Into The Heartland! (4)

Like most national parks in India, jeep safaris are commonplace in Bandhavgarh as well. We had planned for four of those during our three-day stay, counting on statistics to work in our favour when it came to tiger sightings. We were housing at the Tree House Hideaway by Pugdundee Resorts, in a treehouse, lodged 15 feet high amid a banyan tree. Surreal wasn’t enough to define it. When I enquired if there was something we should be wary of, the in-house naturalist, Mr. Khadir Khan told us, “Scorpions and snakes”. I wasn’t sure if he said it in jest and I didn’t want to find out. Our first evening in Bandhavgarh was a treat no amount of money could have possibly bought.

^{The Banyan treehouse that was our home for 3 days – impeccable service, friendly staff and so excitingly nerve-wracking after dark for us city people!}

The Park offers safaris scheduled in the early mornings and late afternoons; as we were likely to reach Bandhavgarh only post lunch, we chose to immerse ourselves in a ‘walk into the village, alongside a naturalist’. We dressed up accordingly, modestly covered, sneakers on, lathered with sunscreen, carrying mosquito repellent and water in our backpacks, expecting to walk close to an hour, waving at children peeking out of curtains, talking to the more curious and bold teenagers, and possibly indulging in a bit of art and culture of the area. We were in for a shock, albeit anything but rude. I still have goosebumps reminiscing about that evening from six months ago.

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We met up with our guide for the evening, a naturalist, former journalist, associated erstwhile with Last Wilderness Foundation, wildlife conservationist and now the honorary wildlife warden of Bandhavgarh, Mr. Pushpendranath Dwivedi. Among the many feathers in his cap, storyteller par excellence should be counted as well. He had us hooked in the first couple of minutes, diving straight into the latest human-animal conflict stories affecting the area, which surprisingly were about elephants and not tigers. In the past few years, elephant sightings in the Park area have considerably increased; while villagers have learnt to live with tiger attacks on cattle and humans, how to engage with tigers and when to press the panic button, the reactions to a pack of elephants running amok among fields and crashing through houses has already created rifts with the large mammals.

Once we’d alighted from the car, Dwivedi ji instructed our driver to not venture around. We followed Dwivedi ji’s lead and went off-road, through patches of undergrowth, on dry, hard land, awaiting the first drop of monsoons, no semblance visible of the villages we’d left behind. A narrow, weary path appeared out of nowhere, the kind that’s been trampled upon by so many and so often that nothing grows there any longer. Clumps of trees were beginning to show up on either side of our track. We walked on in silence, peppered only with the chirping of birds, soon coming upon a two-story pucca house, a self-carved wooden door adorning the entrance, the outside freshly painted blue and off-white, the inside spacious and clean, an open courtyard in the middle of the house, connecting all the rooms. There weren’t people around, but the house had signs of human occupation. It was the house of the headmaster of the school in this area, we were told, as we went up the stairs, still haven’t seen anyone to seek permission of. At one end of the terrace, a teenage boy sat on his haunches, and he too did not once question our presence. He waved at us shyly and went back to looking beyond into the forest. Privacy seemed like such an urban concept, or maybe they were used to Dwivedi ji’s presence. “The barricade you see there,” Dwivedi ji said, pointing to a dozen feet high metal mesh, in the direction in which the boy had also been staring, “That’s what separates the core from the buffer – we are in the buffer zone right now.”

_{One of the obstacles in our buffer zone course!}

To the uninitiated, national parks in India are divided into two zones, the core zone and the buffer zone. The core is sacrosanct for the wildlife, with limited human movement and no commercial activities – officials try to keep it as pristine as possible, shutting it entirely through the monsoons. The buffer zone, surrounding or adjacent to the core, on the other hand has villages, allows farmers to use the land for agriculture, cattle grazing, permits certain commercial activities, including eco-tourism, recreation and lodging. In this case, in a 1,536 sq.km. space that the Bandhavgarh National Park occupies, almost half of it is buffer and houses over a 100 villages. These are villages that have been around in the area since before it was declared a National Park and the descendants continue to occupy and thrive on their ancestral land.

As if on cue, in the core area, half a dozen or so jeeps drove by, on their way back from the second safari of the day. Jeep after jeep of serious, and some curious, faces. The boy, excited waved at them, some waved back, most didn’t. “They’ve not sighted a tiger today – it’s etched on their faces,” Dwivedi ji remarked, almost a slight chuckle in his voice. “Those are not the faces of someone who’s just seen a tiger – you’ll know tomorrow.” His eyes sparkled.

“Come on, let’s go,” he said. Where to, I wondered. I couldn’t see another house in the vicinity, just more fields, trees and a blanket of human silence. But we obviously followed him, LB jumping with excitement and me, wondering if we were taking it too far. Because now we were walking within arm’s distance of the core zone of the Park, on foot, holding our bags in clear sight (lest anyone think we’re poachers, advised Dwivedi ji), a measly mesh keeping tigers at bay. Needless to say, my heart was in my mouth. A dozen feet later, Dwivedi ji was indulging LB with a horrific video of a tiger throwing across a similar mesh a baby buffalo, with its bare teeth; I kept my distance as I clearly wanted no part of it and the men anyway denounced my heart too weak for it. We came across a bunch of chattering monkeys sitting atop the mesh, clinging on to the branches of trees, some foraging the forest floor. According to Dwivedi ji, there were no tigers around; if there were, the monkeys would be higher up and silent or barking warning signals. He told me I could rest assured. Me? Why did just I need reassurance? What were the men planning to do? Prostrate before the tiger?

The assurance did calm me down or maybe sighting a few villagers ahead distracted me. We chanced upon them as they were returning with their third collection of mahua* for the day. While the younger ones hurried along, tipping their proverbial hat at Dwivedi ji, one of the elders stayed on to talk to us. He believed he was over 70, couldn’t recall falling ill, was diagnosed with slightly higher than normal blood pressure at the last medical camp in the village, and easily carried upto 10 kg mahua collection loads; at our polite smiles, he happily handed over his two bundles to either of us and laughed at our shocked faces when we realized he wasn’t bluffing. What was Covid like, I wondered aloud. “Nothing changed for us,” he said. “The forests kept us thriving – no one fell ill, no one died.” But they still vaccinated.

