Musings of an eccentric mindI tell stories - of people, places, and ideas - through words and visuals.
Designer by profession, Writer by passion, and Storyteller by accident (or is that a cosmic conspiracy?)
Digital Nomad, Slightly Eccentric
The Kalan Masjid lies close to Raziya Sultan’s Tomb. A rather quiet place, somewhere inside a very crowded Bazaar. Built in 1387 by Feroz Shah Tughlaq, it is one of the oldest Mosques in Delhi.
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This post is part of, what appears to be, a series of short, sometimes confusing, posts.
Writing Challenge : Just Do It
Photo Challenge : Reflections
The Unsung Hero
There is a saying in Sanskrit:
यत्र नार्यस्तु पूज्यन्ते रमन्ते तत्र देवताः ।
Transliteration : Yatr Naaryastu Poojyante Ramante Tatr Devatah
Translation : Gods reside in those places where women are worshipped.
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This post began as a slightly longish rant, fuelled by immense rage. I let it rest for a couple of days. Today, I decided to cut out the harsh bits. I leave you, dear reader, to interpret the meaning, and context in which I write this post.
This year has been quite a roller coaster. A year filled with lots of firsts. I attempted the Weekly Photo Challenges, Writing Challenges, and even the Daily Prompts. Truth be told, I got lucky with some of the topics. Perhaps some one at The Daily Post sneaked in to my head, and posted appropriate challenges (including this one)!!
At the end of the previous year, I had one follower. (I’m not counting my friends and family members – who were forced to visit my blog after my constant nagging). This year, I have discovered, and learnt a lot from other bloggers. Thanks to the aforementioned lucky coincidences, I have more readers, and I kick myself for not participating in challenges often.
I cannot have my cake and it too. While I love to participate in all the challenges, and I do have things to say, real life also needs priority – hence, my posts will always come at irregular intervals.
I have two sketches, and an acrylic painting that are waiting for me to complete them. I am not including the sketch from last year, and the oil painting I started many many years ago! I would have shown them to you, but I’m just too lazy to photograph them. Also, the painting is in the art room of my institute, and I’m too cowardly to face my teacher (whom I am sure I have disappointed with this one).
This year has been one in which I have little to show – At least not as much as I would have wished. Blogging has, to a certain extent, distracted me from my studies, and at the same time, has encouraged me to create something, with the sole intention of posting it here.
I learnt a lot this year, especially about 3D animation, and spent a major part of the year on two projects – a character, which I built from scratch, and a short film, in which I rigged a character, and oversaw other member’s work. These are quite amateurish, and hence I haven’t posted much about them. The sheer effort involved in creating a 60 second 3D animated clip, was overwhelming. I can only wonder what magic must be required to produced full length feature films in this medium.
My best creation to date, and one I hold close to my heart is ‘Mr Paper’. It was made in the early part of the year, and has made me a bit of a celebrity 😀
And finally, dear reader, if you found most of this article vague and has left you confused, it is probably because I am currently working on my fourth project – capping one of the busiest years of my life.
I’ll leave you with a small collage of stills – which visually represent what I have been up to this year – the things I’ve made, the places that I have seen… Here’s wishing the entire blogging community a very happy and prosperous New Year.
The city of Delhi is often referred to, as a burial ground – of emperors and nobles, princes and princesses, saints and warriors. After visiting a few tombs, one gets the feeling that all the tombs are alike. That might be true for most, but there are exceptions.
This past week, I tagged along with a group of heritage-hunters, and headed towards Chandini Chowk. A friendly local offered to guide us through the uneven paths, deep within the bazaar. We went down narrow and dark lanes, past crumbling havelis and butcher shops, and even hopped over a sleeping goat! We approached a sharp turn in the path, which revealed perhaps the smallest, and the saddest tomb in Delhi.
The only three women who were ever elected to the throne in the Mohammedan East, reigned in the thirteenth century.
– Lane-Poole
Raziya Sultan was the daughter of Iltutmish*, and the only woman to have ruled over Delhi. Her father had chosen Raziya as his successor to the throne. This was obviously not welcomed by her brother, as well as the majority of noblemen.
