Stolen Slice of Sussex Summer

This is part 2 of Brighton on My Blackberry Series

 

Every now and then I see a compelling frame that I must record for posterity. Some moments captured to remind me of the good one year I spent in the lovely English countryside of Sussex.

I have often spoken of how I love to watch the English sky. It is magical, very often as you drive along, you feel the sky is awaiting your arrival in the horizon, with the clouds spreading a fluffy blanket for you to step on. I have never felt the sky so close to the earth in India.  My Europeans friends mock me, but I have taken atleast a 100 pictures of the Sky. Shall post more if you share the craziness

By the way, did you think I sneaked in an Indian picture? This is the only picture I treated a bit with Picasa. Just to fool you a bit. 

No, this is no Indian Palace, but the Royal Pavillion in Brighton which was built by the Prince Regent as his summer retreat in the style of an Indian Mahal in the early 19^th century. The first time I saw this building, there was a connect..inexplicable, profound.  

Doesn’t this look like a picture postcard? It is the church on the estate near the University. This is the Stanmer Church which stands opposite the Stanmer House. 

My friend and I go for walks on every summer morning…We take new paths everyday, a little exploration. The other day, I met him – more inquisitive about me than I was about him

And this little lady, shied away from my constant 'bug'ging. But I wouldn’t let her hide her face, I persisted till she gave me a little peek

There are still some more months left in the Brighton journey. More pictures will be posted here. If you liked them, don’t forget to drop me a word. Enjoy!!

Brighton on my Blackberry

On a balmy summer evening, as I walked down the Brighton pier...in the distance, in the sun-dappled sparkling waters of the Brighton beach...shimmered the ruins of the Western pier...

There is currently only one functional pier in Brighton that is called as the Brighton Pier now...But the one you see, in this picture is the Western Pier...both were built in the mid nineteenth century..But the Western Pier was shut down in 1975 and in the early part of this decade was gutted down nearly completely in a massive fire . 

Many find this structure, eerie and desolate...I, on the other hand, find it interesting..To me this is the image of Brighton that captivates me most. These pictures were taken from the only functional Pier, the Brighton Pier( also called as the Palace Pier)

I was checking how good my camera on my new Blackberry phone is...and though I can't say much for the 2MP camera in low light, in bright sunshine like this day offered, I love the frames...

In the summer months, the sunset is roughly at about 7.30-8PM...the days are longer, sun rise happens by 5AM ( though I'm never awake to capture the magnificent hues of the sky) This picture is a favourite one of mine..The Brighton skyline on the right, the burnt Pier in the yonder..and the rails of the Brighton pier in the foreground...with sun dappled sea stretching out...

Ask me what I love most about the Brighton beach and I'll say its the pebbled beach front...no sand here..just pebbles and more pebbles for miles...

And here's one final picture from my phone, taken from the Seafront of the old pier...The Brighton authorities are planning to pull it down completely and replace it with a swanky white apparition...I'm appalled...Even if this is a burnt-down Pier, to me it has history...and tearing down history so ruthlessly...is that necessary? 

 

If you'd like to see more of my Brighton seafront pictures - check here

'Indian' Bahu, Brazilian Beefcake and Bollywood Jhatkas...

Living on a university campus with 'friendly strangers' can sometimes be a harrowing experience. But on the whole, it's crazy fun....And at other times, like I found out, it  can be an eye-opener...


A two-hour conversation with my Angolan flat mate and I felt like the Brand Ambassador of Bollywood who got to bask in the adoration of an enthusiastic convert, without having to put any effort to give her the spiel on jhatka...

I had no clue that in the living rooms of tiny apartments in Luanda, Angola, the favourite past time was watching Brazilian prime-time soaps.... ( Portuguese is the language spoken in both Brazil and Angola..so the love for these Latin American Soaps in distant Angola..)And not just watching them, but agonising over them and even praying for the story line to change to suit their favourite characters is the chief past time for the young and the old...And Bollywood songs provide the spice to liven up their lives...

Guess how I found out...

Here I was in my flip-flops walking down rickety English stairs like a rampaging elephant, in search of food for my grumbling tummy when I heard lusty singing from the kitchen....By now, I know who that can be...but today, the tune seemed vaguely familiar....So I sneaked up into our kitchen cum dining cum everything a.k.a common room and there she was...moving her JLo hips ( I think JLo would have a complex if she saw her!) in what can only be called a jhatka that would have Mallika Sherawat go green with envy....And when I moved closer there she was, at the stove, her back to me, her hips grinding, and Kajra Re playing...