Dwivedi ji seemed distracted through this broken Hindi-Bundelkhandi conversation. He kept looking ahead in the direction the rivulet was, our next stop on the trail. A thick clump of trees lined the rivulet, so you could neither hear or see the water but you knew it was there because he said so. He asked the elder, “Have you sighted a tiger here today?” My ears pricked at the response “Kajariya was here with her cubs. She killed at 11 today.” Before I could ask anything, Dwivedi ji got the party moving, calmly, away from the rivulet, towards where the villagers had gone. LB’s curiosity spiked at the mention of a kill. I made it amply clear we were staying away from it.

There were rules people had to live by here – any cattle dragged into the core zone from the buffer zone or killed and consumed in the buffer zone would get their owners’ compensation but if the cattle mistakenly step into the core and lose their lives, no compensation is awarded. Villagers were hence quick to report cattle kills and bring in more awareness about tiger movements.

Kajri, named such and fondly called Kajariya by the villagers, had given birth to a litter of four recently and was killing to feed five mouths. New mothers are always exciting news but with tons of caution. “Did you not fear coming out of the house today if you knew Kajariya was around?” we enquired. “Generally, tigers attack humans when we’re on our fours – they can’t make out then if we’re an animal or not. If you’re standing, and seem human, you’re less likely to be killed by the tigers here. Also, living among the tigers is what we know – every time a tiger calls if you halt your life, you’ll never move on. We’ve all faced losses at the jaws of tigers but we know they don’t mean to harm us on purpose.”

Dwivedi ji added, “People are thriving here more than earlier now; the ease of access to a growing cattle population has also made tigers lazier – they’ve been known to cross over often now but not for a person thankfully!” A quick search on the internet indicates that the Park has not reported a human killing since 2014, but tiger killings at human hands still continue.

“I think there isn’t one but two tigers – I can feel them looking at us,” Dwivedi ji said, turning around and gazing into the foliage. “Like right now, in our vicinity?” we asked. “Yes, I am sure of it.” The two men of the land exchanged glances. Sundown was near and the elder didn’t want to alarm his septuagenarian wife, so he decided to go home. We bid goodbye, and he blessed us with a happy life ahead. He trudged along with his bundles of mahua, pacing himself like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Dwivedi ji informed us he’d heard two faint growls earlier when we were all talking. And the jungle behind felt too quiet to him then – something was cooking for sure.
“What makes you think we’re not in danger right now?”
“Shh,” he indicated to us, cupping his ear and pointing in the direction we’d come from. Three more faint growls followed, spaced across time and distance, as the tigress and her cubs passed us by. With each growl, the jungle fell eerily silent (the birds, the monkeys, possibly even the leaves!) in parts, indicative of their movement. We couldn’t see a thing, we could just hear the forest announcing her move. They were but a few feet away from us but hidden in the undergrowth beyond the trees.

She knew we were there, she made sure we understood she was there and that we keep our distance. We complied, happily. The adrenalin rush was at an all-time high as we stood transfixed for the next 10-15 minutes, soaking in what had just transpired.

_{The place that gave us a lifetime of memories!}

*Mahua, a light green flower, hanging like baubles through leaf clumps, turns orange once dried. In these parts of the world, it is the fruit of sustenance that the forests bear. Easily thriving of its own accord, sporadically spread across the Central India landscape, the mahua tree has several medicinal uses, leaves help with tussar silk production, are foraged by cattle, seeds are used for oil extraction, flowers used as natural sweeteners as well as to brew the local alcohol – since the commercial benefit of collecting the mahua flowers is quite high, it keeps the old and young involved alike. Collected flowers are put out to dry outside most houses, after which they are threshed and sold.

Graciously Yours!

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For everyone wanting to experience this and much more, reach out to Wandercue Travel, because they will ensure you have the time of your life.

Into The Heartland! (3)

Khajuraho – it lives up to its fame, of 15 seconds, until the bitter afternote kicks in. So far, the state highways and city roads in Madhya Pradesh were immaculate, but for a town that has a dedicated airport, railway station, and possibly a dozen luxurious estates, the access road to the town of Khajuraho was surprisingly quite disappointing. The international airport, a modern structure that bore a desolate look, was inoperational due to COVID back then. The restaurants served over-priced, continental dishes and coffee that was lukewarm and machine-made. The only reading material my hotel could provide on Khajuraho was a government-printed 3-page pamphlet – which mentioned an ongoing, live excavation. Excited, on further inquiry, I was informed the pamphlets had been printed in the early 2000s and were in circulation since, no re-prints or edits were considered necessary. Needless to say, the live excavation was no longer live.

The library at Radisson, Khajuraho in the background. Available reading material on Khajuraho in the foreground.

Listed on UNESCO’s world heritage sites since 1986, Khajuraho has for decades been exposed to international tourism. Most guides and travel operators are proficient in multiple European languages – English comes naturally to even the touts selling you saris, tribal art or jewelry. They make such an emphatic case for this COVID-hit town and businesses in fluent English, you almost forget you are in the middle of a 5000-person town in the middle of India.

For all the fame, and erotic-infamy, Khajuraho has been bestowed with, the result was a dampener. Owing to it being built in the throes of the 10th century, in the midst of jungles and away from actively occupied towns, the group of temples which make up the Khajuraho site, remained protected from the onslaught of western crusaders in the subsequent centuries. It also meant that not many travel writers or record keepers knew of its existence; not much has been established clearly about its origins. There are multiple stories doing the rounds, numerous explanations for the stone carvings, and way too much emphasis on the temple’s “erotic art”. This observation is based on the Western group of temples, there are Eastern and Southern as well and apparently only a fourth of the original clump could be salvaged. Khajuraho should definitely be more famous for the stonework, the stories that the scriptures convey, the details on the carvings. There are stories etched on the outer walls, the inner sanctums, the doorways, the ceilings – stories of spirituality, life, war, men and women, longings of the heart and of the loins, and our numerous Gods and Godesses. A lot of these stories are, of course, open to interpretation and we were extremely lucky that Anurag Shukla Sir was our guide – a man with knowledge enough to write books on the Khajuraho group of temples and humble enough to answer our amateurish questions! He doesn’t waste a moment before diving into the ocean of history the place is.

The cusped and coffered ceiling at the entrance of a temple, with geometrical formations and intricate floral motifs.

His first instruction was to forget everything we’d read or heard so far and to absorb as much of his information that we could. Connecting the dots with the places we’d seen in Orchha, the history lessons from school that we miserably tried to recall, and understanding the significance of motifs, their placements, and of Gods and Goddesses that are long forgotten in today’s ‘Ram Rajya‘, the half-day tour left us hungry for so much more. While most temples have similar stone carvings, the trained eye points out the subtle differences in the sculptures due to changes in possibly decades and teams of architects and workmen.

