Spring Water That Heals

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I am unable to drink the water that has been offered. One sip is enough to tell me the brackish, acid taste of iron it carries is not for me. But my photographer is already reaching out to refill his glass, and so is our guide.  Our guide bustles with health. She talks casually of skiing down the snow mountains that stand shadowing St Moritz; she walks with a stride that makes me wonder if she has spring on her feet. She often guides media and celebrities around, and a visit to the Forum Paracelsus  is almost mandatory. Perhaps the water is the reason, I muse, for her glowing health.

The water we are holding is from a small fountain inside the rather imposing building that now houses the springs. The  therapeutic values of these springs were first discovered and put to use around 1400 years BC. By the Middle Ages, word of the healing springs, reached beyond St Moritz, and Pope Leo X as well as the naturopath Paracelsus, after whom the bath is currently named, helped bolster its reputation further. Paracelsus combined chemical medicine and empirical, psychological healing to treat a number of maladies without resorting to surgery. The waters of St Moritz were perfect for putting his theory, of letting Nature heal, to effective use.

St Mauritius fountain

The taste of the water lingers as I wander through the large rooms and take in the St Mauritius Fountain, a large but decrepit fountain that dates back to the Bronze Age, embalmed behind a glass window. Touch screens and audio panels tell me of the curative properties of the waters, as well as share insights about the history. A large plaque reads out the composition of the water I have drunk. In brief, drinking it should help my stomach and intestines, make my blood redder, open blocked ducts and glands. It also prevents migraines, alleviates ear problems and clears mucus slime.

The waters have helped many chronic sufferers who come to stay at the town’s posh hotels to take therapeutic baths, and to drink the water. But I feel quite well, and I am glad I need not sip any more of it.

More healing waters in the Frankfurt Rhine region

Like St Moritz in Switzerland, other places in Europe are blessed with healing waters. None more blessed than Germany, perhaps. In fact, the Frankfurt Rhine-Main Region boasts of nine such towns with waters that cure a variety of illnesses. I visit two. The quaint and quiet town of Wiesbaden is one of them. Centuries ago, Wiesbaden was blessed with 26 hot springs, each of which was loaded with the fount of wellness. The legend goes that when the Romans first set up forts in Mainz, and crossed the Rhine on horses, they realised the horses loved to bathe in the warm floodplains of the river. Successful investigation into this phenomenon resulted in the discovery of the hidden hot springs, some hot enough to roast meat, others just warm enough to offer comfort on cold nights. Wies [ the fields ] and baden [bath] where the Romans enjoyed bathing 2000 years ago, was thus christened. Wiesbaden also contributed to fashion. The pink deposits were used by Roman women to add colour to their hair!

The 26 hot springs continued to garner attention, and soon Europe was paying homage to its healing powers. By 1370, 16 bath houses were counted. In 1800, the city boasted 23 bath houses. By 1900, Wiesbaden, a population of 86,100, would welcome 126,000 visitors every year. Among them were names like Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Richard Wagner, Johannes Brahms, and Henrik Pontoppidan.

Today, only 17 springs still flow. And at the start of the reconstructed old town that also hosts the hottest shopping centre with shops lining the streets and small eateries dotting the periphery, the old hot spring fountain stands, a perpetual fount of healing water. Famed for its ability to cure orthopaedic and rheumatic ailments, it welcomes any one who cannot afford the more expensive treatments in the clinics and hotel spas to collect the water and help alleviate their aches. For the rest, a variety of specialists and clinics offer treatment options using the spring waters, and spas like the Kaiser-Friedrich and the Aukammtal thermal baths offer visitors the chance to relax and recuperate.

Bad Homburg, a taste of luxury

On to the picturesque town of Bad Homburg, a 20-minute train ride from Frankfurt. Here‘s where the rich live, and the town breathes an air of luxury, right from the newly done windows at the railway station, to the flowering avenues and the glistening dome of the Russian church in the distance.

This is the town where the first casino was built. The first spa building followed, and the industry grew with the discovery of the Elisabethenbrunnen [Brunnen is German for “well”] in 1834. Two brothers built the casino, and were so successful in their enterprise that they later took over the Monte Carlo casino. When in 1860, the railway was born in its first avatar, connecting Bad Homburg to Frankfurt, the casino and the spas started drawing clients from all over, including rich Russians.

We seek a moment’s rest from the long hours of exploratory walking, and enter a beautiful church, restored to glory after it was ruined in the war. Inside between an old gracious statue of the Virgin Mary, and a modern sweeping version of Our Lady, the pews glisten emptily in the candle light. At the far end, two musicians are rehearsing. Brisk, happy music. It is heartwarming, especially in the evening cold. There are many therapies Bad Homburg has to offer, I think as we leave. Music too, among them.

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Flavourful nutritious food

Trouville-sur-Mer is a town known for its sea water massages and algae treatments since the 18^th century. Little wonder, Chef Thyriot wishes to continue the wellbeing theme. His mantra for all his recipes, he says, is freshness. He visits the markets early every morning, picking his fruits, vegetables and fish for the day. Speaking in French, with a few English words thrown in, he explains his food philosophy. “I only use natural products,” he emphatises, “I ensure that all the fruits and vegetables I pick are organically grown. And the fish has to be bio-certified—and local, so I am sure it is fresh.”

“I respect the seasons,” he adds, “I will not pander to the whims of my customers… no, no. I will not serve strawberries in January.” His menu, thus, is an everchanging scene, depending on the availability of produce. To ensure the rich original flavours come through in his cooking, Chef Thyriot also holds back on seasoning.” I never use taste enhancers,” he says. “Most are bad for health, and many mask the real taste of good cooking.” His tone implies that taste enhancers are for lesser beings not blessed with culinary skills and preferred by those with undeveloped taste buds. He sees salt as a taste enhancer too, and “uses just a little,” enough for the body’s need.

Pepper can do no harm

However, he does have a favourite seasoning that comes high on his list leaving behind other natural seasonings derived “from aromatic plants of natural origin” that he uses, like star anise and cinnamon. Pepper, Chef Thyriot believes, is a do-good spice, and using it freely can do no harm. As such, he uses pepper in many forms. “Black pepper, white, green and red pepper,” he intones, counting them out on his fingers. Seeing my confusion over whether the red and green peppers are actually capsicum, he quickly explains that they are different stages a pepper goes through in its evolution. The green is of course pepper in its fresh form, known also to India as a pickle doused in brine, and the red is its last stage, if it is not dried but allowed to ripen. Each, he says, has its own taste, with white pepper being a milder version of the dark variety that is more popular in India.

His passion for pepper has helped him find 45 different varieties sourced from India, South America and elsewhere. Even more enterprising is the fact that he has helped to create Gatelier pepper, a variety of pepper that grows in the local climate. “Pepper was so precious that it was used as payment at one time,” he explains, “so the thrifty French learnt to grow French pepper.” His version is even milder, “but rich in flavour,” he adds triumphantly.