With my mouth in a big O, I stood watching her feeling 'I don't care if I don't talk high about Bollywood numbers and am humming tunes from ColdPlay more often than not, but how dare you know about film songs from MY country without MY knowledge or more importantly, MY initiating you into it...'


And I guess sensing my presence, Lady L( haven't told her about this post, so I shall preserve her anonymity, just in case) did a royal 180 degree turn and stood with her hand comfortably resting on her jutting hip....And seeing my mouth still frozen in the big O, she wiggled her eyebrows wondering what had stung me...


So there I was pointing to her Youtube screen, where there was an unfamiliar scene on...and Kajra Re still playing on, asking her, 'How do you know this shit?'


And that's when the saga unfolded....


Angolans are crazy about Brazilian soaps, which are basically about love, lust, cheating, ditching and the step son's dilemma if his father's mistress' illegitimate child becomes his sister or if she is fair game...Now the Brazilians are intrigued by Indian exotica and especially our Kamasutra-esque dance postures that leaves very little for imagination, if the idea is to give a blatant 'come-on'...And I don't need to tell you about the wonders of a wet saree....well, I have just been informed that now, the Brazilians and the Angolans and every part of the world where there is Portuguese diaspora, are fans of pelvic thrusts and chest heaves in wet sarees.

Ok, did I digress? I guess no....I had to give you background masala, didn't I? 

Lady L sings Kajra Re in a Portuguesed fashion...it's wonderful to hear how for them, our poetry is a non-sensical grouping of os and aaas and uuuus....and by the time they break down the syllables as they hear it, a bloody post mortem has transpired on the shayari in the songs...Anyways, I shouldn't be petty about that...


But my curiosity was whetted...I had to know the storyline....And in no time, there I was, rolling on the carpet by the dining table, holding my stomach, half worried that I'd gag on my own laughter...


This is a miniaturised but descriptive story line...The son of wealthy Brazilian family stumbles upon the daughter of an Indian merchant ( read bania...and mind you, I'm being deliberately casteist..you shall soon understand why)....the girl is a mind-blowing Indian beauty, who reduces men to whimpering testerosterone pools with just a wiggle of her eyebrows and the sway of her hips behind her long flowing jet black hair...He falls in love, they have a lavish Rajasthani wedding at the castle of her father where elephants walk in straight lines and servants scamper about with their heads bowed low and turbans that seem to be bigger than their heads while everyone dances to Doli Taaro Dhol Baaje while smearing everyone else with colours like in Holi....

But the crunch comes when they can't consumate their marriage....For the father's astrologer has prohibited this, as the sun could cross into the lunar orbit ( or some such nonsense), as per the girl's stars spelling doom for their relationship...So the Brazilian groom knows it, his bride is kept in the dark...And now with the husband refusing the desperate advances of his nubile wife, she is now in a seething mass of frustrated desires....her saree drapes go lower, her blouses literally refusing to hold her assets in place, but her young Brazilian holds fast....Till the night that she dances to the Tawaif song that Rani Mukherjee croons for Aamir Khan in 'Mangal Pandey'...


Lady L knew the songs and I played Bollywood trivia by trying to guess the songs from the tunes...Should I say I failed miserably....And we ended up googling the songs....till realisation dawned like little light bulbs around my dumb head...


And as our Indian girl breached the Laxman rekha, wooing her man and having her wicked way with him, secrets start tumbling out of her royal closet.....She is pregnant by a Dalit ( now you know the casteist angle...imagine the Angolan trying to tell me about the merchant-Dalit caste problems!!!) and just as they were to elope, her father reveals her lover is a Dalit and the girl drops him like a hot potato...Right in time for a love-struck Brazilian to stumble along and the father decides to bundle her off to the Brazilian household...( What a global thinking merchant dad, isnt he?)


And this is just the main storyline...the Brazilian's father is in the throes of a major affair in Rio, his brother has an identity crisis...his sister is battling cancer...those are the side-stories I won't even go into right now....

Lady L suddenly perks up and asks me, So what does Eey Bagwen mean? And I say 'Whaaattt?'....and she patiently repeats, Eey bagwen...that's what that Indian girl keeps saying always....The coin drops and I say....Ooooooohhh, hey bhagwaan...that's like saying Oh, Lord!!