Iltutmish claimed that his daughter was better than many sons. And it did not take long for the citizens of the kingdom, to realise this. Raziya was appointed ruler by the common people.
Sultan Raziya was a great monarch. She was wise, just, and generous, a benefactor to her kingdom, a dispenser of justice, the protector of her subjects, and the leader of her armies. She was endowed with all the qualities befitting a king, but she was not born a man, and for that reason, in the estimation of men, all these virtues were worthless.
– Minhajas-Siraj
Raziya Sultan’s tenure as a ruler was a short one. A female monarch, appointed by common people did not go down well with the establishment. The fact that she showed her face in public, and was tolerant towards the Hindus, made her case weaker. She was assassinated after three years at the throne.
There is a conflict, regarding the actual site where she was buried. Claims include Chandini Chowk in Old Delhi, Siwan in Haryana, and Tonk in Rajasthan. The site at Chandini Chowk, was a jungle during the reign of Raziya Sultan, and there is no engraving to identify the souls resting there. A part of the mausoleum has been converted to a mosque.
Raziya was a person born well ahead of her time. Unfortunately, her story is overshadowed by others who came after her. A hero for all ages, may her soul rest in peace.
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* Iltutmish (alternate spelling Altamish) Full name : Shams-ud-din Iltutmish
The third ruler in the Slave Dynasty. The first was Qutb-ud-din Aibak, and the second, Aram Shah. The Slave (Mamluk) Dynasty was the first of five unrelated dynasties to rule over Delhi, in what is referred to, as Delhi Sultanate.
Sources and suggested reading:
Razia Sultan Was Far Better Than Her Brothers – Sunday Guardian
Chapter 5 – Raziya, The Mohammedan Empress of India, History of India – Volume 5 – The Mohammedan Period as Described by its Own Historians – Edited by A. V. Williams Jackson (Selected from the works of late Sir Henry Miers Elliot)
The Daily Post asks readers to write about their heros. I have paid a tribute to Unniyarcha before. Raziya Sultan is my answer to The Daily Post’s prompt.
The winter is upon us, and all the woollens are out. Amongst these, is one precious scarf.
Before I turned into an obnoxious and stubborn teenager, we wore sweaters knitted by my eldest aunt. Knitting, and crochet were like second nature to her. I used to admire her skills. It seemed almost magical, the things she could create with wool.
So when our crafts teacher asked us to bring wool and knitting needles to school, I was excited. I envisioned myself becoming very proficient in knitting. I was already imagining showing off!
I carefully followed instructions, and ensured I did a neat job of making the loops. After a couple of classes, we were told to finish it off at home, at our own convenience.
Little did I know, that it would turn out to be quite a disaster.
Under the watchful eyes of my mother and grandmother, I continued my knitting. My grandmother demonstrated a different type of loop. And so we decided to add a little design, alternating between different types of loops.
It wasn’t long, before I forgot about the design, and then it was just a mess of randomly placed loops. It didn’t bother me, though. I was knitting for the first time.
Twenty-two loops, is what I started with, and after a few rows, it somehow became twenty-eight. That was also fine by me. I was just a child. I allowed myself to goof-up.
Then one day, my mother pointed out that I had missed a loop. Before I knew it, she removed all the loops that I had knitted with my little hands.
Although I had to start from scratch, we no longer had the problem of mismatched styles and varying number of loops. All seemed to be well again.
And then I missed another loop. The loops were removed, and like the ‘Itsy Bitsy Spider’, I began again. It seemed like I had entered a vicious cycle – one that continued for a long, really long time. I knitted, missed a loop, and then started all over again.
Days turned into months. I soldiered on for as long as I could. It was obvious that knitting was not something I could possibly do, and my persistence only made the wool weaker. It had been abused long enough. It was now much thinner, and was begging for mercy.
I abandoned my project, and my mother decided to finish what I had started. Needless to say, she went further than I had. But she did not complete it. She probably still hoped that I would complete it. It was shelved, and soon forgotten altogether.