Of course, the ways he uses his peppers are varied. “I rarely cook the pepper, as it breaks the taste,”  he says, “but sometimes a dish requires it. I prefer to infuse the pepper whole, for a rich flavour, but of course it must be in heat less than 85 degrees to ensure the flavour is maintained.” When he uses ground pepper, it is mostly at the end of the cooking, and he will pound the seeds with a mortar and pestle to get the maximum out of the spice. “Pepper has curative qualities and these are preserved when it is neither cooked not ground rashly,” he says.

The magic of honey

Also high on his list of condiments is honey. The hotel ensures there is a fresh and organically guaranteed supply. “There are two major hives on the roof of the hotel,” he says,“and two queens in the two hives. The honey from the hives is flavoured not just with the scent of local flowers but sometimes the bees go 30km away to bring pollen from the acacia trees in the woods, so we get honey with that flavour too.” The hives are the hotel’s way to help preserve a vital Natural resource that is being threatened by development and progress. “Bees are disappearing around the world,” he says, his hands moving eloquently to express despair.

As part of his additional duties as F&B Manager, Chef Thyriot also keeps an eye on all purchases for the kitchens in the hotel, ensuring they are in line with his philosophy of wellness. His days he says are busy. Divided into four parts, from procuring of fresh products every morning, when he chats with the fishermen to know what they have caught and “learn from them about the product,” to teaching younger chefs the important aspects of good cooking. He is not very happy with the third aspect of his job, “the marketing part, where I have to talk about what I do,” but enjoys the past part of the day’s duties, wherin he interacts with his customers over dinner,  the only meal his restaurant serves. “I like to get their feedback, to know what they liked more; to explain to them—if they ask—about the dishes they have ordered. It gives me great satisfaction. And that”, he adds conclusively, “ensures I sleep soundly at night.”

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Ask me, I have worked sincerely, seriously and without even using up my CL [casual leave] or SL [sick leave]. For a while, years went past without my taking a vacation, but 30 years down this road, I am still raring to go, and full of beans!

I think I discovered the trick when I took over Femina as its editor. It was a huge challenge being at the helm of a magazine that was more than 30 years old, and lay gasping at the verge of collapse. It meant meetings and more meetings, discussions, and brainstorming sessions. It meant setting up a network… oh you know how it is with a start-up. And for all practical purposes, this was just that. We were scrapping everything but the brand name and starting afresh.

Well, to make a long story short, there were days when the enormity of what I had taken on would swamp me. Add to all this was the fact that there were seniors, in age and seniority in the company who resented a younger ‘boss’.

Under the circumstances, I should have in the very first quarter, been lining up for a stress test and risking a serious burnout. But I took a walk instead.

Go Take a Walk!

It has been my way of de-stressing, de-cluttering my mind when something could not be solved in writing, or a problem, to take a walk.

Walking the streets, window shopping, or looking at the sea or a river, calms one down; it makes the mind move out of its narrow corridors of thought and admire what it sees, relaxing in the process. Soon, I would find my brow easing, and a song presenting itself to be hummed. The feeling of being able to walk away from the scene, and find something else to interest the mind, would give the issue at hand perspective. And whittle it down to the proper size. In the large scheme of things, it was only a transitory drop of pique.

The walks were the first step. As the years rolled by, I found other ways to ensure that I created little asides to sidestep imminent burnout. Mental parks, to find the space to relax even as I continued with my rather demanding working schedules.

Fan an Old Flame

I think being blessed with an interest in many things is one reason this was easy. But interests can always be developed. It’s amazing how much there is waiting to catch your fancy, if you just look around.

We’ve all grown up with interests. Wanting to sing, or dance, or climb a hill, wanting to know how to skate, or fly a plane. Where have all those dreams gone? Chances are we write them off as dreams, and they are lying forgotten in some far away drawer beside the diary you once kept in school, or the trophies you won, which you could not bring yourself to throw away.

Time then to open that forgotten drawer and pull out those dreams.

Do it on some weekend. Just when you think you are so busy that you have no time to eat, or indulge in a siesta.

As you go through the things that you wished to do, but did not quite get down to, something might just grab your fancy.

I know I always wanted to do theatre. And one day, on an impulse, I did join a theatre group. It was an experimental play, and there was a lot of dance-based movement involved, and having learnt a bit of dancing, and loved it as a school girl, it would be easy and fun, I was sure.

It wasn’t. The dance was based on Purulia Chhau, a martial arts form; I was terribly out of form myself, thanks to my city bred ways. Just mastering the first steps took me over a month.

It was work all over again, hard work, the kind that made one sweat and sometimes made me think that I had more muscles than others and all of them only knew how to ache.

Earn as You Learn

But it was a learning, and learning something new is always an adventure. It uses different parts of the brain from what you normally use at work; it makes you stretch your limits as you go back to being a child again, and taking instructions and following them. It teaches you humility and wonder, and when you finally make progress in small steps, the same sense of wonder fills you that fills a child’s mind when it realises that putting one foot in front of the other can get it from one place to another!

In the process, the job you do gets pushed to its proper slot as one of the many things that fill time and space in your life. The humility and wonder are useful, they help you appreciate others’ skills and points of view and help you look at things at work afresh. Most important, the entire learning process de-stresses you. And you have earned a mental respite!

For years after my first foray into learning Chhau, I continued to be a part of the theatre group.

I made new friends, I learnt new methods of expression, I learnt to throw my voice and express myself in different ways, and I learnt after the Chhau episode, Kalaripayattu, T’ai Chi and a smattering of other disciplines.

Flirt Shamelessly

Over the years I have done most everything I wanted to do as a child. Well, most everything. I have learnt singing, serious classical singing from one of the country’s best teachers, who lamented the fact that I had a full-time job and only ‘flirted’ with learning. But the sessions with her were a revelation of another world, and I still value what she taught me about voice and expressing a note through it, in the morning classes where I sat on the floor looking up at her on the divan, as she strummed the tanpura and guided me along.

Her own dedication to music to the exclusion of everything else including marriage and children, gave me a sense of awe at her single mindedness, and yet told me there were pitfalls in being so single minded unless one was really world-class as she was.

I still regret having to give up my classes with her; it meant a long, long journey to a far off suburb from where I lived and an equidistant trip to work, which eventually got impossible to handle. But the experience left me richer in memory and understanding, and opened a new world. More important it helped me write with some knowledge on music. Besides singing and theatre, there has been a host of other things. Travel for instance!

Run Away!

I remember falling in love with the Everest when I first read a book about Mallory and Irvine’s attempt. Doomed though it was, it was fiercely magical in its hold on the imagination.

When the going gets tough, they say, the tough get going.