And then comes the next face...What about Arrrriiii Babaaji....Now how do I translate that?


By this time Lady L's soup is bubbling away, so is my stomach....But then, this conversation was priceless....


Who would have thought tying a nylon saree and shaking bountiful hips was the latest craze in far away Africa or that a  bored housewife in Rio knew about how a merchant's daughter cannot marry a Dalit in India or that in far away Brighthelm, an African girl cooks while Kajra Re and Tumhaari Adaon pe main waari waari was playing....


Bollywood Jhatke ki Jai.....Atiuttam Aanand....That's my new mantra!!!!

Spring is in the Air!!

In India, especially in Kochi (where I grew up) and Mumbai (where I have worked most) there are essentially two seasons in a year - summer and monsoon... When the sweltering sun makes life muggy and your clothes stick to your skin, a collective prayer rises for relief...and by June or July, the monsoons stomp their way through India... My land, Kerala turns a very pretty shade of green in the monsoons...The rains bring with it lovely contrasts of green against the red soil that cool the eye....and there's this particular smell that rises from the parched earth when the first drops of rain re-seal the dry cracked surface of the earth... Catching the first drops of rain remains a fascination for me...though I must confess, the mad Mumbaikars take this craze to a totally different level... From being soaked in your sweat to standing drenched to the bone in the monsoons, sipping chai or biting into corn cobs, liberally sprinkled with lime and masalas...those were my seasons, those were what I looked forward to... I came to Brighton in autumn and immediately decided this was the prettiest season...Many warned me about spring stealing autumn's thunder...I refused to budge....But after braving a rather harsh Winter and the unprecedented snow it brought along for the visit this time, this sight that greeted me earlier this week brought a smile on.... The Sun shines more these days, that's not to say that Winter is ready to give way so easily....the nights are still brrrrr- cold and in the morning, the grass seems frosty white....but these bulbs daring the winter chill tell me its Spring Time...Beware: The Sun is deceptive, if you leave your sweaters behind at home, miscalculating the meagre warmth on a bright sunny day, then you can cuss yourself blue as you walk back frozen to the bone...But then after the bland wintry landscape, its time for a riot of colours... In the time span when India's coastal climate progressed from relatively mild to warm to hot and muggy weather, I moved from autumn to winter to spring....Now I know my seasons...They aren't just what was taught in Geography classes and understood by internalising Byron and Keats' description...Now I have my sights and my words to share...There's a spring in my step too these days as I head for the final classes of this term, and Spring is in the Air!!! ( P.S The pretty pictures of rain in Kerala: Courtesy my brother Anand's wonderful eye for photography. Prettier pictures of English Spring shall follow..These ones are to just herald the arrival of Spring!!! )

I Spy with my tiny eyes...

On a recent trip to Leicester and back, I entertained myself by doing what I love the most - watching people and trying to figure why they are doing what they are at the moment I saw them...The narrative is extremely personal, and my poor protagonists have no clue they are being featured on some obscure page in the reams and reams of content on the internet..

I wanted pictures of each of the faces described below, just to let you in on my experience, unfortunately, I couldn't gather the courage to embark on such voyeurism. So mine shall be merely literary...But each character is someone I saw, their predicament or feelings attributed. 

Feb 27 Falmer Station, 12.15 PM  

A very well-dressed man in his mid-twenties. Tall and in a long charcoal black overcoat, came to the tiny shelter on Platform 1, sitting close to where I was, oblivious to everything around him...His focus: on the conversation with the unknown other over a slim mobile phone that was buried somewhere in the cavernous interior of his huge palm. An interview just got over, I presume, for he was very satisfied with his answers. And not too modestly he smiles as he adjusts his black tie with tiny red diamonds on it and declares, I think I gave some pretty smart answers, and they have said they will call back soon. Wonder if he was as smart as he thought he was. He was Well-dressed all right...Dandily so...
 