The Kandariya Mahadev temple in the background; a worker in the foreground working on restoring some slabs for the platform-terrace (jagati) the temple is built on.

In the sound and light show that’s run every evening in the premises of the Western group of temples, Amitabh Bachchan’s voice reverbs through the open lawns, transporting you into an era of horse-backed soldiers and Gods descending onto the Earth. Towards the end, he says, “O bold artist of Khajuraho, your song lives on in stone.” It does, indeed. And what a marvellous song it is! If only we knew how they intended us to hear it.

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While I’ve traversed through national parks in open Jeeps and Gypsys, and been on foot during numerous treks, I hadn’t so far trekked in a national park. There wasn’t thick foliage but quite a handful of predators could still be around, we were told. After all, the jungle was theirs. While people are often afraid of chancing upon a tiger or a leopard, it was the sloth bear that’s more fearsome due to its higher propensity for unpredictability.

We were on “A walk with the Pardhis“, in Panna National Park, an initiative to sustainably assimilate the Pardhis into civilisation. With their history and heritage boasting of having hunted with Mughals, British and everyone in between, the Pardhis are an indigenous hunter-gatherer tribe in Panna. While the world around them moved on from kingdoms to colonies to a democracy, forests reduced and wilderness lost, the Pardhis could not keep up with the times and all they could sustain themselves with was hunting (of late, poaching) – it was in their blood, after all. The last decade however spelled a very different present for them – NGOs, corporate CSR initiatives together with the government have spread information, education and vocation to give the tribe a chance at living better and easier. They still keep their links to the jungles with experiences like “A walk with the Pardhis” which is where tourists like us come in – our curiosity to understand life in the jungles, to experience eco-tourism gives them a chance to re-live their past, share their horrors and regale us with their vast, unbounded understanding of the wilderness. One of the earliest success stories of the initiative is Reesna Pardhi, a 20-something girl, among the first Pardhis to be educated, now a naturalist with the Taj. Reesna, along with two other tribe members, a younger teenager and a man in his 40s, were flanking us at each step, their eyes roving in all possible directions for the lightest movement in the vicinity, ears attuned to calls of animals around and all the while entertaining our questions, introducing us to wild mushrooms, onions, the trees around and how they used a certain leaf or flower or even bark, sloth bear markings and anthills (not to mention the casual remarks about snakes! *shivers*). I wondered what we’d do if a predator came along because why not. Knowing the response would be pretty scary, I never asked it out loud.

The hilltop with a view

As we rested atop a hill, with miles and miles of greenery ahead of us, a peacock called nearby, not a distress call, we were told. The teenager went to take a look, prancing and care-free, as if approaching an ice cream vendor in the city streets. The others didn’t seem the least worried about her. Once she was back, reporting no sighting, we were captivated with stories of hunting and living in the jungles, monsoons lashing across their tents, how women lasted through periods, how hunting (read: poaching) assignments came about. Even until a few years ago, groups of men would go hunting for tigers and leopards, if the money was right. How do you hunt a tiger, I was curious.

“We look for tiger pug marks, track its movements, lay out a trap and then we call,” suddenly issuing a deep-throated growl. He could also mimic leopards, sloth bears, peacocks, grey francolins and red pheasants, he added, bemused at our stunned faces. For the next few seconds, the façade of the tough hunter fell away, the pain evident in his voice and eyes, as he went on, “Once the tiger has been trapped, we lie in wait at a distance, sometimes the entire night while the animal howls in pain, the metal traps becoming tighter, the more they struggled. Often the tiger razes everything within reachable distance in anger, at his helplessness; bamboo shoots fallen, tree barks clawed, bushes torn apart. We can’t even shoot the animal out of its misery because a bullet hole will tarnish the skin and bones, reducing value.” Silence clouds us, similar to the heavy black ones, at a distance.

He continues, more to convince himself than us, “We didn’t make the rules. We didn’t know how else to survive. But now we do.”

“Do you all prefer living in the villages better?” LB asked.

“Obviously. Now there’s a chance that we will survive beyond 40,” he softly responded.

We started on our walk back to the car, almost 2 kms away, the men silently walking in the rear. The Pardhi girls seemed to like me enough to share their dreams and blurt their fears – they didn’t want to get married anytime soon, wanted jobs, wanted to give their parents a life no one had so far dared to dream, but they also wanted to stay close to their roots. They are afraid they’re going to be the last of their tribe that knows these jungles like the back of their hand. Why would the next generation, born in the villages, venture into the jungles? Would they retain the wealth accumulated over generations? Would they be able to tell a tiger’s call from that of a leopard? These questions the girls have been living with are not easy to answer. A walk scheduled for forty-five minutes became two hours long and yet I felt like we’d barely even scratched the surface.

From L to R: Our liasion, Singh Ji, the strong and smiling Pardhis, with Reesna in the middle, and a dishevelled and stunned me!

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The series finale to follow soon! But for all those salivating at the thought of travelling to Madhya Pradesh, reach out to Wandercue Travel, because they will ensure you have the time of your life.

Graciously Yours!

Into The Heartland! (2)

The first monsoon showers were playing hide and seek with us. While that often gave us brilliantly clear skies for sightseeing, it also meant scorching heat and dollops of sweat. We were advised to steer clear of the afternoon Sun. But when the road lands you in Datia at 1PM, you cannot miss seeing it!

Bir Singh Deo palace welcoming you to Datia.

The town is built by the side of a lake that offers boating, and a view of the Bir Singh Deo palace, a seven-storeyed (two underground), palatial structure built 400 years ago on a granite ridge. The roads leading to the palace were so empty, they looked abandoned and if one didn’t know the afternoon Sun mandate, you’d pin it on Covid or something spine-chillingly worse. There were hand-painted Covid warnings splashed across many walls asking people to wear masks, stay indoors and to be careful. But there were people, of course. All holed up inside. As we approached the palace by car, we knew we’d been noticed – a face in a window here and there, wondering who was out in the 49 degree heat! We were witness to two cows fighting and it was a tad unnerving to see the otherwise seemingly docile animal lock horns, bellowing, and graze parked bikes and cars. It brought out a few men from their houses, charged with mugs of water and sticks to drive the cows away. The afternoon Sun mandate made more sense.