When things get bad, and seem irrevocable, they mend pretty fast if you really take your mind far away from it. I did that, and right in the middle of a worsening situation at work, once I had neatly tied all straggly ends, and set the boat sailing on its own for the next 15 days at least, I bought a pair of hiking shoes and set out on my first ever hike.

When things get bad, and seem irrevocable, they mend pretty fast if you really take your mind far away from it

It was tough, of course, but the exhilaration I felt at getting there and getting back washed away all negativity. If I can do this, I told myself, I can solve issues at work. And by Jove, I did!

Since that first trip, I have done another, trekking 84km to and from the Pindari glacier. Other times, I take a road trip into far off places, or fly away to a lesser known destination. When work presented me with fam trips, I took the untrodden route. That would make routine into an adventure.

Though fam trips are looked upon as pleasure trips by those not in the charmed circle of being invited, they are often trips where one is slave-driven from one tourist spot to another, one lunch meet to another tea meet where press notes and info comes in heavy overdoses. There is little free time, and by the time one returns, one might want to take time off on a vacation!

Walking the untrodden route is to either find the offbeat story while in the crowd, like concentrate on one aspect, so you can read up, take tiny side excursions, and no organiser minds that extra input for you, if it makes a good story for him. Or like I did, I took a colleague along; [she paid for her flight, but after that, the rooms were anyway twin sharing] and drove all over Ireland, daring myself to drive in a foreign land, through places that I could sometimes not pronounce. We got lost, we ended up in strange nooks and dead ends, but it was a trip we will never forget. And the result was we enjoyed writing the many stories we gathered along the way!

Play Peeping Tom!

Other times I have taken up writing a book, losing myself in another person’s life, in an era that is now almost forgotten. Living their lives, dreaming their dreams, understanding their lows, it was easy for me to breathe easier. When the pressure mounted, I could dream away in my secret world, and refreshed and relaxed, get back into the real one!

There are ways and ways, to escape. Write a diary, laugh at your troubles each night, and gloat over your successes. Better still, write it as the story of someone like you, looking at the events from a third person’s perspective. The 15 minutes of writing will make you see things in perspective and relax you completely, so you wake up with the past day well in the past.

Divide and Rule

As team leader, I have always believed two things are important. One is being hands on and leading from the front. And the second is delegating responsibility. Divide and rule is a great way to find time for oneself in the midst of a work week.

By delegating, you build responsibility, you nurture latent skills in your team, and you start a process by which the team becomes as good as you are. Yet, the very fact that should make a leader insecure will help make her more secure. Because most colleagues when they know you value them and treat them as equals, even as you mentor them, will hang on and ensure they learn everything they can. When they are ready to fly, they will, but everyone flies anyway. And knowing they will carry good things about you wherever they land next makes for a happy heart.

More important, your load at work is lighter. Of course you must weed out the ones who won’t learn, who play politics, who gossip and back bite. That is a sure-fire stresser-outer. But don’t build stress, give them a fair chance and if it does not work, let them go.

And try and pass this on to your team too. The bright eyed and bushy tailed among the team will try to sure get the first fox, the first snippet, be the best, mop up, take over, in short, their enthusiasm or efficiency, or simple need to prove themselves will make them work twice as fast and jump twice as high than everyone else.

Ease them into understanding the need to slow down. To look around, to take an hour off at lunch and read, or surf the net, or fish up old Calvin and Hobbes strips, to walk out and chill over an ice cream or a movie.

Get them to spread the enthusiasm all around and make fun and play as important as work. Creating games at work, during meetings, helps ease the tension for those who feel inferior and brings the know-it-alls down a peg or two.

Most important give them doses of the chill pill mantra, as you mentor them. And take two yourself.

Daily Doses

Our grandmothers and mothers knew the trick, there was always a piece of embroidery or knitting to take the edge away from chores, from long journeys, and keep the mind relaxed and stress-free. I think the tools were different in my case, but the trick is the same.

I sing as I drive, or take the train, I always carry a book to escape into, so long waits don’t frustrate me, most of the time. I remember once writing an entire TV script for a serial I was doing, while waiting for four long hours at a Consulate for my visa!

Find me time, find things to do that are different, find ways to keep smiling at every new day. When the going gets tough, take a break, a real or mental escape.And you will bounce back.

Ask me, I am still bouncing!

The post Here’s How I sidestepped Imminent Burnout at Work appeared first on Complete Wellbeing.

This was something I learnt on my holiday in Florence. I decided to spend every penny I could to ensure that I visited every church, monument, gallery and museum worth visiting in this mesmerising city, even if it meant cutting down on hotel expenses and fine dining experiences.

As luck would have it, the Hotel Ester, bang opposite the Terminali [railway station], offered us a room at a very comfortable price and belied our fears of what the one star it bore as its rating could translate into.

The room was small but well equipped, the beds were wooden, and something about the place made me imagine that in some earlier time, it must have been home to young novice nuns. A premise that was either completely fanciful, or indeed reflected by the colours and decor of the tiny hotel, whatever it was, it went perfectly with the mood the city induced.

Through the four days I spent in this city of infinite beauty and history, I was entranced. With every turn up an alley or by-road, I discovered a new treasure, a new story, a new adventure.

I was, after all, walking the very roads that great poets and artists, powerful kings and thinkers had once walked upon. The Medicis, among who were rulers, popes and great patrons of the arts; Savonarola the fundamentalist friar whose extreme views first swayed the hearts of men to committing heinous crimes in the name of Christianity, but led him to his own death at the stake; Machiavelli, the great statesman thinker who wrote The Prince that is still a politician’s crutch when the law needs to be bent to his advantage; and Michelangelo the artist, whose perfectly proportioned David is the pride of Florence… was there a lack of reasons to linger on and imbibe the aura the city imparted?

As you walk around, secrets reveal themselves with amazing regularity. An early painting by Michelangelo, almost unnoticed on a church wall, Bartolomeo Ammannati’s Fountain of Neptune, a masterpiece of marble sculpture at the terminus of a still functioning Roman aqueduct, a Benvenuto Cellini creation or a Titian or a Raphael painting, the vaulting corridors of the Uffizi gallery… it was as if the wonders would never cease.

Florence needs a month at least to be understood, explored and assimilated. Maybe then, the eye will not turn greedily from one offering to another, hoping to catch it all before time runs out.

But if you find that you have too little time on your hand, as I did… then here are a few must sees when you visit Florence.

Detail of gates of paradise at the Florence Baptistery »

Michelangelo stated that these doors were fit to be the ‘Gates of Paradise’ and Giorgio Vasari described them as “undeniably perfect in every way.” The workmanship is almost perfect, with perfect proportions and the exact mimicking of human movement that is characteristic of the Renaissance artists.

View while crossing a bridge across the river Arno »

The River Arno almost divides Florence. The pretty bridges that span it are perfect spots for selfies and allow for more objective views of the city in all its infinite glory. Temperamental by nature, the Arno has often flooded Florence and has once even succeeded in destroying many priceless works of art, much of which still await restoration. Steps have however been taken to prevent such occurrences and the river is believed to be tamed to a large extent.

