Waterwood Resort, Kabini
FC 239 was widely appreciated. Let me share a few comments.
Lakshmi Raman says: “Thank you for your tribute to women, Prasanna. Your words about your mother reminded me so much of my grandmother who, in her time, coped with poverty, 7 children and little income - all with no bitterness and so much enthusiasm for life and people.”
Niharika Jain says: “I'm bowled over by your mother and her abilities: service, sacrifice and the training she imparted to her children.”
Hemalatha Seshadri: “I cannot agree more with you. Yes, the aroma and the taste of Filter Coffee as the first drink in the morning, gives a kick that nothing else can. I am a coffee enthusiast, as my mother was, and love this drink. Thanks for your deep appreciation of women.”
Tarun Kunzru: “Women, yes, the best thing nature made. We would be lost without the most amazing women/ladies in our lives. Having said that, I still am trying to figure them out. Have concluded, some things are beyond the comprehension of men. :)”
🗺️ Safaris & Beyond Kumbh
This week I am seeking refuge in the wildlife at Kabini. Not been there yet? Take a look here: 🔗Kabini National Park. I’m leaving tomorrow for Kabini with my teenage granddaughter who has a penchant for wildlife photography and professes her concerns for the environment. She intends to do her bit for the cause of the various elements of our environment like climate change, green energy and carbon footprint and so on. I will be going with her and the family on the jungle safaris, and I’m hoping for good sightings. The picture below is one such sighting.
Speaking of safari, one cannot but associate it with ‘safari suit’. As I grew up, I realised that the word ‘safari suit’ was a bespoke product. From politicians to academicians to government officers, everyone wore ‘safari suits’ in colours ranging from white to grey. Dark-coloured safari suits weren’t that popular.
I remember going to Nepal in 1979 for a conference. Almost everyone was talking about safari suits made of imported cloth being stitched to size in one day by the local tailors attached to the shop from where one bought the cloth. Most preferred different shades of grey. The price of a safari suit length, at that time, was Rs.300 and the stitching charge was a princely sum of Rs.100. There was an attempt to persuade me to get one stitched as well, but I declined, convinced that I would look ridiculous in it.
‘Safari’ is derived from the word ‘safar’ meaning journey. Safari is also now the name of a browser and among a thousand other things, it has plenty of information about the safari of the jungle kind. The specially tailored safari suit with various pockets is meant to be worn when going on a jungle safari. But there was a time when safari suits were popular even among executives and businessmen. One might wonder as to why city folks wore the suit meant for jungles. Perhaps they were living in a jungle of a different kind, the concrete jungle.
It is believed that Yves Saint Laurent designed the safari suit in 1967, which gradually became a rage in some African countries, where it is still very popular, even today, as you see from this link: 🔗https://eucarlwears.com/safari-suit-styles-for-men/
I must confess to writing this post under time pressure given the travel and the other related activities. So I decided to lean on my good friend Ashvini Ranjan who wrote a piece “Beyond Kumbh”. Please read on, it is a story you will enjoy.
Ashvini Ranjan writes:
The line for taxis at the Prayagraj airport stretched endlessly, filled with weary travellers eager to reach the Kumbh Mela. The distance to the city was a mere fifteen kilometers, yet the taxi fare stood stiff at Rs. 2500, non-refundable. "No guarantee you will reach Prayagraj, sir," cautioned the man at the counter like a prophet of doom.
But soon I heard comforting words, “If the traffic is impenetrable, you can get out of the car and hop on to an e-rickshaw or a bike taxi. The Latter is better to weave through the multitude. They may charge a small fee, usually Rs.500 to 600.” All of us waiting in the queue for transport accepted these terms either out of eagerness, or for want of an alternative.
We did get a taxi which rolled out of the airport and was soon inching forward through the throngs of pilgrims. Our taxi driver was unable to step on the gas, so he diverted all his might onto the horn. The cacophony was overwhelming—blaring horns, piercing police whistles, and the frantic shouts of parents clinging tightly to their children and their baggage. Here’s a picture that the author took.
The mist of dust never settled, stirred up by the relentless movement of people and vehicles. The density of the crowd increased with every hundred meters. Then, abruptly, our journey halted as a metal barricade was erected for a VIP procession and the crowd parted like the sea when Moses hailed. Whoever said we are an egalitarian society? The cars passing by had a metal plate with the legend ‘District Collector’—a public servant, in theory. Yet, its passengers included women, children, and a dog, besides an opulent-looking gentleman who was, presumably, the Collector himself. We, the people, the backbone of democracy, were ordered to standstill and make way for our servant to pass. Soon, other ranks of the establishment followed with sirens blaring and escort cars in tow. It was a proclamation of entitlement, a feudal charade in the disguise of service.
