry.  These various requirements, somewhat contradictory in nature, means that one person rapidly empties out a crate; mangoes are selected or rejected, prices are discussed and some bargaining attempted.  Other crates are opened up, the selected mangoes are counted and repacked.  Other customers must wait their turn to follow the same procedure.  I of course dispense with the haggling and the close scans of each piece.  I have been visiting this place for years and the lady knows the kind of price range and mangoes I ask for (I generally prefer small and ripe ones whereas most people like large and semi-ripe mangoes).  I also don't mind blemishes for most of them seem to be skin deep.  This considerably speeds up my mango buying and makes place for the next customer.

This is not to say that mango buying occurs one person at a time.  There are two or three parallel processes occurring, the main constraints being floor space and man power.  We all tread carefully around the mango piles, minimize out footprints, prefer to ram into each other rather than bump into any of the precious the mangoes (we would probably have to buy the squashed ones).  It is all rather fun as long as one is not impatient.  Voices yell "450 - 400"  "No, this is 600," much like a stock market and they refer to bulk prices based on the mango sizes (nothing is weighed here, it is sold by the dozen).

Mango selection

What is so special about these mangoes?  It's not the price, which initially tends to be higher than market rates and slowly drops as the season proceeds.  It is the fact that these mangoes are plucked from orchards, immediately packed in crates and sent to this building.  Here they lie ripening slowly and naturally in straw; their flavour and aroma intensifying gradually as days go by (they may take a few days to a few weeks to completely ripen).  These naturally ripened mangoes taste much better than the chemically ripened ones.  Their flavour is more intense, there are no unripe, sour or over-ripe patches.

Mangoes ripening in straw

This particular variety crinkles and turns a deep, orangey-yellow when ripe.  The mangoes fill my house with an enticing smell and part of the joy is to pick them out of the crate and select the ripest of the lot.  They are uniformly exceedingly delicious - sweet and flavourful with very little fibre; the only danger is the tendency to over-indulge!  

Songs of Ends And Beginnings

At the eve of Easter, it is perhaps appropriate that thoughts turn to peace and healing and - music.  To beginnings and ends.  I find myself thinking today of the Neville Brothers - a group of musicians from New Orleans.

Their music has filled our house and all of New Orleans for over two decades now, bringing to the fore issues of black rights, crime and drugs in ghettos, the fate of many African Americans and also beautiful gospel - songs of peace and courage.

For over twenty years this extremely talented family band has been closing the annual jazz festival in New Orleans and their farewell song is looked upon as a kind of benediction for jazz.  This year onwards they will no longer be performing together.  Aaron Neville (the lead singer) says the stress on his system is far too high for him to be able to cope with continuing as a band and singing his own solos.  New Orleans and many jazz lovers feel that things will never be the same no more.  But all good things do come to an end and from this end arise other good beginnings.  Perhaps this what we need to remember.

How can I describe the Neville brothers' music?  In the early seventies, George Landry made an album with the Mardi Gras Indians that included versions of American Indian chants, vocals by Landry (a.k.a. 'Big Chief Jolly') and other members of his tribe, and instrumentation and harmonies by Landry's nephews, the Neville Brothers.  This was the first time that the Neville Brothers performed together - and there was no looking back.  I am giving a link to one of the songs from this album - 'Meet De Boys On The Battlefront' - to give an idea of the incredible energy and vibrancy, the mix of cultures that created such distinctive and soulful music in New Orleans.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=498LZARXzN0

The Neville Brothers went on to make lots more original music and bring out several albums.  Many of their early albums were not very well received - publicity was hard to come by and their work did not fit into an established groove.  But I think they were also finding their own path and their later albums (released in the late 80s and early 90s) show a different (and more mature and unique) kind of music. My personal favourites are Yellow Moon and Brother's Keeper.

The Neville Brothers sang original lyrics that spoke of the pain and bewilderment faced by many innocent black Americans who are caught up in an unequal society, the problem of crime, drugs, guns and more that exist in ghettos, they sang a tribute to Rosa Parks (Sister Rosa, who refused to give up her seat in the coloured section of the bus to a white person, in 1955) and they also sang songs by other well known song writers such as Leonard Cohen (the most famous being Bird On A Wire), Jimmy Cliff (Sitting Here In Limbo).  They are one of the few to have been able to do justice to Bob Dylan's songs (they sang Bob Dylan's song on the impact of wars in history 'With God On Our Side' in a fearfully soul searching way). I give a link to this song just because of its powerful lyrics and singing (this is not a live recording).  I would suggest that you just listen to it without watching the images (that don't really do justice to the artists).  I quote, from one of the stanzas of this song:

'In many a dark hour
I've been thinkin' about this
That Jesus Christ
Was betrayed by a kiss
But I can't think for you
You'll have to decide
Whether Judas Iscariot
Had God on his side...'