Ponte vecchio exterior view »

Like in Venice, this bridge is built in the style favoured during the medieval ages. Made entirely of stone with arches that hold it up, this beautiful structure also has shops on either side of the walkway that urge pedestrians to stop as they walk across the Arno.

Jewellery shops on the ponte vecchio »

Florentine jewellery has a distinct style of its own, marked by delicate gold-work, coral and precious stones. Drop-earrings, necklaces that cluster round the throat and delicate bracelets can be bought at some of the boutique outlets that sell heritage replicas in semiprecious formats. Of course, I fell prey to the temptation.

Palazzo Vecchio’s Arnolfo Tower »

Almost anywhere I turned, I could clearly see this tower—Florence’s tallest structure. At 95 metres it literally towers over the city. Strangely too, it is one of the oldest parts of the building. It was built in the 13th and 14th centuries to form the main building for government.

Replica of David at Piazzale Michelangelo »

Though I stood for quite a while admiring this replica of the original that had once stood at this exact spot, I did brave the long, long queues to see the original statue shaped by Michelangelo’s hands, which is now inside the Galleria dell’Accademia. The replica gives a good idea of the grace and power of the original and has the added virtue of the free standing space that allows it to be seen in the way the sculptor meant it to be seen… standing tall against the Italian sky. The bronze cast of David in Piazzale Michelangelo, Florence is flanked by casts of the reclining figures in the Medici Chapel.

The front of the Duomo »

The great Dome of the Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore [Cathedral of Saint Mary of the Flower] is to Florence what the Eiffel Tower is to Paris. The Dome can be seen towering over the city from any height, and is a not just a work of art, but a marvel of architecture. The cathedral was started in 1296 but the dome itself would only be completed almost 200 years later.

The cathedral complex, located in Piazza del Duomo, includes the Baptistery and Giotto’s Campanile, all of which are now a UNESCO World Heritage Site. One of Italy’s largest churches, the Dome remains the largest brick dome ever constructed.

Interior of The Gothic church of Santa Maria Novella »

If I had not asked about this church, I might have missed its awe inspiring beauty. The interior is completely different, resembling those of the Cistercian Gothic churches. Wide bays and high vaulting ceilings mark it out as do some of the exquisite art that nestles within. The Duccio’s Maestà [1285], known as the ‘Rucellai Madonna’ also belonged here, but now is safely in the Uffizi.

The interior of dome at the duomo is not as famous as the Sistine, but it is as engrossing. Painted by Vasari and Zuccaro, the interior depicts scenes from the Last Judgement and contains some of the largest paintings on Earth. Sadly, there was no way to compare the two to see how differently Michelangelo and these two great artists had interpreted the themes, or to compare styles. Maybe next time I will carry a colour print out of the Sistine version and take a longer, better look.

Door detail at entrance of Duomo »

A detailed appreciation of the Duomo can take up an entire day. The doors are works of art and have stories about them that can be heard from the locals. I, unfortunately, rushed through taking but an hour to inspect and marvel over the amazing work inside and outside this witness to Italian history and art.

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The beautiful city of Srinagar

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Five years ago, coming down to Kashmir from the barren slopes of Ladakh was like stumbling upon Paradise. The green tall trees soothed my eyes after the stark high slopes of hard rock. The sound of rushing water and the humming of bees, as they swung lazily over the masses of flowers, was sweet music indeed.

The land of infinite charm was calling me again

Srinagar was busy and quietly occupied with the business of loading the rich and juicy fruits that had been fetched from the many orchards around the countryside into trucks that would carry them away to the rest of the country. And though we briefly saw the Dal Lake only after nightfall, its presence was tangible and alive at the edge of the road that the traffic moved upon.

We stayed at a friend’s friend’s house, at the edge of the old city. And I found long walks in the grasslands close by, which skirted humble huts and makeshift shops, a great way to spend my evenings. I would return in time for a warm meal and to layer myself in a warmer sweater, as the cold descended from the nearby mountains and hung with the mist till the morning.

The memories stayed. And despite the news of bandhs and curfews, firings and all the rest of the turmoil that only humans can cause, I could only think of Srinagar as a land of infinite charm and beauty.

Which is why, when a friend asked me to accompany her to Srinagar while she went to check on her new house still being built, I agreed with alacrity. Making the most of not being on the nine-to-five treadmill, I packed my bags and bid goodbye to my own home for the next fortnight.

Srinagar or Mumbai?

The first disappointment came when we reached the house. I had been warned that we would be staying in what was practically an outhouse, as the big house was yet to be completed; but I was more than game. The disappointment was in the fact that the house was nowhere near Dal Lake, but in one of the new developed areas, close to the airport. We were thus situated on the high end of a slope, surrounded by new chalet-like homes that dotted the winding road down to the arterial road. But that meant there was nowhere to walk. No stretching wilderness, no green, flower-decked fields.

However, far away, the snow gleamed on the mountains and there was a stretch of tall poplars and willows waving in the breeze, and I comforted myself with the sight. Every city, I told myself, has to stretch itself to accommodate new areas of development. Why should Srinagar be an exception?

Every city, I told myself, has to stretch itself to accommodate new areas of development. Why should Srinagar be an exception?

But on my first trip to the centre of town, I realised just how much the city had changed: traffic jams, as two-lane traffic was funnelled into a half lane, which was cordoned off to complete flyover work; flyovers bent over roads that were once tree-lined, but now stood bare and dusty in the afternoon sun; dust coated, the sides of the roads and the houses that stood alongside looked sad and neglected, crying out for care and a lick of fresh paint. I could see none of the cheerful joyousness that symbolised a fresh green valley was in evidence. By evening, a splatter of rain did its worst. Like any other city, where roads have been paved to block the natural seepage of water into the soil, Srinagar’s roads were quickly flooded. Traffic came to a standstill, tempers flared, words flew across car windows, and I wondered why I had travelled so far to revisit a bad evening drive, like back home in Mumbai.

Splendid serendipity

The days were still very warm, and we would venture out only by dusk, when it turned decidedly cooler. One evening, as a sweet autumnal nip stole into the air, we honked our way ‘downtown’, determined to visit one of the famed gardens of the city. As the car drove in a series of starts and stops through the knot that funnels traffic into the Dal Lake area, I wondered what other disappointments were in store for me. The Dal Lake, like the Ganga, had fallen prey in recent times to the thoughtlessness of man, and had more than once been declared to be dying. As for the gardens, I hoped they had not been ceded to the greed of builders who had started constructing high-rise apartments on the generous stretches of once-fertile land.

I need not have worried, not about this at least. The lake stretched alongside the road, looking dazzling in the setting sun, the line of shikaras with exotic names adding the picture perfect touch. The mood suddenly turned magical. When, as if on cue, the car radio burst into ‘Taareef karoon kya uski’ from the film Kashmir Ki Kali; it was serendipity indeed!