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Several Years Later
We relocated, and came to live next door to a joint family. Four generations shared one apartment. Biji, as they all called her, was the eldest member of the house, a great grandmother. She took a liking to us, and we took a liking for her as well. My father’s mother had passed away only a few years before we moved, and the void that was left in the house, seemed to be filled by biji. It seemed like our grandmother had come back to us.
One winter afternoon, we saw biji sitting in the sun, knitting. My mother casually mentioned my abandoned project to her. We showed it to her, and she smiled and said, ‘I’ll finish it for you’. In a couple of days, she pressed a beautiful scarf into my hands.
She looked at my mother, and said, ‘I found a little problem with the loops, so I removed the whole thing, and knitted it from scratch!!’
It was a chilly Sunday. And the best way to spend it was sitting in the winter sun.
We decided to visit the Indian Coffee House at Connaught Place*. We climbed up to the second floor of Mohan Singh Place. There were only a few people on the terrace. Empty tables were spread randomly, while plastic chairs were piled up, one on top of another, along the entrance. We grabbed our chairs, pulled up one of the plastic tables, and sat down to bask in the sun.
Apart from the outfits of the waiters, there really isn’t anything that looks fancy at the Indian Coffee House. Even the food isn’t really great. But the coffee is good, and its cheap! The main reason why I keep going there, however, is that it is absolutely laid-back. There is no such thing as spending too much time here. When most cafés will eventually ask you to leave, no one here will even hint at that. You are more likely to see people stepping in, than stepping out – even if you spend hours. Like my friend said, ‘It’s like being at home!’
We read the menu pasted on the wall, and ordered ourselves ‘Hot Cream Coffee’. A little while later, the waiter kept a pot of coffee for each of us, with cups, spoons, and a small bowl of sugar.
As we poured out our coffee, and stirred in the sugar, I found myself looking towards the opposite side of the road. A number of state emporia lined the street.
‘You know, there is a huge flower market here. It opens early morning, and winds up before breakfast.’ I looked towards the pavement. A large number of people were walking there, shouting slogans and carrying banners. It was hard to tell what they were campaigning for, though.
‘We used to come here on Sunday mornings, when we were in school.’
‘I know, you told me.’
‘We would get up lazily, and go about our morning routine reluctantly. And then, our father would ask, ‘Do you want to go to the flower market?’ And just like, that our faces would brighten up, and we’d get ready within no time!
It was such a treat! And I don’t mean just visually. We’d pick up a few flowers – usually roses, or orchids. The orchids would last much longer than most other flowers. And then we’d head over to the nearby McDonald’s. We hardly went to McDonald’s back then. It was a novelty. That particular branch used to open very early. And we’d always order a McShake with our breakfasts. Nah! The McShake was the breakfast. Of course things have changed a lot since then…’
My friend waited patiently, till I realised I had to shut up, and then suggested, ‘Maybe you should blog about it.’
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*Connaught Place is now officially named Rajiv Chowk.
Going through WordPress’ freshly pressed entries, my eyes fell on a familiar image – flower sellers. The post ‘Where guys give roses’, about the flower markets in Delhi, refreshed some memories for me.
More Coffee:
The Delhi Walla’s photo essay, Indian Coffee House
Wikipedia loves the coffee at the Indian Coffee House
This week, The Daily Post asks the WordPress community:
Are animated GIFs the stuff of junior highschool hijinks or, are they the political cartoons of the new millennium? What do you think?
My first reaction to this question was, ‘Huh! Those silly little things! Who makes GIF Animations any more? When the web has evolved to PNG and a billion colours, why would anyone even think about a format which has only 256 colours?’
But then… I was reminded of something…
There was a time, when I was obsessed with them. My inbox was full of them. I never had ‘important mails’. But cute cartoons, waving back at me, were important enough for me to collect. These virtual creatures became another collectable item, gathering virtual dust in a folder on the hard disk…
And then, I learnt to animate.