Falmer Station, 12.25PM  

Four grunge dressed undergrads ( I could wager most of my meagre bank savings on it) One girl stood out in the group in her short black worn but smart overcoat, lycra tights, smart boots and enough mascara to weigh her eyes down into a half-lidded stupor. The rest of the gang had on T-shirts and my obsessive eye indulged in a game of 'catch a stain while overhearing the conversation'.. managed to catch atleast one stain each on them.The only boy in the group had an irritating nasal drawl and he kept repeating how he can't believe they were making the train, for 15 minutes ago he was still warming his bed. That explains the dishevelled look, but then with reverent fingers he pulled out four tickets from an envelope that had his girlfriends doing a little war dance. An impromptu tribute to Lady Gaga followed- they were off to London to watch her perform. But the Stained T-boy's comment that I'm only worried about a nose bleed was greeted by blank stares. Clarification ensued that our seats are so high up!! The torture of having to explain your joke - I empathised!  

The train arrived and we all made our ways into separate compartments. I could hear the nasal drawl somewhere at the back...  

On the train to Brighton, 12.30PM  

Two young kids sitting opposite me at the table car. Can't have been out of school yet, pretty to the point of painfully fragile. Looked like a pair of china dolls that aren't sold individually. Holding hands and talking in whispers about the party they attended last night and the friend who had Punch dunked on him. The guy giggled and the Faded picture of 'Happy Feet' jiggled with him, I'm sure the Minnie mouse on the Girl's batted her eyelids in response. 

Brighton Station, 12.40 PM 

If I could have taken a surreptitious picture of her with my camera, I would have. But my sense of not invading her privacy kept my itching fingers under control. She was a picture in contrasts.Girl of Sixteen hardly. Had the most powdery blue hair that I have seen to date, standing perfectly teased in all directions, without the evidence of any sticky gel producing the effect. Her Yellow Pokemon backpack looked like there was a little Japanese monster plastered on her back, her bright lavendar coat clashing against her blue hair. Ripped denim jeans showed off the shocking pink tights she had on underneath, with bright orange canvas shoes completing the ensemble. Talk about stereotyping teens! I didn't manage to catch her face, wonder if she had piercings too and if so how many places. Didn't get to see her ears as well..  

On the train to London Victoria, 12.50PM 

The ticket checker on the train, dour portly man with an eyebrow that seemed permanently raised. He had a comment for everyone but wonder if anyone followed what he said, as he clipped tickets with the raised eyebrow firmly in place. My turn came, I handed him my tickets and the Railcard that allows me concessional travel with my one eyebrow raised in unique acknowledgement. Don't think he got the message, or maybe it was lost in translation!!  

On the Metro from Victoria to St.Pancras, 1.40 PM  

The train as usual packed tight. I squeeze past and wedge myself in the little space between the doors and the seat. Opposite me, resting against the rod was a lesbian couple. (Now comes the feministically inappropriate description). It took me a while to figure out that they were lesbians. The man in the relationship looked like a slim effete young man with a rolled cigarette stuck behind a multi-studded ear. Nearly flat chested, with short cropped blonde hair and a waistcoat over the plaid shirt. It was the hand that was fondling the girlfriend's face that made me check her face closer. Surely a woman, I concluded, sweetly trying to console a very sad girlfriend. She had the biggest eyes and coarsely cropped black hair hidden by a leopard print hat. A black coat nearly swallowing her till her feet. They could have been the muse for a struggling French artist living in a garrett surrounded only by his canvasses. They had a Frech Cinema feel to them.  

On board Train from St.Pancras to Nottingham, 1.55PM  

Two girls deep in conversation at the table diagonally opposite mine. Students evidently - one from my part of the world, going by her accent and the embroidered denim kurta top she had on. Next to her was a Cambridge Companion to the Quran. Busy coordinating with her more stylishly dressed friend who had a faint American accent, I thought, about presenting the story of how Nasser found God in her class. Strange hearing intensely religious talk in an academic and clinical tone from girls that young. The conversation moved on to hunger and comfort food, and there were clues of their lineage. The embroidered kurta was from a small town on the outskirts of Karachi in Pakistan, her companion a Canadian Asian, with East African roots of Pakistani origin...As mixed an identity as you can get - but their bond in common - Islamic studies and a shared laugh over parents who never thought they would ever secure a degree in anything!!  