Time and again, we would evidence honesty in those who served to maintain or guard public spaces

Integrity intact

There is no parking allowed by the lakeside promenade, so we scuttled across the road when the car dropped us off in front of the Nishat Bagh gate. As we tried to enter, we were stopped and the demand for an entry ticket presented itself. We were then told the ticket window was around the corner at the end of the gate wall. Loathe to descend the steps and walk down the crowded road, we grumbled to ourselves only to have the watchman tell us we could give him the money… he would get the tickets for us. 20 rupees changed hands and we were ready to set off on our explorations. But the watchman stopped us, telling us to please wait. In five minutes, a boy came running up to hand us the tickets. Ashamed at the thought we had harboured that the watchman would pocket the ticket money, we finally set off. Time and again, we would evidence such honesty in those who served to maintain or guard public spaces.

The Nishat and Shalimar Gardens of Srinagar date back to the Mughal times. And even today, despite the strife that brings the city to a frequent standstill, flowers bloom in these spaces in abundance, the fountains spray sweet water, and the old natural water-flow from one level of the garden to the next and the next, through the six levels, is maintained in quite its original glory.

Kashmiris as well as tourists find respite and pleasure in the green lawns and flower decked walkways, the magnolia blooms secretly overhead, and the chinar trees stand majestically like sentinels guarding the place. A bunch of school boys come rushing in and, stripping their uniforms, jump into the pools to gambol. It is as innocent and natural a sport as any that time has witnessed. It is impossible to imagine this in cities and towns elsewhere, except perhaps during the rains.

Development destroys

Verily, much of Srinagar is caught in a time warp. If you stop to listen, it is possible to hear the gentle cadences of poetic Urdu politeness, experience a hospitality that went out with the western concept of entertaining only invited guests on pre-ordained occasions, and feel the shaping hand of nature in the ways your days and nights are spent.

But even as I write this, my heart quails when I remember the ride back. I recall returning from the peace of the gardens, only to spy the first real mall that stands at the edge of the main road, a forerunner of the others that will perhaps soon follow. I think of the tourists who will return in summer, with loud, boisterous voices, and haggle with the shopkeepers over the price of the exquisitely embroidered garments and awe inspiring papier mache bric-a-brac, and upturn the way of life that prevails here. And I find myself wondering how the flyovers and the paved roadsides—malaises that come with prosperity and development—will change the quiet charm of this city irrevocably.

A week after I leave behind the Valley, the rains wash through it, wrecking havoc through the populated areas, laying waste to saffron fields and fruit orchards. It is as I feared. Development, I tell myself, needs to keep nature in mind and be shaped to suit each place differently. One size does not fit all! Srinagar proved it all over again, as Uttarakhand had a year ago. Why aren’t we listening?

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There is nothing romantic about struggling up a steep slope. No one else I meet on Bowen Road seems to think so either. The street winds up the hill that leads past apartment blocks and small garden spaces to what is called Lovers’ Rock. Most are joggers bent on the task of putting one foot after another with concentrated precision as they rush past you with glazed eyes.

It is my first evening in Hong Kong [HK], after a night spent partly at the airport waiting to board a post-midnight flight and the rest cramped in an aircraft seat meant strictly for size-zero models. And now, every step is a punishment.

Just ahead of me, hands linked, the couple I am with on this trip are… well, not exactly tripping along… but showing more alacrity than I am capable of.

Chance, circumstance and the Hong Kong Tourism Board have conspired to get them to experience the city together and, as the line goes, they are ‘lovin it’.

Revisiting Hong Kong

Not so long ago, Durjoy Datta wrote a story on demand. When asked to set it in HK he agreed quite happily, as it meant exploring the city to decide which places would fit best into the plot. The romance novel Hold My Hand went on to become quite a hit with young readers.

So when a tall, pretty young professional named Avantika, who lives in Dubai, met Delhi-based Durjoy for the first time on an assignment in HK, the inevitable happened.

Here they were, once again, walking hand in hand. They were oblivious to everything including the nagging jetlag, to reach up to a place called Lovers’ Rock. Lovers, as you know, do these things.

Praying for a ‘rock-solid’ relationship

The Lovers’ Rock that stands tall, jutting out of a cluster that holds it in place, has a story. Obviously, since its discovery in the late 18th century, the rock has been found to possess the power to help in matters of the heart. So single men and women [mainly women, I discover] pray here for a good marriage. Married couples too seek its blessing for better understanding, and couples in love seek the favour of their ever-after being truly happy.

The edge of the road, where the steps to the rock begin, displays signs of incense stalls and other offerings, but the sellers have packed up and gone back to their evidently happy homes. Spending days on end in the shadow of the rock must surely ensure that!

Our lovers climb the steps and lucky to find a half-burnt incense stick, light it to say a prayer. Others, more demanding, have even tied wine bottles to nearby trees to ask for progeny. Covered in some red paste, with paper flags waving gaily in the evening breeze, the Rock stands unmoved. It gives no indication of having noticed our presence. But the evening mists are already rising, veiling the twinkling lights of the city spread below in a gentle haze, and even the dog walkers and the huffing-puffing runners we meet on the way down cannot dispel the soft mood that seems to have crept up and enveloped us.

Once in the bus, ensured of a happy ever-after, the couple lean into each other and give in to jetlagged slumber.

Seven sisters: the immortal matchmakers

Also mandatory for people in love is a visit to the Seven Sisters Temple. We take the ferry, which heaves us across seas that threaten to become choppy any minute, and get off at the island of Peng Chau. It is a village walk that takes us this time through winding, narrow roads lined with small shops selling the stuff of daily life, and then through leaf-lined avenues to finally reach the temple.

Perched on a rock, the tiny temple is obviously much revered. According to legend, the temple is also linked to the Chinese Valentine’s Day, which is celebrated in its premises. There is a sweet story about the Chinese Valentine’s Day that bears repetition. The story I hear is that the two stars Altair and Vega are actually a mortal cowherd and a goddess weaver who unfortunately fell in love and were cruelly separated on either
side of the Milky Way. But on Chinese Valentine’s Day, magpies take pity on the star-crossed pair and form a temporary bridge for them to be united.

The Seven Sisters have many roles to play, including helping their devotees find love. Part of finding a good husband involved, in the era before readymade garments, necessary proficiency in needlework. Hence, the goddesses were also approached by young women to aid them better their needlecraft.

Avantika’s carefully selected wardrobe shows no evidence of needing any prowess on her part in needlework but she plays safe and lights a stick of incense to ensure the wooden deities inside the temple notice her presence. A pair of stones shaped like two halves of a bean seed hold the story that if they fall in such a way that one faces up and the other down, the person whose hand throws them will have a good relationship. What they revealed to our lovers, I choose to keep secret.

