Paan, Placebos and Puraane Janam: Djinns and Jalebis I

A pageant of jalebis, with dahi and otherwise,

A clutch of eager paans,

A garrison of rasmalai and gulab jamun,

A party of mangoes,

Kulfi on a mission,

Armed, intense kebabs,

Mughlai parathas beset with madness,

Ghar ke khane ke vividh swaad, all aromatic with kindness.

In the city where faith is immovable (literally) and djinns roam in the night time (literally?) I found myself unwinding to the belief that there may be things beyond science. Well, that belief certainly makes life more interesting. Barely recovering from the wide-eyed-ness of meeting the rain of the plains, I soared into the city on the wings of fantasy.

Sleeping cycle riskshaws wait in glittering lines outside a cemetery. People have passed by it for at least a century now and to them there is really no restless lure of romance to draw their eyes to scan for a story or a djinn in repose against a headstone. But in the quiet rings of trees and in the sleepy aisles between the rows of inhabitants, they are there.  The djinns have written the fortunes of this city in magic.

(I left this post halfway and still have a lot to say. It's the only reason why I sinned and fudged the date and time. What was written then needed to be put up. What is to come will take a different, more reflective tone.) 

Paan, Placebos and Puraane Janam: Just Setting the Tone

The evening is heavy with the promise of rain. As the most melodious azaan of my stay here intermingles with the dhinchakness of nineties' Bollywood, I take a pause to allow Allahabad to seep into me. The city welcomed me with torrents of the most sincere rain I have ever witnessed. Here rain is really and truly consequential. My little city talks big about two little capillaries of 'rivers' that give us an east and a west side story. True, they are the only ones we have but my perspective has been adjusted. And it is very gladly that I say this.

The sky had turned to a strange rusty purple: ferruginated by the glow of the very yellow lights of civilisation. The rain was coming down in torrents. It splashed against the unrelenting window panes of the gravely air conditioned coach but made much more of a fuss when it hissed through the open doors of the train. The rain on the metal roof, the hurried rhythm of the train in the dead of the night and the ghostly streaks of lightning that was cleaving the sky open complemented the force of nature that was surging away far beneath my feet.

The Yamuna. This was my first encounter and I was left speechless.
This was the river that competed in span and depth with the Ganga at Prayag and the river that emerged from the meeting should have been called 'Jamna' but instead was known to the world by a more iconic name, mythologically speaking of course.

Over the next few days, in rain and shine, I met and marvelled at the sinuous river. With a muddy surge, she stretched across the state. This was truly the season to see her. On one rainy day, I even imagined that I could see the distinction between the sleepy blue of the Ganaga of the plains and the rugged brown of the Yamuna. In retrospect, I think it was my irrational need to be able to see it.

It has been an experience to be in a place where the river is sincerely a part of shaping the everyday.

Once the sky cleared (and it did with quite a vengeance) it occurred to me how much the hills around Poona affected my perception of the sky. Never before has the dome of the sky been a as much of a dome as it is now, here. It's impossible to miss the gradient of the blue: shyly yellow at the horizon until it arches into the most forget-me-not-est (yes, double superlative) of blues right overhead. There's not a hill in sight. The horizon is the horizon; the edge is the very edge. There are no two ways about that.
The city has added to that sensation. Here, in Allahabad, the skyline is really a line defined by the sky. The tall, really tall buildings are the church spires in most places. There are the conspicuous malls and residential blocks but they are really and truly conspicuous. The Victorian bungalow is, to me, the symbol of the suburbs. I still have to make my way into the heart of the city but even there, I am told, that there is nothing higher than the two-storied house (on an average).

On my first evening out, I (almost) met the most incredible looking mango trees I have ever laid eyes on and certainly the oldest ones I have seen (and been so starkly aware of their age). What was most interesting was how they stood in solemn huddles. They had been in conference for generations now and were nowhere closer to reaching a conclusion than when they began as wee seedlings.

(I have come to believe that a tree is never truly young. Right from the instant that the first shoot that shoots forth, they are wise and learned and almost ancient)

The expanse of the plains is shocking to me.
The trees take over the landscape and there is endless space behind them that lends them a certain control over their surroundings. On the outskirts of Allahabad, red brick begins to show itself and against a rain-washed sky and surrounded by a million greens, it is more than just pleasing. Signboards start appearing that coax goose flesh from deep within my history loving heart: Varanasi, that way; Ayodhya, that way; Jhansi, that way.
Thrills, such thrills.
Everything reeks of idyll (from within the cool comforts of a car) and the people seem familiar-- of course, Bollywood did that.

There is much to say: this is but the beginning.

Mazze karo!