The staff at the palace’s ticket counter was ‘very efficient’ – no words exchanged, no pleasantries, no introductions. We were guided to the palace door by one of them, who immediately sat on his haunches on the steps, indicating we were on our own. An imposing facade, with coloured, latticed windows, some of the tile work still visible, though dusty and faded, elephants welcoming you through the massively heavy and beautiful wooden door into a damp and musty interior. It’s said to have been built entirely with stone and bricks, no wood or iron used for the foundations and the structure. With 440 rooms, it was built as a summerhouse for welcoming Emperor Jahangir and was never actively occupied. Of the first two floors, most parts are closed off to the public, which also house some of the more preserved rooms. While structurally the palace is sound, lack of upkeep has landed it into a dilapidated state. Parts of the ceilings and walls are still covered with Bundela art, murals and frescoes, the colours glazing. The symmetrical outlay reminds one of the char bagh pattern, with the palace tower at the centre of it.

Front entrance of the Bir Singh Deo palace in Datia.

The Bir Singh Deo palace in Datia was our introduction to the architectural endeavours of King Bir Singh Deo, a Bundela king in the early 1600s, an ally of Emperor Jahangir and a man who clearly made bold bets. He’s said to have laid foundations for at least 54 monuments in his reign, including the Jhansi fort, Jahangir Mahal and Lakhsmi temple in Orchha and temples in Brindavan and Mathura.

In Orchha, our stay was at the Maharaja Suite in the Madhya-Pradesh-Tourism-run Sheesh Mahal, which overlooks the large and imposing Jahangir Mahal. For once, I knew what being even on an entourage with royalty would have meant.

Jahangir Mahal, was built as an ode by Bir Singh Deo to Jahangir over 22 long years, who managed to stay there for one night on his way to Kashmir. Unfortunately, a few months from then, both the allies passed away. Turns out we stayed at the palace more nights than Salim himself! Though it was built only as a halting stop, not a residential palace, it was replete with possible defense barriers in the chance of an attack – you can never be too careful when hosting the Emperor of the Mughal Sultanate. The palace has huge stairs, from 12 inches to some almost 18 inches high, towards the higher floors; the corridors have low balustrades and low ceilings – all meant to slow down attacking armies and cause discomfort to armoured soldiers. The central courtyard, built mostly for entertainment, is surrounded by doors alike, irrespective of whether they lead to rooms or hidden stairwells, hence confusing any unwanted guests and halting them for a moment while they figured out which way to go!

The exteriors were said to be covered entirely in the blue lapis lazuli tiles from Afghanistan and green Persian tiles, parts of which are still visible on walls and domes. A setting Sun back then would have made the palace shine and sparkle! 3 stories high and 236 rooms in all, the central area is surrounded by 8 domes, 4 ribbed for the Hindu influence and 4 plain for Islamic, marble inlay work and frescoed ceilings. The door to Jahangir’s room has a toran adorning it but with geometric floral patterns you often see in Islamic architecture, elephants and peacocks are blended in as well. The top floor was specifically for the women, with latticed windows from where they could oversee the courtyard. The palace boasts of such an effortless blend of Indo-Islamic architecture, that it takes a while to segregate the elements of each style. And it made me wonder aloud to our guide, Mr. Hemant Singh*, why would we even try? He thinks that back in the 1600s, this assimilation would have been very natural, with people learning from each other and invoking newer styles of work, collaborating together to create such pieces of beauty but it is us today who try to segregate history, deny our culture, however, meshed it may have been with the supposed ‘outsiders’.

The facade of the Jahangir Mahal – the steps in the front were built in order for women to get off paalkis, soldiers off horses, ministers off camels and the King off the elephant.

Raja Mahal in the fort complex in Orchha is where the rulers of the Bundela dynasty resided till the late 1700s. With sublime exteriors but frescoes adorning the interiors right from the entrance, Raja Mahal has all the elements of a royal household – diwaan-e-aam overlooking a garden for the public to congregate in, diwaan-e-khas in a stepped courtyard, mardana, zenana, a dining area bigger than most houses these days and egg wash frescoes which still glaze! Floral frescoes adorn the common areas, religious ones in the rooms, depending on the Gods favoured by the occupant, and animals were portrayed to establish strength and agility as well.

Frescoed walls and ceilings leading to the now closed-off secret passageway.

The top mural shows the King riding an elephant made of the 12 women in his life, 6 wives and 6 concubines.

The basement where the royal security and pockets of the army stayed have now been taken over by bats and their droppings. One of the kings had 6 wives and secret passageways to each of their rooms were his secret to marital harmony. Secret passages also helped the Kings escape into the jungle for hunting or to escape an attack, as required. Unfortunately, the passages are now out of public reach because a few years ago, some men chose to assault women there – that’s another way to leave an indelible mark. The first choice of course remains vandalism and defacement, some people marking their actions with dates as well!

The nearby Lakshmi temple has unusual elements for a temple, a garbagriha that is not in the centre but rather at the tip, the courtyards running asunder behind it – an aerial view gives the impression of an owl ready to fly! Scratch art adorns the walls, featuring mythology and the then-present times accordingly, the Kings, their courtesans, farmers, merchants, armies, wars and even the British.

A close view of the scratch art in Lakhsmi temple.

The temple however is void of an idol, because it was stolen a few years ago. In a separate incident, the kalash of solid gold also went missing overnight from the 50 feet high shikhara. While we’ve always pounced upon the British and the marauders from the West for stealing and destroying our heritage, who’s holding us accountable? Are we not to be blamed for the dismal upkeep of this rich history we’ve inherited? Mr. Hemant Singh informs us that decades ago, when the houses around Jahangir Mahal were being excavated, some monies and precious metals had been found in one – word spread like wildfire and literally overnight all houses excavated so far and many more were razed to the ground by people, whether locals or not, no one says, to claim riches that did not belong to them.

From the Lakshmi temple, apart from the breathtaking aerial view of acres and acres of forests as far as the skyline of Jhansi, 20 kms away, is also a lone tree standing in the middle of a flat land. Said to be at least 500 years old, treated as a kalpavriksha, a wish-fulfilling tree, it’s an African-origin baobab tree in the heart of the Indian subcontinent! Another one of those can be found a few kms away but no one knows the origins of either.