The gaily painted wooden temple and the wooden statue within it, which was reportedly found by the original owner when he was out fishing one day, are quiet during our visit. However, on festival day the place is full of young women and couples who want children, lighting incense sticks and making offerings.

Love on high

But HK is not only temples and secluded romantic spots. Young couples also take rides on the steep, gravity-defying tram car that toils upwards to The Peak. Here, they can cuddle up and watch the city lights come on, or sit down to a romantic dinner in one of the fine-dining restaurants on top. Many newly weds prefer to use the backdrop of The Peak for their wedding photographs. Even as our young couple poses for photos under a pagoda in the lovely terraced garden on the slopes, I watch a newly-wed couple leaving the place, the bride’s train trailing behind her in the
soft grass.

Also on the agenda for the young is the new panorama light-and-sound experience, which offers an uplifting 15-minute look at the city and its sights, sounds and history. All the while, the wind blows through your hair and the smell from the food stalls floats invitingly in the air. The trendy imagery and the novelty of the projection that lasts 15 minutes is often the precursor to an evening of romance, all other requirements being conducive, of course.

Gliding through the city

Incidentally, HK probably has the longest escalator in the world; it goes up and down in a continuous undulating movement, carrying office goers, shoppers and tourists like me along endless levels of streets. While I explore its passage through old HK, the lovers are exploring their old haunts… Durjoy is leading Avantika through Pottinger Street, Arbuthnot Street and the Old Central Police Station Compound, with their historical buildings that whisper of a time gone past. These are some of the lanes where the story of Hold My Hand is set. And of course, when I catch up with them, they are infused with the romance of the old city and are at the moment, you guessed it—holding hands!

This was first published in the December 2014 issue of Complete Wellbeing.

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Ananda Village was to serve as a retreat for those who sought a new and inclusive way to the Universal Spirit of God, away from the race tracks that those who ran the rat race for success and money frequented. It was an experiment about a new way of life.

The new way of life presents itself to me right the first morning. Breakfast is an offering of completely organic food, eaten in a silence that is in some ways meditative. Beyond the dining area, kriya yoga practitioners, who work to keep their training course fees low, rustle up hot food and wash the mountain of dishes, which appears after each of the three meals. What is strangely pleasant is that none of them seem to find the chores tiresome; but go through them with a dash of cheer.

The Ananda philosophy speaks of setting aside the ego, and the regional, social and religious differences it can create, to tune in to the Higher Consciousness. Working to help one another, to do at least one service for someone else in the course of each day, and to believe people are worth more than things is a way of life here, and the results of this experiment shine through in the smiles of almost everyone I meet.

Though hidden in the sweeping foothills [largely abandoned once the Gold Rush ended], Ananda Village is a quiet magnet towards which people of all faiths gravitate. Each has a reason unique yet similar for coming here. I meet David Eby, who conducts the choir and plays the cello. He also teaches music and how it can awaken the consciousness, at the Ananda College in Portland. Soft spoken and sensitive, David tells me he has found in Ananda the end of his search for spirituality. Eby’s father was a Presbytarian Minister. “He was always busy with meetings, and I thought this was how one could be a true Christian, and followed his example,” Eby says. “One day, I was really burnt out and sick, waiting for my wife to come and tend to me. But she gave me a critical look and said, ‘if you are sick in the middle of the night, something is wrong.’ That did it. Eby did a double think. A book on meditation that he discovered in a Barnes and Noble bookshop gave him ‘a sense of peace’ as he turned the pages. Eby soon moved to Portland and joined the Ananda community there.
Others have their own stories. Virani, commonly referred to as the goat woman, found in Ananda a strength she never did quite feel in her job as deputy sheriff. “I think I was always afraid I would not live up to my role,” she confessed. Finding herself retired with a pension that let her follow her mind, Virani, who had been attending the Ananda Church of Self Realisation for almost two decades even during her years as deputy sheriff, exchanged the wide open spaces for the courtrooms and moved with her husband to Ananda. “I have a 365-day job, with each day spanning 17 working hours,” she says. Her enterprise that sees her tending her ‘goat children’, milking, playing mid wife and diary farmer as required, is a vital part of the Ananda community. But more precious than the goat’s milk she sells, is the infectious air of wellbeing and simple joy of living that she carries with her. One with Nature, she is mother to her animals, which include two donkeys with furry, receptive ears tuned in to everything she says. Their job, she tells me, is to keep the predatory mountain lions at bay, should one decide he wants a goat snack.

At the opposite end of the age spectrum is Arthur, a 24-year-old Taiwanese, who is excited over his spiritual name, Prasad, “as it signifies receiving a spiritual blessing”. Just two weeks old in the community, Prasad sits comfortably cross-legged in his office chair in the IT and web department at the Ananda Sangha office, from where he reaches out to community members and those seeking a spiritual link anywhere in the world. Dressed in yellow, like Surya, a 64-year-old colleague, Prasad is a Brahmachari [a celibate]. “We can renounce this state when we so choose,” Surya explains, “but it seldom happens.”

Colour plays a significant role in sending out messages about the spiritual states of the Ananda community members. Like Santoshi [Nancy] Kendal, my guide and constant touchboard through the week, many others wear blue to indicate they are Naya Swamis, which signifies their celibate status. If married, such Naya Swamis will sleep in separate bedrooms, but benefit from the companionship and shared sense of purpose and spiritual realisations.

Jyotish and Devi Novak, whom I meet for an interview, are Naya Swamis and the spiritual inheritors of Swami Kriyananda’s legacy. Jyotish, who worked as an assistant to the Swami as a part of his search for purpose in life, moved at his request to Ananda. “Swami wanted to start a retreat for himself and also to  teach others,” Jyotish explains. “People started coming, he had a reputation as a spiritual being, and the time too was ripe with people seeking alternative ways of life. The community grew from 15 to 40 in just three months, and soon more land had to be acquired. Ananda Village came into being,” he adds. Devi, on the other hand, feels her entire life was a preparation for where she is now. “In school I read world literature, the Gita, and when I met a teacher member of Vedanta from the Ramakrishna Society, it resonated with me, though his accent was too thick for me to understand his words.” In college, Devi continued her search reading Social Antropology and discovering to her surprise, when she read the Mahabharata, that the Gita was a part of the same epic. An article on Swami Yogananda intrigued her enough to read his autobiography, and she was soon throwing up the admission to graduate school to move to Ananda Village. “I came here on July 4th 1964, the same day the property was signed for by the community,” she says. There was no water, no power, no electric supply, but it was a ‘treasure period’ and when the Swami arranged a match for her with his assistant, Jyotish, it was as if the journey had finally reached its destination.