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6tyIjfE-tIk

I also give a link to 'Bird On A Wire', to show just how original their interpretation was and how it transformed a sad love song into a song of strength and beauty.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T9ez80bQW4w

And finally, ending with a haunting hymn - Aaron Neville's version of Amazing Grace, and wishing all a happy Easter.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t6KYYA8RT9w

A Thai Food Festival In Town

There's a glut of food festivals in Bangalore these days - the Food Lovers festival, which is to be followed by the Citibank food festival and, in addition, some miscellaneous events scattered around town.  I'm sure that Holi and Easter will also bring some special menus.

The food festival I went to last night, however, is something I found quite enjoyable and so I'm writing to let readers know that it's on until the 31st of March.  This is a Thai food festival at the Raj Pavilion, Windsor Manor.  They have a visiting chef from Thailand, who is making Thai food for their dinner buffet (the buffet also retains some of their usual Indian and Western fare).

Not many five star hotels offer buffet food festivals these days hence I particularly look out for the few that come my way.  Windsor Manor, a relic of the Raj, is a very elegant and peaceful place to dine.  For these reasons, I decided to visit there last night, overlooking the cheaper and more attractive sounding food deals that are going around.

The Thai food menu was thoughtfully planned - there was a range of vegetables and meats (lots of seafood, which I particularly like) cooked in different ways. The only thing noticeably absent were Thai desserts.

The dinner began with a glass of house wine (on the house!) and a couple of interesting starters.

There was a summery, light hot and sour broth into which one could add all kinds of toppings, sprinkle some coriander leaves, squeeze a little lemon - and make one's own soup!

Laid out in a row, in gleaming dishes, were an assortment of vegetables cooked in various ways - with a light lime and pepper sauce, with chillies, with large, dark mushrooms and black beans, with slivers of fried garlic (almost buttery).  There was shrimp fried rice and stir fried flat rice noodles.  There was steamed fish served with thinly sliced carrots, fiery giant prawns with red chillies, chicken in a mild yellow curry and a hot prawn salad with bits of onion, coriander leaves, chillies and peanuts.  (Of course, the selection changes everyday).

I tried it all!!  Washed it down with cupfuls of fragrant jasmine tea and called it a day.
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A Bevy Of Books

It's summer and a bevy of books has come a visitin'.  They entered without asking and piled themselves up in all the nooks and crannies they could find, waiting for me to pick them up, dust off their travelly cloaks and find suitable places for them! Darn cheek, if you ask me.

The strange thing about books is how they worm themselves into your life and once there, sit and silently multiply.  They don't hesitate to locate the comfiest spot on your bed, they are seen sloppily snoozling in your best chair when guests drop in and horror of horrors- there they are, sloshing about amongst your pots and pans, getting thoroughly splashed and dishevelled when they think you are not looking.

It's stealth they use - one book muttering names of others under its breath (making sure you're around when it does so), another sighing wistfully and saying, "How nice it would be if I had my companion volume next to me," and so on.  They don't care if their sizes and shapes drive you up the wall (literally).  There they lie, looking expectantly, asking to be opened up ("Just a little stretch for my spine, dearie," the older ones cackle).

This summer's stack arrives as a motley collection - associates of old and loved books and some strangers that have drifted in by way of bookstores.  (March brings an excessive number of birthdays and while selecting books for others, I end up buying many more for myself).

By way of Amazon, I have received huge colour cookbooks - China The Beautiful Cookbook (lyrical and truly beautiful) and Mediterranean The Beautiful Cookbook (erudite though very approachable).

I have also received 'The 13 Clocks' (an old fairy tale by James Thurber - about an aggressive Duke who was always cold.  "He wore gloves when he was asleep, and he wore gloves when he was awake, which made it difficult for him to pick up pins or coins or tear the wings from nightingales.  He was six feet four and forty-six, and even colder than he thought he was.  One eye wore a velvet patch; the other glittered through a monocle, which made half his body seem closer to you than the other half."

Finally, and best of all, I have received through Amazon, 'The Midnight Folk' by John Masefield.  This is a magical way to learn about treasures and cats, owls and witches (and other midnight folk), adventurous great grandfathers - and also to brush up on your French:

..."You learn your lessons," she said.  "Never mind about what I think it was."