I got off at Leicester. And left behind me many unknown characters, I didn't have time to peek into. I resumed it on my journey back...But the fun in the game was gone, all I remember vividly is a young couple with a baby girl 
 
1 March East Croydon Station, 2.30PM  

This is the only station that my train was to stop at on route to Brighton. And as I peered out of my window seat, there they were. Standing just by one of the 'East Croydon' name boards. The mother was a slim blonde girl with close cropped hair, in a pale blue shirt. She had her hands tightly around the father, an African man with pale skin and tightly braided hair that fell past his shoulders. He had his chin rested on her head, as they watched their young girl, hardly a year old running in circles around one of the poles of the name board. She had her father's tight curls but was as blonde and blue eyed. First the mom and then the dad joined the little one in her game, I could hear her little mouth opening to squeal, but the sound never reached my ears through the thick glass. Wonder if they were parting in different directions. The girl had all the luggage, on her side, he carried just a backpack slung across his back. And the hugs were urgent and too tight to be that of a couple travelling somewhere together. I tried looking away, conscious of invading a private moment.  

The train moved on, I looked at my mobile phone lying on the table before me. The scene itched to be captured. But I am a voyeur. I can watch but taking pictures would not be right, my mind says...But then, I have words...and Word Sketches do keep the picture alive, don't they?

SUNDAY BRUNCH IN A TIME MACHINE

Its been a while since I posted. My studies are proving to be a steeper uphill climb than I'd bargained for.. But this post must begin with a confession.. My title is misleading..its mischievously misleading to suggest time travel...But that's not what this is about...It's about lazy Sundays in the UK and spending it the way many before me have done for nearly 500 years!!! After years of never having a weekend to take for granted, must I reinforce how much I enjoy milking every weekend that this one year of academic pursuit offers me? So after a Saturday evening spent extremely fruitfully mastering knack and patience playing Jenga in the college pub..and ending up with an extremely respectable and thoroughly unpredicted result of losing just one game in three...we revelers decided that Sunday had to be spent discovering the delights of a traditional English brunch.. Sunday brunch became a late lunch by British standards...At about 2PM, five of us headed towards Lewes..(yes, the same place that hosts the bonfire every year)...That, one person in the group had a car proved extremely handy, for we would never have discovered this little place tucked away in a little nook towards Lewes.. The Juggs...that's what the place is called...with a proud little post script to the title suggesting that it's been operational since the fifteenth century....Over 600 years of dishing out roasts and ale.... I wonder how it might have appeared to the fair ladies with their parasols passing by in carriages and buggies, with handsome well turned out men in their top coats stopping by for a quick bite. I'm now assuming that it was just passersby who frequented the Juggs and not the locals.. In fact, I wonder when the tradition of eating out on Sunday began...Was it late in the 19th century or was it early 20th century... From the decor...the cosy fireplace and the log-hewn tables to the menu....It was oh-so-British... I have been on a vegetarian spree for some time now..to be honest, red meat never appealed much to me..fish was too smelly...so that left me with the option of eating chicken alone...That being so, I try to experiment with vegetarian cuisine whenever I can... Imagine going to a pub famous for its roasts and checking on the menu for something with leaves and berries on it...Even probably what the meat would have been fed before it ended up as roast on the tables...Not a cheery thought, is it now? But Juggs didn't disappoint me...Some very good Garlic Mushrooms that are actually breaded mushrooms with a garlicky dip..and a Ploughman's Platter...Thats what it was called..an assortment of cheese, breads, chutneys and dips... That's where a debate began...Why hasn't anyone tried to have a British style pub in India? We have lounges and bars and theme restaurants...We came up with three possible answers.. There are few heritage buildings that have the British pub character and flavour - and without the fireplace, what's a pub ambience? And then there are some Irish namesakes in Bangalore and Mumbai...but none to actually bring some bits of Ireland to India..But then more mischievously, is the notoriety of bland British food responsible for the lack of imaginative application of a British pub into the Indian melting pot of hot flavours and pungent spices? I feel all have played its own role..But there's something to be said of homely British food...it's wholesome - without frills and fuss..in portions that the petite-French would gasp at...and without the Italian flamboyance or the Greek flavours... Hmmmmm...I can still taste the flavour of the Sunday brunch...When great food mixes with good ambience, the value for money factor shoots up..And when it's virtually a time machine that transports you centuries back, well, that's when I call it a steal....