If trees could talk, I wonder what fascinating stories the baobab would have for us – a tree that’s seen the city of Orchha being built, flourishing as the capital of the Bundelas to where it is now – a city with a population of 40,000 in the 1600s now dwindled to just 10,000. The underrated center of architectural glamour is known more for its’ least intricate temple while other wonderful structures are barely glanced at by tourists. A town struggling to make it through but can’t seem to give up either. I wonder what fascinating stories the baobab would have for us.

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More to follow in this series soon! But for all those salivating at the thought of travelling to Madhya Pradesh, reach out to Wandercue Travel, because they will ensure you have the time of your life.

*If you ever happen to go to Orchha, do reach out to me – I’ll connect you with the amazingly patient, enthusiastic, and soft-spoken Mr. Hemant Singh!

Graciously Yours!

Into The Heartland! (1)

As excited as I had been about the trip to Madhya Pradesh, my glee faded a tad bit when I saw the aircraft that awaited LB and me at the Bangalore airport tarmac. It hadn’t dawned on my tired brain what a Bombardier meant, irrespective of the countless times in the past few days LB had mentioned it. It’s the Q400 that Spicejet uses on their lower traffic routes and while that provides the convenience of a direct flight (Bangalore to Gwalior, in this case), I would be lying if I didn’t say that that was a moment of reconsideration for me. One can’t fully appreciate the aircraft until they’re in it, but let me attempt to explain what ensued over the next few hours.

Heads bumped and luggage bags stuck in the overhead cabins, as passengers sheepishly smiled at each other every time we heard another thud followed by a curse. The aircraft, in all its glory, does not even attempt to make you feel comfortable. Its evident lack of space is followed by the alarming intensity of the engine’s vibration, especially if you’re close to the wings, which is almost the entire length of the short aircraft. You could almost hear the engines groaning, as you cruised at an altitude lower than usual as the land took longer to shy away from us.

The view from my window seat to understand why I kept looking out at the engine!

The aircraft is a stark reminder of the fragility of the flying experience, stripped of the facade of modern technology’s elegance. Safety, of course, wasn’t paramount – we were given a two-line safety demonstration, which started with seat belts and ended with ‘please refer to the manual in the seat pocket’. Here come in the virtues of capitalism – the smallest possible font was reserved for the safety instructions manual whereas their offerings (conditions apply, they’re not free!) were screaming for attention from the dusty and decrepit seat back pockets. Oh, and there is no mention or sign of oxygen masks.

Oh, and the pockets they were in? They fell off midway through the flight embarrassing the now-naked seat back. I clothed it back again.

LB came up with quips (I’ve travelled Europe in buses that are bigger and wider than this!*) every time I looked out of the window at the engine, pleading it’d land us safely! For someone who only sleeps (and reads) on flights, the terror of the turbulent tremors led to jittery wakefulness. The flight also had this constant hum, like you’re on a factory floor, the constant hum of manufacturing, in this case, fear.

Landing into Gwalior was a relief, to say the least, and we time-travelled a few decades into the past. The property hosting us dates back to the 17th century, owned and restored by the current Jadhav clan. The family still has living quarters at one end, with elements of Spanish architecture, in what was formerly the mardana (men’s quarters). The zenana (women’s quarters) is now run by Neemrana, in the form of a non-hotel hotel, as they call it. Resplendent with a char bagh (the Indo-Persian concept of a larger garden divided into 4 smaller parts by walkways) with a 36 pillared pavilion (chattis dari) at the centre of it, a few family temples under restoration and peacock families welcoming us, we were the only occupants of the 21 rooms and 6 tent houses Neemrana DeoBagh boasts of. Naturally, all attention was hence showered on us, a few members of the staff courteous enough to walk us through the lesser-travelled passages, dropping tidbits of history, from Mughals, to Jadhavs to the Marathas, including links to Shivaji’s mother. It is just minutes away from the famed Gwalior Fort, at what seemed like the frayed edges of a city.

Perched upon, looking over. The guardians of the grounds. They’ll also wake you up at 5AM. And in a not-so-fun voice.

A typical morning in Bangalore for me is being stuck in my ride, surrounded by fumes, angry honking and visibly irate (an occupational hazard) drivers, while contemplating the futility of spending my precious morning hours either on the road or waiting to get on the road. And the first morning in Gwalior turned out to be everything but that. 7 am was bright and shiny and I mistakenly thought we’d be the lone rangers through town, hoping to catch a glimpse of the majestic Gwalior Fort surrounded by birds and the eerie silence of the past. The city sure wakes up early with women putting out dung cakes to dry, cows and calves patiently waiting for their patrons for the morning meal before they could go ambling about the streets, one cow even pushing at the door knocker with her mouth. An elderly couple was sunning under the banyan tree by their house, the man reading the papers (out loud, it seemed) and the woman brushing. Life was peaceful.

Clean, broad roads, peppered with the likes of Reliance and McDonald’s, newly painted murals turn to narrow, uphill roads and houses painted ages ago in the lead-up to the hill that houses the Gwalior Fort, a handful of temples, and the Scindia schoool premises. A hand-pulled giant wheel, the sort you see, or used to, at moving circuses, was sheltering its’ boys as they slept, while a kid from the balcony opposite wistfully looked on. Depending on how much time and energy you have at hand, you can choose to either walk up the hill which was once trudged upon by kings’ cavalries of elephants and horses, astride with men or zoom your car up to the entrance of the fort. Our pseudo-guide and driver, Rakesh ji, was very insistent that we choose the latter and in good measure, we realised! At the fort, to my surprise, there were people everywhere – mostly town residents out for a morning walk, some finding quiet corners to meditate in, work out, others sharing a hearty laugh and some who wanted to make a mark were playing jukeboxes! There were a few tourists as well – easy to spot – they were the ones in awe of the grandiose and strength of the structure that had withstood at least a thousand years, if not more! We were also the ones who obviously did not want jukeboxes playing garish music while we craned our necks to admire the few coloured tiles still intact over the years, possibly restored, possibly untouched. The fort, however, is being encroached upon on all sides by mounds of human waste and plastic, along with houses. We’re just whiskers away from achieving what innumerable sieges over the centuries couldn’t.

Less than 100m away from the hilltops. They’re not to be blamed, we all are. Houses today are more functional than the fort but we’ve certainly lost the style.