A month-long summer programme introduced to me, persistence of vision, and frame-by-frame animation. An acquaintance showed me the terrifying interface of Macromedia Flash. One look at it, and I came running back to the comfort of MS Paint!
I searched the web-world for freeware. It was fun learning to use applications like Art Rage. Using a small GIF Animator, I strung together individual frames and added, what I thought, were cool transitions.
I found a cute dragon cartoon on the net, and coloured it. I made the dragon blink, and saved the in-betweens in Jpeg file formats. I had no clue, why the quality of the image degraded each time I saved it. Two years later, I got the answer to that.
In our graphic designing class, our teacher tried to explain, what lossy compression meant. While most students stared back with blank expressions, I silently patted myself for being smart!
During our sketching class, I casually mentioned playing with wheat flour, as a child. My art teacher pointed out to me, ‘When you were a child, you were willing to experiment. By using flour and Papier-mâché, you were being creative.’
I realised what he meant, and it applied to almost every other aspect of life. The moment we learn the ‘proper way’ to do things, we refuse to accept anything else. And once we do that, we close our minds. We not only lose our willingness to experiment, but also, our creativity.
Creating these GIF animations was just one of the ways I expressed myself. For me, they were, they are, and will always, represent fun, and creativity. They represent a time when I was willing to experiment, and learn on my own.
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I never thought I would ever go back to GIFs. But I did end up making one not so long ago, for a post. And that’s because that is the only format WordPress allows for standalone animations!
Software:
ArtRage – Even after brushing hands with the big guns, I still love it!
Movies13 – a newer version of my main weapon – available at Jans Freeware
Disclaimer: Potential users are requested to use their judgement before downloading any software. Do not hold me responsible for any harm to your computer. While I have used the above mentioned products, I am not, in any way, endorsing these products.
This coming week, India celebrates Karthik Poornima. The peacock is Lord Karthikeya’s vaahana (vehicle).
According to Wikipedia:
Karthik Poornima (Karthik purnima) is a Hindu holy day celebrated on the full moon day of the lunar month Karthik (November–December). It is also known as Tripuri poornima and Tripurari Poornima. It is sometimes called Deva-Diwali or Deva-Deepawali – the festival of lights of the gods. The Karthik Purnima festival also coincides with the Sikh festival of Guru Nanak Jayanti.
Karthik poornima is also the birthday of Matsya, god Vishnu’s fish-incarnation (Avatar). It is also the birthday of Vrinda, the personification of the Tulsi plant and of Kartikeya, the god of war and son of Lord Shiva. This day also is considered dear to Radha, the lover of Krishna – Vishnu’s incarnation. It is believed that Krishna and Radha danced rasa and Krishna worshipped Radha on this day.
Boarding pass in hand, the family waited to board the flight. There was one seat less, and the young teenager sat on the baggage trolley. Perhaps even if there were enough seats, she would have preferred to sit on the aluminium structure and slide around. She was getting bored. They had been up early in the morning, but the flight was delayed.
She looked around, trying to amuse herself. Near one of the check-in counters, she caught two gentlemen picking up their passes. Gosh they looked awfully familiar! Where could she have seen them? The one nearer to them was slightly shorter, with a moustache and a short beard – much like that of a goat. The other one was much taller, and…
Her eyes grew wide. She called out to her mother, “Look!” She pointed in their direction. “Look who’s here!”
The two men saw the excited girl. One smiled, and the other waved his hand slightly – perhaps they felt a little embarrassed…
She smiled ear to ear, and looked at her mother, “He waved to me! Loy waved back to me!”
Perhaps, Mr Ehsaan and Mr Loy, you are used to this sort of attention. You must have encountered fans giving you such horribly wide-eyed looks several times. You may not remember that little girl on the trolley at Chennai International Airport so many years ago, but you sure made her day!