Devi admits that there was initial suspicion and resistance to the community and the experiment. “Parents would be concerned their children were being drawn into a cult, but the community drew to it hard-working, intelligent people and thus soon gathered strength. Even government organisations were hostile, till we made it clear we were not interested in taking, but in giving,” she explains, adding that when the devastating, now historic forest fire swept through the region destroying homes, Ananda Village was the only community that did not seek or accept government compensation. As spiritual leaders of the Ananda community worldwide, the Novaks travel extensively, and are hands on in developing and maintaining the tenets on which the community was intitially founded. The Pune Village, founded because the Swami wanted to “take Ananda home”, is one of the most important projects on hand.

The community can be replicated in other ways too by others, the Novaks believe. Education, farming, ecological concerns are common to all communities, and each can find its own path through sustainabilty and caring, towards spiritual growth.

It was Swami Kriyananda too, who thought of broadcasting the Village and all it stood for, by means of a movie. “It started off as a documentary, and it was only after we had shot reams of film, that we decided that building in a story would work so much better, and changed tracks,” Ted Nicolaou, the film’s director says in a Skype interview. Nicolaou has hair that suggests he has recently had an encounter with a live electrical socket, but his eyes and smile are kind and radiate a warmth that is unexpected in someone who earned his laurels making Vampire movies before moving on to his current job with Walt Disney Productions. Initially titled Cities of Light, the film was rechristened Finding Happiness, and will release in India across 12 cities between April 25th and May 1st 2014.

Ted came to filming Finding Happiness by chance. Roberto Bessi, one of the producers of the film, had also produced the Vampire movies, and knew that Ted had moved on to making biographies. “He met the Swami and thought of me for the project,” says Ted. Many meetings with the Swami followed and finally the shoot was given the go ahead. 24 days of shooting later, which included a day’s filming from a helicopter, scrapping the script he had worked out and “infinite patience to let the villagers be themselves and let Elizabeth draw them out to tell their stories”, the film was ready for post production. “I was walking on a precipice,” Ted adds, “I did not want the film to be a promo just because it was funded by Ananda, but an informative entertainer.”

The Villagers are gung ho about the film. Walking around the extensive property, it is easy to see why. Whether it is the school or the administrative offices, the farms or the IT department, everywhere I turn, there is a face that I feel is intriguingly familiar. Then I realise I have indeed seen them all before, in the movie, mostly playing themselves.

The inhabitants of Ananda Village play many parts in daily life too. It is not unusual to see a cashier at the Master’s Market store that mainly stocks organically grown produce and intriguingly named snacks like Bliss Balls and Karmic Croutons double up literally as a yoga teacher in the mornings and afternoons. Musical David Eby, who plays Elizabeth Rohm’s guide in the film, when called upon without warning to create the musical score for the film, hesitated briefly. “I said, I would meditate, and told God, “If this is what you want me to do…” And then I felt a huge Presence. And I agreed to do it.

Miracles like these seem commonplace, but are actually just a matter of putting the mind to work for a spiritual end. Or so I am beginning to believe. How else do I explain the collection of period garments crammed into a tiny Costume Store, the owner of which takes it on herself to fit out anyone who needs a ‘look’, including a 40-member school play, sourcing from the garments she has picked up mostly from the thrift shops. Or the fascinating array of jewellery and animals carved out of semi-precious stones that Elisabeth and her husband create at the Village and take out to exhibitions in the Bay area. Then take the case of Netri who, with no training at all, on Swami’s request, designed the garden at the Crystal Heritage, that has the most intricately perfect arrangement of plants and flowers that bestows instant serenity. The garden attracts thousands of visitors during the Tulip Festival in April, who come to see the flowers in full bloom or photograph the cherry blossom that forms the leit motif of the publicity material for the Finding Happiness film.

In one of the high school classrooms, I watch a Math lesson in progress. The ubiquitous calculator is missing, the brain’s powers are being put to use as the teacher throws four digit numbers in a continuous stream and asking for totals after addition or multiplication. Hands go up, almost before he can complete his last number, swiftest among them young Som and his twin brother who are, not surprisingly Indian by birth. “Oral Math is something we all enjoy,” one of the students says.  I respond that it is indeed a dying skill, and wish secretly that my Math teacher had been able to infuse my lesson with the same excitement.

By the time I leave, the Village has touched me with its aura. Our villages were once like this, I muse, as Santoshi drives me to the airport, all the way to San Francisco. In Indian communities too, everyone cared about Nature and nurtured one another; tasks, sorrows and happiness were shared too. Where had all of it gone? Would we have to learn it all again, like we did yoga and meditation, imported back to us from the West?

Perhaps! If so, Swami Kriyananda’s mission would be accomplished!

This was first published in the April 2014 issue of Complete Wellbeing.

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But admit it, not every day is like being in a place just vacated a day earlier by Adam and his consort, is it? There are days when you want to look around to ensure no one is watching, take your hair in your hands and scream, “Urrrgh!”

Hate it or love it, the fact remains that stress is a part of being in any workplace. And unless you learn to deal with the things that cause you stress, they just might grow insidiously and wrap their tentacles around you till you feel cornered, squeezed and completely taken over. The tricks to coping with stress are simple.

But for a start, you need to locate the stress point. What is it that triggers off the tension in your shoulders? Or kickstarts that terrible migrane-like headache? The signs of stress often come disguised as simple but nagging pains. The first step is to know which of these seemingly mundane events could be your stressors. Find the trigger—is it a meeting with your boss? A colleague who tends to rub you the wrong way? Or a presentation or team huddle that is regularly held, but usually ends up unfruitful? Once you know the problem, it is easier to solve.

Here are a few common scenarios that are known to trigger stress levels, and ways to cope with them.

1. The Chatterbox

You have a neighbour who constantly chats with you. It breaks your concentration. Sometimes you get drawn into her rant; other times, you wonder how you can shut her out without being rude. Interruptions by a chronic chatterer can have you fall back on your deadlines, and that can stress you out. Being courteous to such people can be quite a mindbender too. It is best you break the vicious cycle. The easiest way is to request a change of seat and you can cite any other reason so as to not offend the chatterbox. Wearing ear plugs is another option. Even if you are not plugged in to your Dictaphone, computer or music player, it will deter conversation by implying you are listening to something else.

2. The Borrower

She loves taking a pencil, a pen, paper clips, the scissors, sometimes even your laptop! It is as annoying as your neighbour back home who keeps asking for an egg, a cup of sugar, a spoonful of salt. The borrower is always misplacing her own things and scrounging off others. If in your misplaced kindness you have let her help herself to your things early on in your unsuspecting relationship, chances are you have become her lucky dip. Because now, she will dip into your belongings whenever she wants! Sometimes even without your permission. Annoying? For sure! Stressful? Need not be…

Cope with her firmly. Tell her, her borrowing disturbs your momentum. Or just lock your things away. If she comes around asking, use those ear phones. They can help here too.

