Shimla - The Summer Refuge
03:19 - Posted by Shilpa K - 0 comments
Shimla - The Summer Refuge

A city that awakens and falls asleep to the hoot of the sprightly red engine and deep green wagons that seem to break the ever prevailing leisurely hours at the railway station with tiny white edifices laced with deep blue arches, is like a chapter of the history text book turned into life. The trip on the narrow gauge train, The Toy Train as it is fondly called, is an experience every avid traveller should find a mention in his travelogue. The miniature locomotive lazily cuts its way through scenic landscapes, picturesque valleys, and lush-green patches of step farms with splashes of fiery red Rhododendrons while whistling its way through the peppermint cool woods. What lies beyond the station is a world trapped in its own cubicle of time and space to preserve what I would like to call ‘the innocence of the human spirit’.

The warmth of the pale skinned people with apple-red cheeks, easily identifiable with their peculiar way of speaking, razor sharp noses, rosy lips and hazelnut to coffee brown eyes, make up for the dip of quick silver in the thermometer. If I were to describe this city, which in fact is far more than just that, in one word I would say ‘Royal.’ And I say this being completely aware of the fact that the British ruled this province long enough to imprint an indelible British touch to the life as well as the lifestyle of the locals or maybe it is out of my interpretation and admiration of this unique diaspora. It’s wonderful to see how two cultures from different hemispheres of the globe have blended together to give birth to a new ethnicity that holds its roots of values in the Indian system while the shoots of mannerism have followed the direction of the West as the sun. A city slicker is bound to get mesmerized by the tranquillity of the place, by the serenity that the simple sight of the hills and the pine trees has to offer, by the absence of any sound but for the gentle whispers of people who stroll on the Ridge Road or at The Mall, and by the childlike joy of watching colours dot a plain white street as people meander on the streets in their vibrant woollens, by the magnificence of the brass statues and the associated legends and stories that have almost an era frozen in them, by rediscovering the secrets to simple pleasures in life like getting your name woven on a woollen tag or taking a picture in one of the traditional attires against the backdrop of the hills, watching the clear blue skies drift as the sun shines on you with all its brightness and the cool breeze gently blows kisses at you or even by a breath taking bird’s eye view of the city from a vantage.

The cafes play songs you have long forgotten and believe me it feels beautiful to refresh your memory with the sweetness that’s intertwined in the lyrics, the touch of folklore in the music and the ever romantic symphony of the saxophone. The linen, the curtains, the upholstery, the silverware, and even the font on the menu card are just so exotic! The architectures seem to be straight out of the fairy tales like the castles where once lived pretty princesses before you retired to bed. The guards have an awe inspiring aura around them with their smart uniforms and chivalry looks. The aroma of fresh bread from the local bakeries, the tempting creamy pineapple pastries and chocolate cookies, the whiff of Irish coffee that lingers in the air and the dainty shops lined up on the edge of the lanes that stock their goods in every colour and every shade that the human eye can come close to recognizing is like the capstone of all the beauty that the city derives from its proximity to the hills.

The eternal beauty of the Gothic structure of the Viceroy’s Palace with delicate wild shrubs in a feminine mauve and a bright lemon yellow hugging the rustic stony castle pillars with intricate carvings is, by the opinion of yours truly, the finest epitome of architectural grandeur. The castle overshadows lush green lawns bordered with flowers with the rarest combination of hues that smile at you from a distance because that is how Nature has painted them from its canvass of colours. ‘Mickey Mouse’ flowers I like to call them. The palace is one of the best maintained heritage sites, which has successfully preserved history untainted by time and visitors. One gets the feeling of flipping through pages of a history text book as the doors are thrown open and the guide ushers you from one majestic hall to another. Snapshots from the past chronicle events that have laid milestones in the history of the nation. I personally have found immense awe and admiration for this small town lost in time and I revere it for the very fact that not all is lost in the name of ‘development.’