A visit to the Scindia museum in the Jai Vilas Palace opens your eyes to lavishness that no amount of reading can even begin to describe! It’s one thing to look at a picture of or read about the Scindias chariot-ing their way through the streets of the city in the 1950s, drawn by a dozen horses and another to actually look at the real thing – easily 15 feet in length, replete with parasols, silk and velvet cushions, plated with FIFTY kgs of silver (not trying to sound middle class, but just the silver would be valued at 32.5 lakhs rupees today!) with carvings of flowers, elephants, snakes, the Sun and other elements of the Scindia family emblem. Housed in one wing of a massive European-influenced palace, pristine white sprawling around gardens and fountains, each room of the museum had such riches on display that at the end of it you’re questioning the concept of luxury sold to you in today’s times. Artillery from Japan, UK, France and guns longer than 6 feet, swords heavier than a dozen kgs, knives of various shapes and sizes, even for the young kid-princes.

When we’d entered the museum, I noticed an old man walking through the galleries, possibly in his late 70s, stooped, tired and with hands as red as beet. The colour of his hands caught my attention and then I forgot all about him. Until. The gallery displaying the headgears was playing an audio visual of a man and his forefathers who’d been helping the Scindia dynasty put on their head attire. Mohammad Rafiq, the man who’s learnt the art of tying the Sindeshahi Pagdi, 60 metres (a 20-storey building!) of Chanderi silk into a turban (not one pin used!) from his father, who learnt it from his, was lamenting about his dying art, about not having anyone to pass it on to. The man had hands as red as beet! I couldn’t find Rafiq saahab again but I wish I’d known who he was when he passed by us. I wish I could have spoken to him and heard from him some of the stories that this palace had held. I wish I could have given him the hope that his legacy would not be forgotten soon.

Forget what you knew about luxury before you step in.

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More to follow in this series soon! But for all those salivating at the thought of travelling to Madhya Pradesh, reach out to Wandercue Travel, because they will ensure you have the time of your life.

*For more quips from LB, reach out to me. I HAVE A LIST!

Graciously Yours!

Yami*

*darkness in Japanese

I am standing in the darkness of the balcony of my apartment. The terrace is out of bounds because the building supervisor caught the virus and has been isolated in his quarters. There are four other spots in the building where the virus has made it’s way through. The apartment building has been declared a hotspot. No one can enter or exit; we’re in a isolation, a quarantine, a bubble. My wife is sleeping nights at the hospital, my kids, three of them, are surviving each other and God bless me, but am I tired of them or what? There has been no respite for 5 days now, no walks to the laundromat, no grocery shopping where the kids can get lost in the aisle for all I care, no smoke breaks on the terrace! They’re bickering at the dining table right now, while gulping down what I called dinner. I didn’t even have the heart to eat it. I fired five people at work today, one of whom I had hired myself. One cried, the other stared me down, another told his wife while on the call with me and they both broke down, another abused me and the last one? I don’t even remember how I sat through the call – she’s pregnant. Who knows what would happen next? Would they fire me next? Or will they simply send me an email informing my services were no longer required?

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I wanted to run away to some place where no one knew Tsuki, no one knew Tsuki the person, Tsuki the father, Tsuki the husband! Fuck those Tsukis, all of them! I just wanted to get away from all of this. The uncertainty of my days ahead were killing me. I liked routine, I liked being in control of my day, I liked scheduling my tasks. The police cannot decide when I see my wife and when I take a smoke break or what I feed my children! I was losing myself slowly, and the only thing keeping me sane was my wife, my wife of eight years who was spending sleepless days and nights, zipping up body bags, whose masks had left permanent scars on her face and our hearts, whose smile shone at me even through the erratic video calls we managed to talk over. My kids often cried themselves to sleep missing their mother. Well, so did their father but he couldn’t tell them about it.

“Daddy, it is cold outside. And it’s raining. Come inside,” my youngest, Haruki said, peering out of the curtains, his small head looking comically smaller with the rest of his body out of sight.

“Have you all finished your dinner?” I asked, my voice cracking.

“I have. Sakura and Ito are still eating. They eat slowly,” he lamented, rolling his eyes. I knew I’d find his food spread on the plate and probably a bit on his chair as well as the floor. I let it go.

“Okay. Now, go into your room. I’ll come in a while. Daddy needs some time to think.”

“Do you want your coat?”

“Yes, I’d like that please.” His little head vanished out of sight. A gust of wind blew across, stinging my eyes and my face and bringing more water with it. I was wet, cold and sad. Three heads popped into the balcony at once, the little one struggling to find space. I pulled the heavy curtains aside to help them. Sakura was holding on to the coat, which was taller than her. Ito looked like he wanted to go take a leak and Haruki was on all fours.

“Thank you. Why don’t you all go watch the telly and then we’ll try calling Mama again, okay?” I asked, taking the coat from Sakura. They nodded and stood there. I pulled the curtains back in place, putting on my coat, the sudden warmth sending a shudder down my spine.

A while later, I smelled smoke around me. My neighbour was out in his little balcony, taking a smoke. Guess, I just couldn’t be on my own. We never spoke much, just nodded in each other’s direction when we met in the elevator, unless our noses were buried in our phones. The red light at the end of his lit stick burnt through the darkness. I could barely make his face out but that light held my eye. He turned to face me and in the pitch darkness of my 15th floor apartment balcony we held our longest gaze ever. Awkwardly, I put my hands in my coat pockets to find one of them not empty. I took out what seemed like a brick but was the last of the icecream sandwiches we had left in our refrigerator. My kids must have put this in the coat for me. Whether it was the rain, the smoke or the chills, but as I bit into the icecream sandwich, my eyes were brimming with water.

Graciously Yours!

P.S. This piece is based on a creative writing prompt from http://www.thinkwritten.com. The prompt was as follows: “Darkness.”

Justice, you say?

“Galti ho gayi. Fir nahi karega. (It was a mistake. He won’t do it again.)” Such a simple statement! What could be wrong about it? In an ideal world? Probably nothing. In ours? Maybe a woman was eve-teased, maybe a wife was hit across her face, maybe a mother was disrespected, maybe Draupadi was disrobed, maybe Nirbhaya was raped, maybe bodies were butchered and burnt but galti ho gayi, fir nahi karega.

A male tourist walks through New York City, Chicago and even Cape Town, unarmed, with a wallet full of cash and probably a pint of beer warming his belly and not a care in the world but the sights the 2 am nightlife of those cities have to offer. A woman, a resident of maybe New York, Chicago and even Cape Town, out in the streets just before dusk, while the Sun is still shining, fully clothed, has to ignore the unwanted solicitation requests to smile or men just thinking out loud of what they think of her body. And God forbid if she must step out after the Sun sets, whose mistake do you think it is? Well, if it was India, our political leaders would tell you in press conferences whose mistake it is.