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Even Wikipedia is a fan! Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy
She was standing at the base of the stairs leading up to the main road, in the subway*. She wore a checked kurta and salwar. A neatly folded dupatta was slung across her shoulders formed a ‘V’. Her hair was braided, tied with ribbons. A huge school bag completed her school uniform. She may have been in middle school. It was lunch time, so it was not unusual to find school students wandering about, and I would have never even noticed her presence.
She held on to the railing, and took one step on the staircase. She dragged herself slowly, up one step. It was then, that I observed her. Her entire body was shaking, as if she had Parkinson’s disease.
I tried not to make her feel like she was out-of-place, and pretended to have not noticed her. I suppose I failed at that. As I walked past her, she spoke, ‘Excuse me Didi! Time kya hai?‘ I looked at my phone and informed her of the time. She then asked me, ‘Aap ek phone call kar sakte ho?‘ I agreed immediately. She called out a number, and asked in Hindi, ‘Please ask my father to come and pick me up… My name is Payal^.’
She was still holding on to the railing of the staircase, taking one slow step at a time. I dialled the number she called out. It was unreachable. She dragged herself up, and I walked beside her, trying to match her pace. I tried to call the number a second time – still unreachable. Perhaps the network was poor. Maybe I could try once again after exiting the subway. A young man climbing up the stairs looked back, and enquired what the matter was. He seemed a little sceptical, and asked if she came this way everyday. He kept looking back, as I called the number once again.
Once we were on the footpath of the main road, with no more railings to hold on to, she held on to my hand. The young man asked in Hindi, ‘Shall I put her in an auto**, so that she can reach home?’ I ignored the man. Even though I had just met her, I felt responsible for Payal.
I asked her where she lived. ‘I live just behind that’, she said, pointing towards a bend in the road. Her father’s number was still out of reach. ‘Shall I take you home? Do you want to go in an auto?‘ She paused, and then nodded her head. She said we could walk.
She had just met me, and she trusted me enough to put her safety in my hands. I held her hand and we took a few steps. It didn’t take long for her to realise it would be a very long walk. In a soft voice, she asked, ‘ham auto le len?’
I agreed and stopped an auto on the road. I asked the autowallah# if he could take us to her house. I pointed towards the bend in the road. No autowallah would travel such a short distance. The expression on his face, upon looking at my new friend, changed. ‘Baitho,’ he said, gesturing towards the seat. I asked him for the fare. He waved his hand, as if to say, ‘don’t worry about it…’
We hopped in. Payal began feeling a little comfortable around me, and attempted to speak in English. She asked me my name. ‘Its a nice name. You going to office? College?’ She gave directions to her house. It was perhaps a kilometre, and I wouldn’t have minded walking. But for Payal, it would have been a huge struggle. I asked her which school she was in, where it was, and how she ended up at the subway. She told me her school bus dropped her off there, and she was waiting for her father to pick her up.
When we neared the apartments. She smiled widely, and said, ‘Welcome to my home! Please come home.’ We got off the auto. I asked the autowallah how much was the fare. As I paid him, Payal cried, ‘Wait, I will get money from home. No you don’t pay.’
I told her its okay. He had charged only the minimum fare.
I gave Payal a silly excuse to leave. She repeated herself, ‘Welcome to my home!’ I followed her up to the doorstep of her house. Her mother stepped out of the house, and clearly alarmed, asked Payal how she came, who I was, and why she didn’t call. It’s hard to tell if she was angry, or if her natural tone was like that. She tried to give me an explanation, for why no one was there to pick her up, as if she were, in some way, accountable to me.
I hastily said goodbye to Payal and left. On the way back, I couldn’t help but feel sad for Payal. She was such a small girl, and she had to face such huge challenges on a daily basis. At the same time, her courage to put up a brave face, and smile so sweetly, was inspiring.
As I walked back, I caught myself smiling, just as I had caught the autowallah smiling, when he was about to leave.
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^Name changed
*subway : also known as underpass – a walkway that passes underneath an obstacle such as a road (Wikipedia).
**auto : short for auto-rickshaw; also known as a tuk-tuk – a three-wheeled vehicle.
#autowallah : the driver of the auto rickshaw.
Musings of an eccentric mind 