Travels through the English Countryside - Part 3

There's a big smile on my face as I write this, because my exam scheduled on Wednesday has just been postponed. In fact, it took quite a number of 'mediated conference calls' with the weather gods for them to make climate in Brighton chilly enough for the University to reschedule exams. They were worried we- the procrastinators - would freeze to death in the under-heated exam hall and more importantly, many of the earlier stated category who waited for the last possible day to return from their breaks, are still stranded in airports across the world..Wonder when Britain will gear up for the snow? So with these thoughts let me take you on the last leg of my journey through the English countryside. So where were we? Yeah, on the way to Dewsbury near Leeds..on Xmas eve...the landscape was totally frozen and the National Express Bus I boarded from Leicester St.Margaret's Station filled with many brown faces...By now, I'm used to this Asianisation of England...So there I was back to the book - each leg of travel was as eagerly awaited as the arrival at the destination... Now Dewsbury is a quaint little town nestled some half hour away from Leeds...So if you are taking a train, Leeds is the easiest point for you. Another Asian dominated hub, with the Yorkshire twang so pronounced that for a week after my return, i was 'u'ing my o's...hmmm..how do I explain that? Think Geoffrey Boycott...yeah, that's a good example of Yorkshire in action!! And another round of graciously overwhelming Indian hosting ensued...This time, by a hardcore career woman turned housewife, who had taken the task to be Super Mom very very seriously...So there she was juggling roles of SuperMooom with being Gracious Host and holding all the balls in the air without dropping it even once!! So on Xmas Day, she entertained 'three' kids - 2 little girls and one kid-at-heart, thoroughly as the British take closing everything down completely - very very seriously...Nothing moves anywhere in the UK - perhaps they preparing for the massive outpouring of mankind into every possible shop and outlet the next day...26th, the Boxing Day...for the SALE...everything that can be tagged is normally on SALE...and I think many wait for Boxing Day to shop for the year ahead...Or so I heard...But my interest in Boxing Day was less for the sale and more for the chance to head to York.... All we could do was a drive through this really really ancient town...but what the heck...when you have the British History concisely reduced to about 600 pages in your hand - even old York shutting down its museums and the York Minster for the holidays, can't dampen the spirits... The first mention of York in the book is about 495 AD when the Saxons came pillaging...'and the sheer weight of numbers of these pagan warriors overwhelmed the indigenous Britons'. Walking around York looking at stones, that have seen centuries of history - bloodshed - there's a chronicling of killing of Jewish moneylenders by English kings, and further uprisings in the book....English kings were such sadists, cruel and debauched..and then there is the meddling of religion in governance... And if the Archbishop of Canterbury is the biggest Christian voice for the Anglicans, then Archbishop of York is as big a person....Maybe a shade his junior, like the CEO and COO of Anglican England, I think....Well, the latest one, apparently is a huge personality, literally too...And that's where he lives...The Bishopthorpe castle. These Anglican head priests, I tell you - being the God's messengers come with some pretty good perks, dont you agree? Well, like my book tells me, the 'thorpe' in the Bishopthorpe suggests a Viking influence...and that means that predates the Normans and the Saxons also... Someday, I'd like to go back and get acquainted with each building personally. That will be good fun, perhaps in the summer this time. The euphoria of seeing a white white countryside is slowly fading as I see Britain come to a complete standstill in the worst winter it has experienced in decades. Let me leave the York tale incomplete for now....and move on...to another quaint little blip on the English Map....from Dewsbury to Uttoxeter...that falls just outside Derby - in Staffordshire. By far, the prettiest countryside to drive through. They say, anywhere you drive through in England, the countryside is alluring. But the drive to Derby or even Birmingham..the nearest big cities will ensure that by the time you reach there, you have a beautiful smile on your face. I guess, the wattage of mine was increased by the spotting of a rainbow, that stretched teasingly before me. I would have liked going to hunt for the pot of gold at the end of it...but we had a movie date in Birmingham...Can you see one end of the rainbow in this picture? Look hard and to the mid portion of the photograph and you should be able to spot it too!!! Ooh, just the last thing...snippet, trivia - whatchumaycallit....Watching a Hindi movie in a multiplex in Birmingham is like being transported to a theatre in Punjab - the ambience, the smells, even the conversations are so authentically 'recreated', I had to pinch myself a couple of times to remind myself that this was England and not India.. I think I shall leave this travellogue unfinished here....Somewhere, this chapter feels half baked...But like a painting that was kept out to dry for too long, somehow it feels like the meat dried up with the juices..Someday, I might dust out some other memories of this trip and let it surface somewhere else...For now, apologies for an incomplete blog...and keep reading!!!