Where’s this anger coming from you ask? Nah, there’s no anger. Neither does it have to do anything with Women’s Day. I don’t give a damn what day it is when the world, or should I say, the men decide that they should celebrate women – loosely translated into another day when gifting companies have a ball, HR teams put up events, families treat their women with cards and probably a meal! I’m beyond anger now. I’m sad, sad that the state of affairs requires us to still walk a long, long way! Don’t give me shit about how women can now go to work, the White House or even space! If in the 21st century, after all the leaps science has made, and not an iota of proof that men are in some way superior to women, I still have to deal with men not wanting to talk about my period leave and doctors insisting that birth control pills are a necessity for women, you’re still letting women down. Aur galti hamaari hi hai! (It is us who are at fault!) Our internalised misogyny makes us so judgmental about other women, makes us body-shame, slut-shame, struggle shame and even success shame! Find a woman who uplifts other women and you’ll find a friend for life!

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I got a barrage of texts over the past few days asking about a girl from Calcutta, a student of my alma mater. I didn’t know her personally but posts where people were demanding justice for her made me curious about what had happened. Academically accomplished, the girl was wedded to a respectable family in Calcutta and had just celebrated her first anniversary, when news of her death reached her parents. The husband cried suicide, parents are crying murder and also … justice! Her parents have admitted to knowing she was domestically abused by her husband, she was unhappy in her marriage and even sent her back to live with her husband because log kya kahenge (what will others say)! Justice for whom, I ask?

The parents are saying, “Galti ho gayi. Fir nahi karenge. Koi toh unhe bataao ki ab bahut der ho gayi!” (It was a mistake, it won’t happen again. Someone tell them, that it’s already too late.)

Her parents left her to die, societal pressures left her to die, even the man she’d chosen as her life partner left her to die. And those men and women who turn around and say, she always had a choice? You know what? She made the choice. And now you have to live with it.

Graciously Yours!

P.S. This piece is based on a creative writing prompt from http://www.thinkwritten.com. The prompt was as follows: “Slip up – write about making mistakes.”

Down The Lane.

The sun was setting and the balcony was losing enough light to make me keep my paint brushes aside. I wanted to finish one last flower before I could call it a day but that would mean getting out of my armchair to switch on the lights and I was too tired to do it. Maybe I’d rest my eyes for a bit and then take a look at the photographs in the box under my chair. Those hazy black and white pictures were posed for with such eagerness and childlike enthusiasm even among the elders, despite knowing at least a week in advance that the photographer would arrive home. At 70, with a back that cracks at any sudden movement, knees that need to be patted awake and hair that is as white as the turban my father wore around his head, my childhood seems like several lifetimes ago.

My mother loved getting dressed up, especially for these photographs. My father, we would call him Appa, would often chide her, probably lovingly, that no one could make out which sari she was wearing and that she should just come along. But she would not listen. She would even tie fresh flowers around her hair bun and then cover them all with her sari pallu. She probably lived her entire life with 5 saris in her wardrobe at a time, a wardrobe that was a metal suitcase handed and used over generations. She’d be ecstatic if she saw my wardrobe today, a wooden almirah with lights inlaid so I can distinguish between the myriad colours. I’ve lost count of how many saris I have. And then there’s yet another one lying here by the table that I am painting. My grandkids are enthusiastic about my brushwork but they’ve never seen my aunt’s brushwork. She was stunning. She’d paint all the pots in the house, even the aangan on most days. And a lot of women from the neighbourhood would call her over to paint outside their houses for occasions and festivals. We couldn’t afford to buy new brushes then, so if her old second hand ones dilapidated into hairless sticks, she would tie a muslin cloth piece at the end of it to paint! She would mix water into some fancy red and white powder she wouldn’t let me play with and create those floor alpanas. She passed away when I was growing up. It was so sudden that my father grew fearful of our well-being, his two daughters and the one son who was fifteen years younger than me. Mother never really recovered from that last childbirth.

The lack of everything, of knowledge, of money, of infrastructure and of ambition was more than compensated by the sense of belongingness to a family, to a town or even just the neighbourhood. We didn’t have much then, barring companionship. I have nothing to complain of today; my kids have taken care of my health, my grandkids spend whatever time their study schedules permit them to and yet despite all the comfort my life is saddled with, I am hunting for that same sense of belongingness. Maybe that’s why I keep sifting through the faded black and white photographs, treasures which have moments captured, albeit planned. Maybe that’s why I keep trying my hand at brushwork. Maybe that’s why I strive to paint yet another sari. So that in some way I can hold on to a past that might not have been comfortable but had made it so simple to be happy.

Graciously Yours!

P.S. This piece is based on a creative writing prompt from http://www.thinkwritten.com. The prompt was as follows: “What does memory lane look like? How does one reach there?”

Mirror, Mirror.

It was past 2 am when Meja finally stepped into her apartment. Business dinners often ended into the wee hours of the morning. This was an early wrap and she wasn’t happy about it at all. Liam hadn’t texted her yet but she was sure to wake up to a barrage of angry ones from him in just a few hours from now. She’d worked particularly hard for this meeting, making sure all stakeholders were well-informed and the bankers were well-fed. Well, all except for that bitch, Jennifer.

Meja took off her navy Givenchy midi and cast it aside on the couch. She’d air it out later once she’d figured how to deal with Jennifer. Jennifer was new to them and was already creating too much of a fuss about the ‘ethics’ of Project Sky. Why had she even agreed to attend the event if her priority was the social ethics of it rather than financial feasibility? Wasn’t she just some investment banker?

Meja scrubbed hard at her eyeliner, exasperated at its’ refusal to come off. She banged at the mirror in frustration.

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“Ouch, that hurt, you know,” the mirror exclaimed.

“Well, I am hurt too. And let down, especially by another woman!” Meja responded to the mirror. She threw her cotton ball aside and instead started pulling out the pins holding her hair up.

“She doesn’t define you or any other woman. She can only represent her own self, just like you do.”

“I know that and you know that. But I am sure the men there are laughing at both her and me. They must think we women are so soft, those dastardly creatures! I worked hard at this project. I didn’t just walk up and walk over someone else’s year long planning. And they want to bucket me in the same slot as that woman? It’s a disgrace!”

“You tell her that then. And you show the men that no one messes with you.”