The Willow Tree
02:16 - Posted by Shilpa K - 0 comments
The Willow Tree
The willow tree has parched and died
Barbwire dresses its coffin now
Engraved with rock were a million promises
On its trunk, nowhere to be seen now
They are gone like the willow tree
That has withered in the sultry sun
In whose glory it had once basked
Stood tall with its arms open wide
And beckoned birds from faraway lands
To come and rest in its shade for a while

Metal teeth that jammed in the bark
Scars from thunderstorms that struck
The weeping willow trees in the meadow
Knew not the different strokes to the life
Of the willow tree that died in pride
For the love of the land on which it was born
For the love of the birds that chirped on its barks
For the love of the free spirit of the highest lark
For the love of those who made promises under it
And etched them with the sharpest stone on its bark

A carpet of chrome leaves lies at its foot,
A skeleton of twigs in midnight black
Against the canvas of the pale blue sky
Alone it stands on the deserted land
Blazing at its funeral while the sun smirks
At the hideous charred remains of the burning soul
Now back into the lap of its mater
As she mourns over dreams of her child gone awry
And the scurrying wind stops on its way
To offer a silent prayer on the death of the willow tree


The Impossible Trinity
00:59 - Posted by Shilpa K - 1 comments
The Impossible Trinity

There is a reason for each of us to exist. I am not sure if I have found my reason and even if I have, if it is a good enough reason to be. But I am sure, whatever be my raison d'être, I have lived for someone and that someone is none other than me. I am not trying to paint a self obsessed disposition, but in my opinion every person has the reins of his life in his hands unless by will or otherwise he decides to ‘outsource’ it to someone else. How many of us can define what our hobbies are? How many can distinguish our hobbies from our interests? Moreover, how many can separate it from our profession, from our education and from our routine. I strongly disagree with people who try and mould their profession around their hobbies for the belief that you can be good at something only when you like it. You think my mom loves cooking? Yet she makes the best cottage cheese vegetable in town that could send all the eateries on a run for their money. Hobbies, interests and professions are three completely different things although there does exist a grey area between them. They form what the economists call the impossible trinity. Before I mess economics with philosophy and create unintended humour on paper, let me KISS. That’s the shortest way to glory. It adds that much needed geeky touch to your persona when you want to cast yourself as a high-flier, jet-setter, sophisticated high profile guy who has everything in the world from a swimming pool in his bedroom to a limousine in his backyard but falls short of time to talk. And for those who are still a little alien to this make believe world of ‘un’professional banter here’s a little secret; KISS stands for Keep It Simple Stupid! As you can see I am not so good at it myself.

Sometimes I wonder if profession is a conscious decision or some just make it appear to be such. Wouldn’t that mean they could be better actors and therefore are themselves in the wrong profession? One of the most powerful ads that hit me in the face read ‘Almost followed her friend to an MBA’ with a ravishing supermodel in a jade green gown walking on the ramp. That’s what good marketing can do. Make you think. Think about the larger issues in life although you are as much a part of the rat race as anyone around you. Do you realise that even if you come first in a rat race at the end of the day you would still be a rat? The way I see it, profession is something you would ‘not hate doing’ for a livelihood. So after the elimination of some of the infinite possibilities one is left with what he might pursue as a profession to earn his bread and butter. Something that is dignified enough for that person to put on his business card, something that is considered distinguished enough to introduce himself to a group of strangers, something that is the profession of the decade – it’s like the colour of the season. Soon the fairer sex might be subjected to the vulnerability of the disclosure of age through profession. Office politics, long work hours, demanding boss, work load, work pressures are all different ways of stating the one prevailing fact of life. At the end of the day work sucks! It does as much for a supermodel as much for an executive. That is where the boundary of ‘profession’ slowly dissolves and ‘interest’ comes under the spotlight. You very strongly believe that you were born to be nothing but a photographer. You think about this while in your clinic looking at the X-ray of one of the remotest organs of the anatomy. You are left with no choice but to thrive on the faint remains of the resemblances between the two professions. An interest however is like a mirage. You are pretty sure of its existence until you reach there. It’s also so much like a balloon. You blow too much into it and it flies off. It’s like a piece of gum. You chew too much into it and it saps the flavour out of it. Interest is something that comes to birth and dies by the whims and fancies of the verdant human mind. It is like the sunset, a different hue by every passing hour. The pleasure lies in toying with different ideas that seem impossible, things you couldn’t, shouldn’t or wouldn’t but always wanted to do.

But something that really reflects the kind of person that you are is the hobby that you pursue because hobbies cannot be forced, they cannot be compelled, and they cannot be thrust upon an individual against his freewill. It is like the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. It is like the first droplet of the rain in the summer sun. Refreshing and relieving. It’s the feeling that a claustrophobic gets when he is out of a dungeon. A few strokes on the canvass, a few twirls on the tip of the toe, a sonnet written on hand made paper, a charcoal sketch of the winter landscape, the city skyline captured on a Polaroid…the countless possibilities for a human mind when it seeks solace from a materialistic profession and from the maddening and flickering interests, to reach the fossiled remains of innocence in the deepest corners of the human heart!