She left him with "pouvoir".  Kay had a special prejudice against "pouvoir".  It wasn't a good, straightforward word like "aimer."  It was a mean and ugly word, which went into "peux" and "pu."  It didn't seem to have any sense in it.  He wrestled with it with each boot twisted round a leg of his chair, scraping up and down.  Then, looking up, he saw great-grandpapa Harker looking down at him from his portrait over the mantelpiece.

The portrait was one that he had looked at during lessons ever since lessons began.  It was just "great-grandpapa Harker's portrait," though it was labelled Baxter.  When people were shown the schoolroom, the governess always said "That is a Baxter," and then people said, "Really" or "Fancy that" or "How interesting".  It was the full length of a man in old fashioned clothes.  There was a sort of shrubbery behind him and a sort of blueness behind the shrubbery.  It was said to be the only full length Baxter as Baxter only did down to the knees.  But now, as Kay looked, great-grandpapa Harker took a step forward, and as he did so, the wind ruffled the skirt of his coat and shook the shrubs behind him.  A couple of blue butterflies which had been upon the shrubs for seventy odd years, flew out into the room.  Great-grandpapa Harker  took another step forward and smiled.  Now Kay could see into the shrubbery: it was just where Kay's fort now was, but the box trees had grown enormously since then although the bull finches were already there.  Great-grandpapa Harker held out his hand and smiled again.  His face, which had seemed such an old-portrait kind of a face, became alive and full of welcome.  He seemed a fine fellow, not at all old, and very kind and good.

"Well, great-grandson Kay," he said, "ne pouvez vous pas come into the jardin avec moi?"

Kay thought it odd, but it was a perfect excuse for not doing "pouvoir" : "I would have learned it, but great-grandpapa Harker asked me to come into the jardin avec him, so of course I thought you wouldn't mind."  He smiled back at great-grandpapa Harker and said, "Oui, grand-grand pere, thank you; je serai very glad."

Great-grandpapa held out both hands, and Kay jumped onto the table; from there, with a step of run, he leaped onto the top of the fender and caught the mantelpiece.  Great-grandpapa Harker caught him and helped him up into the picture.  Instantly the schoolroom disappeared.  Kay was out of doors, standing beside his great-grandfather, looking at the house as it was in the pencil drawing in the study, with cows in the field close to the house on what was now the lawn, the church, unchanged, beyond, and nearby some standard yellow roses, long since vanished, but now seemingly in full bloom...

Getting back to those books of the present, the ones I bought while searching for gifts are: 'I dreamed of Africa' by Kuki Gallmann (a memoir of bringing up a family in Kenya), 'The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society' by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows (a story set in the Channel Isles just after the second world war) and 'Ten Thousand Miles Without A Cloud' by Sun Shuyun (a travelogue and more, of the author's journey from China to India, in search of her beliefs).  Some not complete strangers are 'The Uncommon Appeal of Clouds' by Alexander McCall Smith (a gentle Scottish story about life - and detection) and 'The Winter Queen' by Boris Akunin (beckoning me with its spirited though slightly sad smile, in the way that these Russian tomes do, and featuring the extraordinary detective, Fandorin).

This is my summer reading (and I have already gone through some of it).  Please don't think I am writing out these long lists of my own volition - it's these critters that are askin' me, in fact nudging me to do so, in the hope that they may slip into your rooms as well.  All I can say is - good luck with your summer visitors, they will come a knockin' soon...

Tibetan Centres Near Dharamshala

Monks playing football, Sherabling

I recently visited Kangra, a valley in Himachal Pradesh that abuts the beautiful Dhauladhar mountains and also lies close to the Tibetan settlement in McLeodganj or Dhasa (as Tibetans call this area of Upper Dharamshala or little Lhasa).  This region is an area of tea plantations (mostly established by the British) and also home of the Dalai Lama and many exiled Tibetans.  It has an interesting history (and mix of communities), beginning about 5000 years ago and continuously changing until the present.

In 1849, the British annexed this part of Kangra and set up a cantonment for their troops.  The only structure that then stood on the annexed land was a building that was a shelter or resthouse for pilgrims (these structures are typically called dharamshalas), hence the place was called 'Dharamshala'.  The upper part of this area (McLeodganj) was named after Sir Donald Friell McLeod, the lieutenant governor of Punjab.  ('Ganj' means area or place).

Lord Elgin, the British Viceroy of India (1862-63) built a summer home for himself, a property called Mortimer House, that was acquired by Lala Basheshar Nath (a resident of Lahore (Pakistan)) and later taken over by the Government of India.

A massive earthquake destroyed many buildings in Kangra in 1905 and the area was gradually rebuilt.  In 1960, Mortimer House was given to the 14th Dalai Lama (in exile), by Pandit Nehru, then the Prime Minister of India.  This is now the private residence of the Dalai Lama and the area around serves as a refuge for many Tibetans, who still hope and dream of returning to their original homeland in the future.