“Yep, no one gets to walk all over me,” she said, pausing to reflect at the truth her mirror was throwing back at her.

“Absolutely, darling! Show her that she can no longer be a hindrance.”

“You’re right,” she began, thinking out loud as she decided how she would tackle Jennifer’s move. “I could get her off the project itself. Or better still, such a weak and emotional women should have no right to be able to wield power!”

“You’re getting there,” her reflection egged her on.

“Maybe I could simply end her career. Perhaps I should set up a meeting for her with Liam first. I’ll let him humiliate her enough so she has to come begging to me for just keeping her alive. That would show her her place,” Meja concluded, her hair held in clumps by the spray and falling over her shoulders.

“I love that twinkle in your eyes. Your show of strength is so sexy. You be you, woman,” the mirror responded.

“Only you understand me as well as I do. Only you,” she said, patiently removing her eyeliner, a smile lingering near her lips.

Graciously Yours!

P.S. This piece is based on a creative writing prompt from http://www.thinkwritten.com. The prompt was as follows: “What if you mirror started talking to you? What might the mirror say?”

Brazen

Shivering, he dived under a shade, water puddling around his feet, fear taking over the chills of a sudden downpour. The dogs outside were ferocious – he’d never seen such big angry eyes up close. They were still sniffing around, he could feel it. He backed away into the dark, keeping an eye out for sudden movements and his mind scared him into running faster, in zig zag patterns, banging into things here and there. It was pitch dark, too dark even for him but at the end of his run, he could no longer smell the dogs outside.

He settled down on his stomach, his paws stretched, tongue hanging out, heart still beating very fast. He was tired. He just wanted to close his eyes for a short while and then get out of this dark and dingy place. His eyelids were drooping. He yawned, shaking his ears and his head dropped onto his paws. Some time later, as he awoke, he found himself cold, alone and in the dark. He stretched himself out, his front legs taking all his weight, his the bones in his back cracking. He looked around at the silence, not much else visible to him – it scared him much more than he was ready to admit to himself. He could hear the faint tap of the rain, if he really strained his ears. Something or rather, someone, swooped overhead. As he ducked, something scuttled past as well. A mouse, perhaps! He didn’t like mice. They tasted pungent. He left them for the crows outside. That reminded him of food. His stomach grumbled. He sniffed around. Everything smelled different in here, stale and pungent, like the mice. He found a couple of them on his trail but passed them. He thought of the lady who came to feed him everyday. Was she looking for him? Was it daybreak yet? Or was this going to be a long night?

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He was hungry and had wandered into new territory and then it started drizzling and the dogs came at him from nowhere and he didn’t know what to do. Hunger had started this all and he was still hungry. He could smell the outside in that direction. He ran across the dark hoping he’d be able to get out of here. He ran head first into the paper boxes which ended up making a lot of noise. He heard voices outside, sounds of the rain and afraid, he stayed in the shadows. When he quietly got out again, his heart racing, he heard loud noises and something hit him on the back. Wheezing and whimpering, he tried to run but his back foot hurt. He got under a car and howled in pain, as he sat. His behind was stinging and his legs hurt. His eyes were watering in pain. He heard a shuffle under a nearby car. Crouching in fear, still whimpering in pain, he braced himself for the next fight or what was left of it in him. They were the same angry red eyes from before. This time they weren’t angry though. They had food, he said. Would I want some, he asked.

Graciously Yours!

P.S. This piece is based on a creative writing prompt from http://www.thinkwritten.com. The prompt was as follows: “Write about being inside an old abandoned warehouse.”

Bones & Beads.

“Shoma, you’ll have to take off your ornaments – all of them, irrespective of whether they’re gold or not,” the doctor-in-charge Ratan da ordered me.
“You’ll just be doing a regular check-up, right? I didn’t think we’d be going into the OT,” I asked, worried there had been a miscommunication because I wasn’t ready for the nausea of a surgery to hit me. I wasn’t to be counted in the all hands on deck!
“Even with your vast non-medical credentials, I wouldn’t let you anywhere near my OT!” he said, bellowing with laughter. I sniggered, mildly. I still wasn’t sure where this was going. Nevertheless, I started taking off my earrings, “I still don’t get it though.”
“Gold is attractive. They want it. So unless you don’t want to go back as you came, you take it off.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that. Thanks for the heads up,” I called out to the bald spot on the back of his head, as he left the room, raising his hand in acknowledgement.

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Ratan da was a gracious host, well gracious enough for someone who lives alone is dedicated enough to choose to work in the middle of the Indian Ocean! He replied to our emails, once a week; if lucky, twice! I found more paper and books at his place than food. I was glad I’d requested him to book me a private room in the town. Anyway, I am digressing! I was going to tell you the story of the neckpiece – the one my mother detests, the one very few people know about, the one you will know of now.

A few moments later, after Ratan da left the room, I left my packed bag under his wobbly table, my dictaphone, pad and pen stuffed in my boyfriend jeans. But I didn’t know which way to go – so instead of walking into the clinic room, I walked into two women, one young with a baby cradled in her arms and the other older but I couldn’t place her in the decades. They were the people I’d come looking for but I hadn’t anticipated such a bumpy start. They were heavy bosomed, wearing a maxi sort of thing, short haired with shining skin! They were the Jarawas. I apologised to them profusely, in Hindi, in Bengali, in English, bowing, bending, fumbling, hoping they would understand what I meant!

Ratan da appeared out of nowhere and instead took us all away to the clinic room, blissfully unaware of what he’d walked in on. I spent the next two hours in that room, occupying a corner, observing the work, asking a question in between to understand the conversation underway. I caught snippets of Hindi and Bangla once in a while, my ears working overtime. I wanted to know if the baby I had accidentally walked in on was okay but Ratan da still did not catch on. The older woman probably did. She said something to him and he responded. For the next minute, I simply observed them staring at each other, the baby and me. I was afraid they’d taken offence. Instead, the doctor said, “She wants to give you a ornament.”
“Me?”
“Yes, she is the wife of the head. I might have mentioned to them that you might be coming. They’re welcoming you here. If you’re okay, they’d like you to come feast with them.”
I was stunned.
And that is the story of this piece of jewelry; a bunch of ancestral bones strung together with beads, binding me to their tribe for as long as I will remember.

Graciously Yours!

P.S. This piece is based on a creative writing prompt from http://www.thinkwritten.com. The prompt was as follows: “Write about a piece of jewelry – who does it belong to?”