3. The senior who grabs your due

They lurk everywhere. Plaudit-starved execs who are in the position to make you do the dirty work and then grab the idea and the credit for it. Nothing builds as much stress as seeing your hard work or suggestions being attributed by the organisation to someone else. Especially if it gets him brownie points as well as the promotions you know are your due.

There are a few ways to cope with this. You could ask for a transfer, except that the grass may be browner on the other side. A more effective ploy is to hold a good idea quiet and speak up at a meeting where your boss is also present. However, some acting skill is required to make it seem like a sudden brainwave. Alternate this with placing a strategy or proposal when the project is at its nascent stage, preferably during a meeting so it is clear that you initiated it.

Your senior can take the credit for fleshing it out… and you will remain stress-free.

4. The timekeeper neighbour

You are 15 minutes late and he is staring at you with a look that bodes no good. Unlike you, who has to cope with trains, traffic and absentee maids, he sleeps under his office desk… how else can he be there on time every single day? It does not help that you explain that you leave no work pending for the morrow, his obsession with the clock is… well, obsessive. And the worst part is you know he is going to sneak on you to the boss.

One way to beat him at his game is to turn clock-watcher yourself. Make the super effort. Be there ahead of him every day for 10 days. That will take the wind out of his sails and perhaps he will find someone else to spy on. For longer term de-stressing, check with the boss about your infrequent late comings, and if he is not a clock-watching freak too, you should be fine!

5. The boss from Hell

This one is the toughest to deal with. There are bosses and bad bosses, but if you are stuck with a raging, foul-mouthed monster, then your stress is not going anywhere. The best way out is to avoid direct contact, keep out of his way, and not let him bully you into feeling as bad as he says you are. Of course, it goes without saying that you must leave no opening for him to take a swipe at you.

HR experts say there are many kinds of bullying bosses. Some shout, others insult, and yet another lot manipulates or preys on your emotions. It might help to realise and understand which tactic your boss from Hell uses, and get a handle on how to tackle him.

The last resort

If you happen to encounter a stressor that refuses to go away, perhaps it is best that you do. No boss and no job are worth tainting your good health and peace of mind!

This was first published in the January 2015 issue of Complete Wellbeing.

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The making of babies

Published by: Harper Collins

ISBN: 9789351362937

Pages: 198

Price: INR 250

A century ago, this book would have been banned as inflamatory fiction that flies in the face of nature and the belief that God alone decides who among womankind will bear children and who will remain barren.

Today, surrogacy has come to stay. While the rest of the world grapples with the moral, ethical and social issues of renting a womb to fulfil the need for a child, India has set aside all of these to allow surrogacy as legal and permissible, as long as some conditions are met.

Of course, where there is a law, there are loopholes. And every technological advance has two sides. Surrogacy brings light and joy into homes that have craved for the sound of a baby’s voice, but it also has an ugly face. Gita Arvamudan’s book reveals both faces. Creating a series of short sketches of the many players in the surrogacy drama, Arvamudan lets the story tell itself.

We meet couples in need and surrogate mothers who will bear their children for them, we meet women who help in the clinics and women who donate eggs to earn a fast buck. There are agents, and embryologists, and a host of overseeing relatives. Through all of them, the picture emerges slowly, but clearly.

There are rich couples and middle class ones, and each of them comes with a background of motives for picking this method of renting a womb. There’s Cathy from the USA with her need to have her own baby. She fears India as being a far off, alien land, its only appeal over other countries being the fact that English is commonly spoken here. There is Rajappa and his wife, from Andhra, visiting a clinic in Bangalore, feeling as alien in the city and its Kannada speaking rickshawmen as Cathy does in Hyderabad, where her chosen clinic is situated.

The book travels to Chennai, Katmandu, Anand, Mumbai as well as Delhi. Through montages, it lets us view the mental and physical states of the many protagonists. We learn some amazing facts, among them is that India is one of the few countries in the world that allow gay men to have surrogate babies. The book also records the case of two Caucasican partners who each want a baby, and as they want them to have the same genetic mother, the rules are bent to allow them to ‘choose’ eggs from the same donor, whose ‘looks’ too are first approved by them.

Through a series of case histories, Arvamudan unravels the many aspects of surrogacy, including the laws governing those who fly in from overseas, the competition between the larger, better established clinics and the smaller ones, the exploitation of women donors by their own relatives, to ensure they supply regularly and keep the money coming in.

Chief among these is the rather tragic story of pretty Manisha from Nepal. She and her husband are lured to Bombay by her sister. Manisha walks into the surrogacy trap without any idea of what is happening. She ends up becoming a regular donor, whose eggs are much in demand because of her fair skin and pretty face. Though Manisha never becomes a surrogate, her womb is harvested mercilessly, thanks to her own sister’s greed, and before long, the invasive hormones make her bloated and sick.

There are good relationships too, between donors, surrogates and parents. Rajappa’s wife Malini bonds with her surrogate, and Meena and Ram actually grow fond of Alice whom they first looked askance at, because of her religion.

Arvamudan touches on senstitive issues. When Alice is asked to nurse the twins she has carried and borne for Ram and Malini, the maternal instinct she feels is a cross that she has to bear. But the contract holds good, and money must substitute for emotions which must be quelled.

The history of surrogacy, the complicated laws that can stymie the best intentioned and well-operated surrogacy endeavours are all dealt with by Arvamudan in interlude-chapters.

Taking the reader from the first seed of the idea through the process of finding a surrogate and the pregnancy, the stories end with the joy of delivery and the parents carrying away the babies that strongly resemble them, to happy homes. The surrogate mothers are left with money, sometimes with a bonus—the knowledge that they are young enough to go through the process again.

There is empathy in some of the narration. Like when Mona realises with a start that Alice suffers from morning sickness, and understands that there is so much the surrogate endures. Mona then sees Alice as a woman, not just as a rented womb.

By portraying both the softer, humane side of surrogacy and the joy it brings to childless homes, by highligting the fact that young women who are healthy donors or surrogates can enrich their lifestyle through their earnings, and also showing us the harsher side of surrogacy where avarice takes the lead over medical concerns, Arvamudan leads us through all the highs and lows of the issue.

When a donor tells a prospective parent, “My womb has earned me more than my education did,” it is a telling indicator of where the idea can go horribly wrong, when women set aside their health for money.

Fake bellies and sci-fi scenarios of the future that allow eggs to fertilise themselves without a male donor are interesting asides found in the book. Well researched and written with journalistic clarity, Baby Makers is a one-stop book to clear all your doubts about surrogacy in India.

This was first published in the September 2014 issue of Complete Wellbeing.

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At the Popes’ Palace in Avignon, the stone walls were impressive; the interiors of  the palace spoke of years of planning and labour in creating a structure that has withstood the ravages of time and war and political skirmishes.

History lives within these walls. But it was a sudden encounter with this couple looking through the windows that brought a thought to mind that it was the people dwelling within the walls of any place that make it come alive.

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