It was with some anticipation that I travelled to see this place that I had never visited before.  It is a pretty region, with green valleys and snow capped, forested mountains.  But the villages and towns in between are all rows of concrete (not surprising perhaps, given the population density and increase in tourism).  McCleodganj is a two street town, packed with little shops (many run by Kashmiris who have left Kashmir and Punjabis who have come from the neighbouring state to do 'business'), homestays, restaurants, cafes and a couple of modern Tibetan temples.

By chance, a special prayer meeting was being organized at the time we were visiting their main temple.  We sat in a courtyard filled with people and heard them chanting in tune to prayers that emanated from a loudspeaker.  The chants are not very rhythmic and sometimes harsh sounding; one does not know what they mean or convey unless you are familiar with the language.  Outside, groups of students stood in makeshift stalls, demanding the freeing of Tibet and release of the little boy, Gedhyun Choekyi Nyima, (who is believed to be the Panchen Lama - the highest ranking lama after the Dalai Lama, who was spirited away by the Chinese government in 1995, at the age of six).  The prayers continued for over an hour and we left about midway, to walk in the streets below.

Motif from the snow lion flag of Tibet, woodcraft from Norbulingka

There were shops and cafes selling knick knacks - T shirts, silver jewellery, tangka paintings, books.  People (mostly tourists and students) clustered in little cafes, sipping coffee.  One of the nicest things about this large Tibetan area that it seems to have encouraged other centres of Tibetan heritage to flourish around it.  I visited two memorable places.

One was Norbulingka Institute, a centre where people are trained in traditional art and craft of Tibet - wood carving, metal work, Thangka painting and more.  This is based on Norbulingka ('the jewelled park') in Lhasa, traditionally a summer palace and retreat for the Dalai Lamas.  The Indian counterpart is a structure based loosely on the original, with the aim of keeping alive Tibetan culture, values and tradition, and a special focus on expressing these through art.

The Norbulingka Institute - a cluster of buildings

A shrine along the way

This institute comprises a pretty cluster of buildings, set against a backdrop of mountain peaks.  Fish swim in clear pools, prayer wheels rotate along the winding stone paths and prayer flags stretch and flutter between pine trees that line the way.  Though there is a general hum of activity, one doesn't hear (or see) much outside.  Most of the action takes place within the workshops or the monastery.  It feels peaceful and happily productive.

Wood painting

Thangka painting

There is also a small, very creatively designed doll museum that depicts traditional scenes of life in Tibet.  The dolls are beautifully made and dressed in colourful Tibetan finery.

Dolls play out a ceremonial dance

Hand painted map of Tibet in the doll museum

 After walking through and exploring all the rooms, we finally sat down in a half shaded spot in their peaceful (vegetarian) garden cafe, ate some momos and noodle soup and just listened to the wind and the flowing water for awhile.

The second Tibetan centre I enjoyed visiting was a large monastery that was completely off the tourist track.  To reach it, one had to climb a few rocky hills (by car of course!), go past a pretty little village surrounded by mustard fields and then up another slope, at the summit of which lay Sherabling (a wonderful sounding name).

Mustard fields forever

We were greeted by rows and rows of prayer flags - I had never seen so many in my life!  They stood out against the blue sky, sending messages and hopes skyward.

Approaching Sherabling

The Sherabling prayerwheels and shrines

The Sherabling monastery and its surroundings, which house about 800 students and teachers, have a very calming and welcoming air.  We reached in the afternoon, when everything closes for lunch, but there was an acting guide (an apprentice monk) who opened the doors of the magnificent temple and took us around, explained the significance of all the symbols and structures present within.  He allowed (actually, encouraged!) us us to take our time, sit below the huge Buddha statue and meditate or pray.

Inside the temple

For praying and learning

We then walked around, past the large ceremonial hall, the rows of student rooms, the makeshift football and cricket field outside - and back to the visitors' room, where we were offered delicious tea and some fried Tibetan snacks.

Sherabling appears to be a large and active centre for serious learning and is one of the numerous Palpung monasteries (Pal- glorious, Pung - to gather) that originated in China and have spread to different parts of the world.  The senior teachers here are highly experienced Buddhist masters who seem to have a large following internationally.  I didn't know this at the time I visited; I was just impressed with how well it was organized and how genuinely peaceful and well balanced it seemed.

Knowing the truth

We wound up in the cafeteria, where we ate a good lunch of handmade noodles in a hearty broth.  Thus, replete in mind, body and soul, we drove back to the tea estate where we were staying.