Three hours had passed since we left the airport, and we were still at least five kilometers from our camp, a daunting distance under the scorching sun. The dry, dust-laden air made walking seem like an act of self-punishment. Lost in a mass of humanity, we found ourselves adrift, moving with the tide of pilgrims, momentarily without a plan. Announcements from loudspeakers added to the chaos, listing the names of those separated from their families and instructing them to designated reunion points. My grip on my wife's hand tightened. Losing each other in this sea of devotion was an unfathomable thought.
A motorbike taxi rider sensed our distress and offered to take both of us. The very idea of two septuagenarians balancing precariously on a single motorbike was absurd. Sensing he might lose a customer, he made a quick phone call, and another bike magically emerged from an alleyway. It took all my skills of persuasion to convince my wife to mount the motorbike. Once seated, she held onto the rider as if her life depended on it. I dared not negotiate the fare—our priority was survival, reaching our destination and not thrift.
The ride itself was unforgettable. The motorbike weaved through the dense throng like a circus performer on a tightrope. Reminded me of the Wall of Death in a circus where motorcyclists ride along a vertical wall and go round and round. Our bike rider kept his horn pressed, in addition to shouting for people to make way. My wife's bike soon disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the sea of humanity. My heart pounded with anxiety and a barrage of irrational questions—was she still on the bike? Was she safe? Is she being bike-jacked? Not for long, we caught up with them soon and we were happy to get off the bike, a bit dazed though.
Unlike us, the privileged travellers, who had flown into Prayagraj and could afford taxis or bikes, millions of pilgrims braved the sun and dust, walked for miles from distant towns and villages. Probably it may have taken them days to get to the Kumbh. Old and young, men and women, some even in wheelchairs pushed by loved ones, journeyed tirelessly. As night fell, they found shelter wherever they could, ate what they could afford, or relied on free kitchens set up along the way. Their conviction was unwavering—one sacred dip in the confluence of the Ganga, Yamuna and Saraswati would cleanse them of sins, paving their way to heaven or at least a better life. Please visit this site to understand more: https://kumbh.gov.in/en/ritualofkumbh
The marked contrast on the faces of those making their journey back after the Holy Dip in the sacred waters was evident. Their foreheads were smeared with saffron and vermilion paste. With their mission accomplished, there was joy and vigor in their movement. More than all, there was a sense of spiritual fulfilment.
And me? I had come seeking an experience, not salvation. I had every material comfort, yet the joy that lit up the faces of these pilgrims remained elusive. Over two days on the ghats and streets of Prayagraj, I witnessed the rawest facets of human nature. An elderly woman, exhausted from her journey and the relentless sun, pleaded for water. Many passed her by, indifferent. When I handed her my bottle of water, she didn’t just thank me—she blessed me. And in that moment, I realized something profound. Perhaps the true pilgrimage wasn’t just about reaching the holy waters. Perhaps it was about moments like these—where faith met kindness, where devotion transcended privilege. I had come as an observer, but they had come as believers. And for the first time, I wondered—who among us had truly found what we were looking for? I have more to tell. I will save it for another time.
Thank you Ashvin. I much appreciate your being a FC guest for, I think, the fourth time. Dear readers, do post your comments and experiences of Kumbh.
I am in a safari mood. So, here’s something to laugh:
A very religious man went on a safari and found himself confronted by a huge lion. The man didn't have a gun and there was no way he could outrun the lion. So, he did the only thing he could best do. He got on his knees and prayed "Dear God, I was always a good Christian. Will you perform a miracle and give this lion some Christian feelings".The next moment, a miracle happened. The lion raised its paws to the heavens and prayed "Thank you Lord for this meal I'm about to receive."
See you next week, ciao!
Didn't know you are an expert on how the safari suit was designed too. Not just on how a word came to be. Pras, I must raise my hat to you
I have been hearing accounts of their experience at the Kumbh Mela from various friends. Like Ashvin, they too said they felt the overall experience to be sublime, despite the crowds, the discomfort, the pocket being picked... Ashvin has put it so beautifully "...moments like these—where faith met kindness, where devotion transcended privilege."